by Ruskin Bond
Then, on the third night, we were all woken by several ear-splitting shrieks, and Johnson came charging across the dormitory, screaming that two icy hands had taken him by the throat and tried to squeeze the life out of him. Lights came on, and the poor old Housemaster came dashing in again. We calmed Johnson down and put him in a spare bed. The Housemaster shone his torch on the boy’s face and neck, and sure enough, we saw several bruises on his flesh and the outline of a large hand.
Next day, the offending bed was removed from the dormitory, but it was a few days before Johnson recovered from the shock. He was kept in the infirmary until the bruises disappeared. But for the rest of the year he was a nervous wreck.
Our nursing sister, who had looked after the infirmary for many years, recalled that some twenty years earlier, a boy called Tomkins had died suddenly in the dormitory. He was very tall for his age, but apparently suffered from a heart problem. That day he had taken part in a football match, and had gone to bed looking pale and exhausted. Early next morning, when the bell rang for morning gym, he was found stiff and cold, having died during the night.
‘He died peacefully, poor boy,’ recalled our nursing sister.
But I’m not so sure. I can still hear that dreadful gurgle from the body in my bed. And there was the struggle with Johnson. No, there was nothing peaceful about that death. Tomkins had gone most unwillingly…
The White Pigeon
About fifty years ago in Dehradun, there lived a very happily married couple—an English colonel and his wife. They were both enthusiastic gardeners and their beautiful bungalow was covered with bougainvillea, while in the garden, the fragrance of the jasmine challenged the sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle. They had lived together many years when the wife suddenly became very ill. Nothing could be done for her. As she lay dying, she told her family and her servants that she would return to the garden in the form of a white pigeon, so that she could be near her husband and the place she had loved so dearly.
Years passed, but no white pigeon appeared. The colonel was lonely; and when he met an attractive widow, a few years younger to him, he married her and brought her home to his beautiful house. But as he was carrying his new bride through the porch and up the verandah steps, a white pigeon came fluttering into the garden and perched on a jasmine bush. There it remained for a long time, cooing and murmuring in a sad, subdued manner.
Afterwards, it entered the garden everyday and alighted on the jasmine bush, where it would call sadly and persistently. The servants became upset and frightened. They remembered the dying promise of their former mistress, and they were convinced that her spirit dwelt in the white pigeon.
When she heard the story, the Colonel’s new wife was very upset. When the Colonel saw how troubled she was, he decided to do something about it. So when the pigeon appeared the next day, he took his gun and slipped out of the house, stealthily making his way down the verandah steps. When he saw the pigeon on the jasmine bush, he raised his gun and fired.
There was a woman’s high-pitched scream. And then the pigeon flew away, its white breast dark with blood.
That same night the Colonel died in his sleep. No one ever knew the reason for his sudden death. When I looked up the cause of death in the local Burial Register, I saw that it had been given as ‘respiratory failure’. In other words, he had just stopped breathing!
The Colonel’s widow left Dehradun, and the beautiful bungalow fell into ruin. You can still see the ruins on the banks of the Bindal watercourse. The garden has become a jungle, and jackals slink through the roofless rooms.
The Colonel was buried in the grounds of his estate, and the gravestone is still there, although the inscription has long since disappeared.
Few people pass that way. But those who do say that they have often seen a white pigeon resting on the grave, and that on its white breast a crimson stain could be noticed.
He Who Rides a Tiger
To the boatmen of the Hooghly and the woodcutters and honey-gatherers of the Sunderbans, ‘Gazi Saheb’ is a name that is still invoked in times of storm or stress. Stories of the magical powers of this wonderful fakir have come down to us in song and legend.
In the south of Calcutta where the town of Baruipur now stands, there was once a dense, impenetrable jungle laced with crocodile-infested creeks. Into this wasteland came a fakir, Mobrah Gazi by name, to take up his residence at a place called Basra. He so overawed the wild animals that they became his servants, and the ‘Gazi Saheb’ (as he came to be known) was often seen riding about on a tiger.
It is said that the zamindar of the pargana in which Basra was situated was placed under arrest because he was unable to pay the annual revenue to the emperor at Delhi. The zamindar’s mother, fearing for her son’s life, sought the assistance of the great Gazi. The fakir promised his aid.
After sending the woman home, he dismounted from his royal Bengal tiger and sat down in deep meditation. So great were his powers that his thoughts were telegraphed over the many hundred miles separating his jungle from Delhi and he gave the emperor a dream in which he, Gazi Saheb, appeared surrounded by wild beasts, saying that he was the proprietor of the Basra jungles and that the zamindar’s dues would be paid from his own treasures buried in the forest. He told the emperor to have the zamindar released, threatening him with every misfortune if he disobeyed.
The emperor awoke late the next morning and, overtaken by the business of his court, forgot the dream. The following morning when he ascended his throne, instead of seeing the usual courtiers and attendants, he found himself surrounded by wild animals. He immediately remembered the dream and in great haste ordered the release of the zamindar. The animals vanished. A few weeks later, the revenue arrived, paid out of the Gazi’s treasure.
In gratitude for the Gazi’s aid, the zamindar erected a mosque in the jungles of Basra as a residence for the saint but the Gazi Saheb, who had no use for material possessions and used his mysterious treasure only to assist others, said that he preferred the shelter of the forests in the sunshine and rain and desired neither a mosque nor house. The zamindar then ordered that every village in his zamindari should erect an altar dedicated to Gazi Saheb, ‘King of the Sunderbans and of the Wild Beasts,’ and warned his tenants that if they failed to make an offering before going into the jungle they would almost certainly be devoured by tigers or crocodiles.
And so, even today, between Calcutta and the sea, the Gazi Saheb is recognized as a saint in many of the villages of the Sunderbans and his name is held in reverence by both Hindus and Muslims.
There is no record of the Gazi Saheb ever having taken a wife, yet there are a number of fakirs who call themselves his descendants, gaining a livelihood from the offerings of boatmen and woodcutters. That they do not have the powers of the original Gazi have been proved more than once, for it is usually the fakirs and not the village folk who are carried off by tigers or crocodiles.
Many people have tried to ascertain the whereabouts of the tomb of Gazi Saheb. Some declare it lies near Baruipur where the saint first took up his abode. Others say that it is to be found in the jungles of Sagar Island by the creek that runs into the sea. And there are some who feel sure that there is no tomb and that the Gazi Saheb left this earth in no ordinary way but was taken to paradise, riding on the back of a royal Bengal tiger.
The Wind on Haunted Hill
Whoo, whoo, whoo, cried the wind as it swept down from the Himalayan snows. It hurried over the hills and passes and hummed and moaned through the tall pines and deodars. There was little on Haunted Hill to stop the wind-only a few stunted trees and bushes and the ruins of a small settlement.
On the slopes of the next hill was a village. People kept large stones on their tin roofs to prevent them from being blown off. There was nearly always a strong wind in these parts. Three children were spreading clothes out to dry on a low stone wall, putting a stone on each piece.
Eleven-year-old Usha, dark-haired and rose-cheeked, struggled With
her grandfather’s long, loose shirt. Heryounger brother, Suresh, was doing his best to hold down a bedsheet, while Usha’s friend, Binya, a slightly older girl, helped.
Once everything was firmly held down by stones, they climbed up on the flat rocks and sat there sunbathing and staring across the fields at the ruins on Haunted Hill.
‘I must go to the bazaar today,’ said Usha.
‘I wish I could come too,’ said Binya. ‘But I have to help with the cows.’
‘I can come!’ said eight-year-old Suresh. He was always ready to visit the bazaar, which was three miles away, on the other side of the hill.
‘No, you can’t,’ said Usha. ‘You must help Grandfather chop Wood.’
‘Won’t you feel scared returning alone?’ he asked. ‘There are ghosts on Haunted Hill!’
‘I’ll be back before dark. Ghosts don’t appear during the clay.’
‘Are there lots of ghosts in the ruins?’ asked Binya.
‘Grandfather says so. He says that over a hundred years ago, some Britishers lived on the hill. But the settlement was always being struck by lightning, so they moved away.’
‘But if they left, why is the place visited by ghosts?’
‘Because-Grandfather says--during a terrible storm, one of the houses was hit by lightning, and everyone in it was killed. Even the children.’
‘How many children?’
‘Two. A boy and his sister. Grandfather saw them playing there in the moonlight.’
‘Wasn’t he frightened?’
‘No. Old people don’t mind ghosts.’
Usha set out for the bazaar at two in the afternoon. It was about an hour’s walk. The path went through yellow fields of flowering mustard, then along the saddle of the hill, and up, straight through the ruins. Usha had often gone that way to shop at the bazaar or to see her aunt, who lived in the town nearby.
Wild flowers bloomed on the crumbling walls of the ruins, and a wild plum tree grew straight out of the floor of what had once been a hall. It was covered with soft, white blossoms. Lizards scuttled over the stones, while a whistling thrush, its deep purple plumage glistening in the sunshine, sat on a window-sill and sang its heart out.
Usha sang too, as she skipped lightly along the path, which clipped steeply down to the valley and led to the little town with its quaint bazaar.
Moving leisurely, Usha bought spices, sugar and matches. With the two rupees she had saved from her pocket-money, she chose a necklace of amber-coloured beads for herself and some marbles for Suresh. Then she had her mother’s slippers repaired at a cobbler’s shop.
Finally, Usha went to visit Aunt Lakshmi at her flat above the shops. They were talking and drinking cups of hot, sweet tea when Usha realized that dark clouds had gathered over the mountains. She quickly picked up her things, said good-bye to her aunt, and set out for the village.
Strangely, the wind had dropped. The trees were still, the crickets silent. The crows flew round in circles, then settled in an oak tree.
I must get home before dark,’ thought Usha, hurrying along the path.
But the sky had darkened and a deep rumble echoed over the hills. Usha felt the first heavy drop of rain hit her cheek. Holding the shopping bag close to her body, she quickened her pace until she was almost running. The raindrops were coming clown faster now-cold, stinging pellets of rain. A flash of lightning sharply outlined the ruins on the hill, and then all was dark again. Night had fallen.
‘I’ll have to shelter in the ruins,’ Usha thought and began to run. Suddenly the wind sprang up again, but she (lid not have to fight it. It was behind her now, helping her along, up the steep path and on to the brow of the hill. There was another flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder. The ruins loomed before her, grins andforbidding.
Usha remembered part of an old roof that would give some shelter. It would be better than trying to go on. In the dark, with the howling wind, she might stray off the path and fall over the edge of the cliff.
Whoo, whoo, whoo, howled the wind. Usha saw the wild plum tree swaying, its foliage thrashing against the ground. She found her way into the ruins, helped by the constant flicker of lightning. Usha placed her hands flat against a stone wall and moved sideways, hoping to reach the sheltered corner. Suddenly, her hand touched something soft and furry, and she gave a startled cry. Her cry was answered by another-half snarl, half screech-as something leapt away in the darkness.
With a sigh of relief Usha realized that it was the cat that lived in the ruins. For a moment she had been frightened, but now she moved quickly along the wall until she heard the rain drumming on a remnant of a tin roof. Crouched in a corner, she found some shelter. But the tin sheet groaned and clattered as if it would sail away any moment.
Usha remembered that across this empty room stood an old fireplace. Perhaps it would be drier there under the blocked chimney. But she would not attempt to find it just now—she might lose her way altogether.
Her clothes were soaked and water streamed down from her hair, forming a puddle at her feet. She thought she heard a faint cry-the cat again, or an owl? Then the storm blotted out all other sounds.
There had been no time to think of ghosts, but now that she was settled in one place, Usha remembered Grandfather’s story about the lightning-blasted ruins. She hoped and prayed that lightning would not strike her.
Thunder boomed over the hills, and the lightning carne quicker now. Then there was a bigger flash, and for a moment the entire ruin was lit up. A streak of blue sizzled along the floor of the building. Usha was staring straight ahead, and, as the opposite wall lit up, she saw, crouching in front of the unused fireplace, two small figures-children!
The ghostly figures seemed to look up and stare back at Usha. And then everything was dark again.
Usha’s heart was in her mouth. She had seen without doubt, two ghosts on the other side of the room. She wasn’t going to remain in the ruins one minute longer.
She ran towards the big gap in the wall through which she had entered. She was halfway across the open space when something-someone-fell against her. Usha stumbled, got up, and again bumped into something. She gave a frightened scream. Someone else screamed. And then there was a shout, a boy’s shout, and Usha instantly recognized the voice.
‘Suresh!’
‘Llsha!’
‘Binya!’
They fell into each other’s arms, so surprised and relieved that all they could do was laugh and giggle and repeat each other’s names.
Then Usha said, ‘I thought you were ghosts.’
‘We thought you were a ghost,’ said Suresh.
‘Come back under the roof,’ said Usha.
They huddled together in the corner, chattering with excitement and relief.
‘When it grew dark, we came looking for you,’ said Binya. ‘And then the storm broke.’
‘Shall we run back together?’ asked Usha. ‘I don’t want to stay here any longer.’
‘We’ll have to wait,’ said Binya. ‘The path has fallen away at one place. It won’t be safe in the dark, in all this rain.’
‘W’e’ll have to wait till morning,’ said Suresh, ‘and I’m so hungry!’
The storm continued, but they were not afraid now. They gave each other warmth and confidence. Even the ruins did not seem so forbidding.
After an hour the rain stopped, and the thunder grew more distant.
Towards dawn the whistling thrush began to sing. Its sweet, broken notes flooded the ruins with music. As the sky grew lighter, they saw that the plum tree stood upright again, though it had lost all its blossoms.
‘Let’s go,’ said Usha.
Outside the ruins, walking along the brow of the hill, they watched the sky grow pink. When they were some distance away, Usha looked back and said, ‘Can you see something behind the wall? It’s like a hand waving.’
It’s just the top of the plum tree,’ said Binya.
‘Good-bye, good-bye …’ They heard voices.
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‘Who said ‘good-bye’?’ asked Usha.
‘Not I,’ said Suresh.
‘Not I,’ said Binya.
‘I heard someone calling,’ said Usha.
‘It’s only the wind,’ assured Binya.
Usha looked back at the ruins. The sun had come up and was touching the top of the wall.
‘Come on,’ said Suresh. ‘I’m hungry.’
They hurried along the path to the village.
‘Good-bye, good-bye …’ Usha heard them calling. Was it just the wind?
He Said it with Arsenic
Is there such a person as a born murderer—in the sense that there are born writers and musicians, born winners and losers?
One can’t be sure. The urge to do away with troublesome people is common to most of us, but only a few succumb to it.
If ever there was a born murderer, he must surely have been William Jones. The thing came so naturally to him. No extreme violence, no messy shootings or hackings or throttling; just the right amount of poison, administered with skill and discretion.
A gentle, civilised sort of person was Mr Jones. He collected butterflies and arranged them systematically in glass cases. His ether bottle was quick and painless. He never stuck pins into the beautiful creatures.
Have you ever heard of the Agra Double Murder? It happened, of course, a great many years ago, when Agra was a far-flung outpost of the British Empire. In those days, William Jones was a male nurse in one of the city’s hospitals. The patients— especially terminal cases—spoke highly of the care and consideration he showed them. While most nurses, both male and female, preferred to attend to the more hopeful cases, nurse William was always prepared to stand duty over a dying patient.
He felt a certain empathy for the dying; he liked to see them on their way. It was just his good nature, of course.
On a visit to nearby Meerut, he met and fell in love with Mrs Browning, the wife of the local station-master. Impassioned love letters were soon putting a strain on the Agra-Meerut postal service. The envelopes grew heavier—not so much because the letters were growing longer but because they contained little packets of a powdery white substance, accompanied by detailed instructions as to its correct administration.