by Ruskin Bond
And so, a few days and several disasters later, we began moving to a new house.
Two bullock-carts laden with furniture and heavy luggage were sent ahead. The roof of the old car was piled high with bags and kitchen utensils. Everyone squeezed into the car, and Grandfather took the driver’s seat.
We were barely out of the gate when we heard a peculiar sound, as if someone was chuckling and talking to himself on the roof of the car.
‘Is the parrot out there on the luggage-rack?’ the query came from Grandfather.
‘No, he’s in the cage on one of the bullock-carts,’ said Grandmother.
Grandfather stopped the car, got out, and took a look at the roof.
‘Nothing up there,’ he said, getting in again and starting the engine. ‘I’m sure I heard the parrot talking.’
Grandfather had driven some way up the road when the chuckling started again, followed by a squeaky little voice.
We all heard it. It was the pret talking to itself.
‘Let’s go, let’s go!’ it squeaked gleefully. ‘A new house. I can’t wait to see it. What fun we’re going to have!’
A Traveller’s Tale
Gopalpur-on-sea!
A name to conjure with… And as a boy I’d heard it mentioned, by my father and others, and described as a quaint little seaside resort with a small port on the Orissa coast. The years passed, and I went from boyhood to manhood and eventually old age (is seventy-six old age? I wouldn’t know) and still it was only a place I’d heard about and dreamt about but never visited.
Until last month, when I was a guest of KiiT International School in Bhubaneswar, and someone asked me where I’d like to go, and I said, ‘Is Gopalpur very far?’
‘And off I went, along a plam-fringed highway, through busy little market-towns with names Rhamba and Humma, past the enormous Chilka lake which opens into the sea through paddy fields and keora plantations, and finally on to Gopalpur’s beach road, with the sun glinting like gold on the great waves of the ocean, and the fishermen counting their catch, and the children sprinting into the sea, tumbling about in the shallows.
But the seafront wore a neglected look. The hotels were empty, the cafés deserted. A cheeky crow greeted me with a disconsolate caw from its perch on a weathered old wall. Some of the buildings were recent, but around us there were also the shells of older buildings that had fallen into ruin. And no one was going to preserve these relics of a colonial past. A small house called ‘Brighton Villa’ still survived.
But away from the seafront a tree-lined road took us past some well-maintained bungalows, a school, an old cemetery, and finally a PWD rest house where we were to spend the night.
It was growing dark when we arrived, and in the twilight I could just make out the shapes of the trees that surround the old bungalow—a hoary old banyan, a jack-fruit and several mango trees. The light from the bungalow’s veranda fell on some oleander bushes. A hawk moth landed on my shirt-front and appeared reluctant to leave. I took it between my fingers and deposited it on the oleander bush.
It was almost midnight when I went to bed. The rest-house staff—the caretaker and the gardener—went to some trouble to arrange a meal, but it was a long time coming. The gardener told me the house had once been the residence of an Englishman who had left the country at the time of Independence, some sixty years or more ago. Some changes had been carried out, but the basic structure remained—high-ceilinged rooms with skylights, a long veranda and enormous bathrooms. The bathroom was so large you could have held a party in it. But there was just one potty and a basin. You could sit on the potty and meditate, fixing your thoughts (or absence of thought) on the distant basin.
I closed all doors and windows, switched off all lights (I find it impossible to sleep with a light on), and went to bed.
It was a comfortable bed, and I soon fell asleep. Only to be awakened by a light tapping on the window near my bed.
Probably a branch of the oleander bush, I thought, and fell asleep again. But there was more tapping, louder this time, and then I was fully awake.
I sat up in bed and drew aside the curtains.
There was a face at the window.
In the half-light from the veranda I could not make out the features, but it was definitely a human face.
Obviously someone wanted to come in, the caretaker perhaps, or the chowkidar. But then, why not knock on the door? Perhaps he had. The door was at the other end of the room, and I may not have heard the knocking.
I am not in the habit of opening my doors to strangers in the night, but somehow I did not feel threatened or uneasy, so I got up, unlatched the door, and opened it for my midnight visitor.
Standing on the threshold was an imposing figure.
A tall dark man, turbaned, and dressed all in white. He wore some sort of uniform—the kind worn by those immaculate doormen at five-star hotels; but a rare sight in Gopalpur-on-sea.
‘What is it you want?’ I asked. ‘Are you staying here?’
He did not reply but looked past me, possibly through me, and then walked silently into the room. I stood there, bewildered and awestruck, as he strode across to my bed, smoothed out the sheets and patted down my pillow. He then walked over to the next room and came back with a glass and a jug of water, which he placed on the bedside table. As if that were not enough, he picked up my day clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a vacant chair. Then, just as unobtrusively and without so much as a glance in my direction, he left the room and walked out into the night.
Early next morning, as the sun came up like thunder over the Bay of Bengal, I went down to the sea again, picking my way over the puddles of human excreta that decorated parts of the beach. Well, you can’t have everything. The world might be more beautiful without the human presence; but then, who would appreciate it?
Back at the rest house for breakfast, I was reminded of my visitor of the previous night.
‘Who was the tall gentleman who came to my room last night?’ I asked. ‘He looked like a butler. Smartly dressed, very dignified.’
The caretaker and the gardener exchanged meaningful glances.
‘You tell him,’ said the caretaker to his companion.
‘It must have been Hazoor Ali,’ said the gardener, nodding. ‘He was the orderly, the personal servant of Mr Robbins, the port commissioner—the Englishman who lived here.’
‘But that was over sixty years ago,’ I said. ‘They must all be dead.’
‘Yes, all are dead, sir. But sometimes the ghost of Hazoor Ali appears, especially if one of our guests reminds him of his old master. He was quite devoted to him, sir. In fact, he received this bungalow as a parting gift when Mr Robbins left the country. But unable to maintain it, he sold it to the government and returned to his home in Cuttack. He died many years ago, but revisits this place sometimes. Do not feel alarmed, sir. He means no harm. And he does not appear to everyone—you are the lucky one this year! I have but seen him twice. Once, when I took service here twenty years ago, and then, last year, the night before the cyclone. He came to warn us, I think. Went to every door and window and made sure they were secured. Never said a word. Just vanished into the night.’
‘And it’s time for me to vanish by day,’ I said, getting my things ready. I had to be in Bhubaneswar by late afternoon, to board the plane for Delhi. I was sorry it had been such a short stay. I would have liked to spend a few days in Gopalpur, wandering about its backwaters, old roads, mango groves, fishing villages, sandy inlets … Another time perhaps. In this life, if I am so lucky. Or the next, if I am luckier still.
At the airport in Bhubaneswar, the security asked me for my photo-identity. ‘Driving licence, pan-card, passport? Anything with your picture on it will do, since you have an e-ticket,’ he explained.
I do not have a driving licence and have never felt the need to carry my pan-card with me. Luckily, I always carry my passport on my travels. I looked for it in my little travel-bag and then in my suitcase, bu
t couldn’t find it. I was feeling awkward fumbling in all my pockets, when another senior officer came to my rescue. ‘It’s all right. Let him in. I know Mr Ruskin Bond,’ he called out, and beckoned me inside. I thanked him and hurried into the check-in area.
All the time in the flight, I was trying to recollect where I might have kept my passport. Possibly tucked away somewhere inside the suitcase, I thought. Now that my baggage was sealed at the airport, I decided to look for it when I reached home.
A day later I was back in my home in the hills, tired after a long road journey from Delhi. I like travelling by road, there is so much to see, but the ever-increasing volume of traffic turns it into an obstacle race most of the time. To add to my woes, my passport was still missing. I looked for it everywhere—my suitcase, travel-bag, in all my pockets.
I gave up the search. Either I had dropped it somewhere, or I had left it at Gopalpur. I decided to ring up and check with the rest house staff the next day.
It was a frosty night, bitingly cold, so I went to bed early, well covered with razai and blanket. Only two nights previously I had been sleeping under a fan!
It was a windy night, the windows were rattling; and the old tin roof was groaning, a loose sheet flapping about and making a frightful din.
I slept only fitfully.
When the wind abated, I heard someone knocking on my front door.
‘Who’s there?’ I called, but there was no answer.
The knocking continued, insistent, growing louder all the time.
‘Who’s there? Kaun hai?’ I call again.
Only that knocking.
Someone in distress, I thought. I’d better see who it is. I got up shivering, and walked barefoot to the front door. Opened it slowly, opened it wider, someone stepped out of the shadows.
Hazoor Ali salaamed, entered the room, and as in Gopalpur, he walked silently into the room. It was lying in disarray because of my frantic search for my passport. He arranged the room, removed my garments from my travel-bag, folded them and placed them neatly upon the cupboard shelves. Then, he did a salaam again and waited at the door.
Strange, I thought. If he did the entire room why did he not set the travel-bag in its right place? Why did he leave it lying on the floor? Possibly he didn’t know where to keep it; he left the last bit of work for me. I picked up the bag to place it on the top shelf. And there, from its front pocket my passport fell out, on to the floor.
I turned to look at Hazoor Ali, but he had already walked out into the cold darkness.
The Chakrata Cat
The Chakrata is a small hill station roughly midway between Shimla and Mussoorie. During my youth, before the road became motorable, I would trek from one hill station to the other, sometimes alone, sometimes in company. It would take me about five days to cover the distance. I was a leisurely walker. You couldn’t enjoy a hike if you felt you had to catch a train at the end of it.
At Chakrata, there was an old forest rest house where I would sometimes spend the night. Don’t go looking for it now. It has fallen into disuse and been replaced by a new building closer to the town.
Towards sunset, late that summer, I trudged upto the rest house and called out for the chowkidar. I forgot his name. He was a grizelled old man, uncommunicative. If you told him you had just been chased by a bear, he would simply nod and say, ‘You’d better rest, then. You must be tired.’ Nothing about the bear!
Anyway, he opened up one of the bedrooms for me, prepared a modest meal (which enjoyed, having eaten little all day), and offered to make a fire in the old fireplace.
Chakrata can be cold, even in September, and I offered to pay for the firewood if he would fetch some. He switched on the bedroom and verandah lights and then walked to the rear of the building to fetch some wood.
That was when I saw the cat.
It was a large black cat, and it was sitting before the fireplace, almost as though expecting a fire to be lit. I hadn’t noticed it entering the room, and it did not pay much attention to me, just kept staring into the fireplace. Then, when it heard the chowkidar returning, it got up and left the room.
‘You have a cat?’ I asked, trying to make conversation while he lit the fire.
He stood his head. ‘Cats come for rats,’ he said, which left me no wiser. And he took off, promising to bring me a cup of tea early next morning. There was a small bookshelf in a corner of a room, and I found an old favourite, A Warning to the Curious by M.R. James. His haunting stories of ghosts in old colleges kept me awake for a couple of hours; then I put out the light and got into bed.
I had quite forgotten about the cat.
Now I heard a soft purring as the cat jumped on to the bed and curled up near my feet. I am not particularly fond of cats, and my first impulse was to kick it off the bed. Then I thought; ‘Well, its probably used to sleeping in this room, especially with the fire lit. I’ll let it be, as long as it doesn’t start chasing rats in the middle in the night!’ And all it did was come a little closer to me, advancing from my feet to my knees, and purring loudly, as though quite satisfied with the situation.
I fell asleep and slept soundly. In fact, I must have slept for a couple of hours before I woke to a feeling of wetness under my armpit. My vest was wet, and something was sucking away at my flesh.
It was with a feeling of horror that I realized that the cat had crawled into bed with me, that it was now stretched out beside me, and that it was licking away at my armpit with a certain amount of relish. For the purring was louder than ever.
I sat up in bed, flung the cat from me, and made a dash for the light switch. As the light came on, I saw the cat standing at the foot of the bed, tail erect and hair on end. It was very angry. And then, for the space of five seconds at the most, its appearance changed and its head was that of a human—a woman, black-browed with flaring nostrils and large crooked ears, her lips full and drenched with blood—my blood!
The moment passed and it was a cat’s head once again. She let out a howl, sprang from the bed, and disappeared through the bathroom door.
My shirt and vest were soaked with blood. For over an hour the cat had been licking and sucking at my fragile skin, wearing it away until the blood oozed out. Cat or vampire or witches revenant? Or a combination of all three.
I went to the bathroom. The cat had taken off through an open window. I closed the window, bathed my wound, examined myself in the mirror.
I had not been bitten. There were no teeth marks, no scratches. The tongue, and constant licking, had done the damage.
I found some cotton-wool in my haversacks, and used it to stop the trickle of blood from armpit. Then I changed my vest and shirt, and sat down on an easy chair to wait for the dawn. It was three in the morning. I felt weak and fell asleep in my chair, to be wakened by the chowkidar knocking on my door with a cup of tea.
Chakrata is a lovely place, prettier than most hill stations, but I had no desire to linger there. There was a bus to Dehradun at eight o’clock. I decided to cut short my trek and take the bus.
‘Where’s that cat of yours?’ I asked the chowkidar before I left. He knew nothing about a cat. Did not care for cats. They were unlucky, the companions of evil spirits, creatures of the world of the dead.
I did not stop to argue, but thanked him for his hospitality and took my leave.
The wound, if you can call it that, took some time to heal. The skin beneath my armpit was all crinkly for a few weeks, but the body heals itself, if given a chance to do so.
But what remains on my skin is a bright red mark, the size and shape of a cat’s tongue. It’s been there all these years and won’t go away. I’ll show it to you, the next time you come to see me.
A Dreadful Gurgle
Have you ever woken up in the night to find someone in your bed who wasn’t supposed to be there? Well, it happened to me when I was at boarding school in Shimla, many years ago.
I was sleeping in the senior dormitory, along with some twenty other boys, an
d my bed was positioned in a corner of the long room, at some distance from the others. There was no shortage of pranksters in our dormitory, and one had to look out for the introduction of stinging-nettle or pebbles or possibly even a small lizard under the bedsheets. But I wasn’t prepared for a body in my bed.
At first I thought a sleep-walker had mistakenly got into my bed, and I tried to push him out, muttering, ‘Devinder, get back into your own bed. There isn’t room for two of us.’ Devinder was a notorious sleep-walker, who had even ended up on the roof on one occasion.
But it wasn’t Devinder.
Devinder was a short boy, and this fellow was a tall, lanky person. His feet stuck out of the blanket at the foot of the bed. It must be Ranjit, I thought. Ranjit had huge feet.
‘Ranjit,’ I hissed. ‘Stop playing the fool, and get back to your own bed.’
No response.
I tried pushing, but without success. The body was heavy and inert. It was also very cold.
I lay there wondering who it could be, and then it began to dawn on me that the person beside me wasn’t breathing, and the horrible realization came to me that there was a corpse in my bed. How did it get there, and what was I to do about it?
‘Vishal,’ I called out to a boy who was sleeping a short distance away. ‘Vishal, wake up, there’s a corpse in the bed!’
Vishal did wake up. ‘You’re dreaming, Bond. Go to sleep and stop disturbing everyone.’
Just then there was a groan followed by a dreadful gurgle, from the body beside me. I shot out of the bed, shouting at the top of my voice, waking up the entire dormitory.
Lights came on. There was total confusion. The Housemaster came running. I told him and everyone else what had happened. They came to my bed and had a good look at it. But there was no one there.
On my insistence, I was moved to the other end of the dormitory. The house prefect, Johnson, took over my former bed. Two nights passed without further excitement, and a couple of boys started calling me a funk and a scaredy-cat. My response was to punch one of them on the nose.