by Ruskin Bond
She had two rupees of her own saved up, and she used the money to buy herself a necklace of amber-coloured beads from the old Tibetan lady who sold charms and trinkets at a tiny shop at the end of the bazaar.
There she met her Aunt Lakshmi, who took her home for tea.
Usha spent an hour in Aunt Lakshmi’s little flat above the shops, listening to her aunt talk about the ache in her left shoulder and the stiffness in her joints. She drank two cups of sweet, hot tea, and when she looked out of the window she saw that dark clouds had gathered over the mountains.
Usha ran to the cobbler’s and collected her mother’s slippers. The shopping bag was full. She slung it over her shoulder and set out for the village.
Strangely, the wind had dropped. The trees were still, not a leaf moved. The crickets were silent in the grass. The crows flew round in circles, then settled down for the night in an oak tree.
‘I must get home before dark,’ said Usha to herself, as she hurried along the path. But already the sky was darkening. The clouds, black and threatening, loomed over Haunted Hill. This was March, the month for storms.
A deep rumble echoed over the hills, and Usha felt the first heavy drop of rain hit her cheek.
She had no umbrella with her; the weather had seemed so fine just a few hours ago. Now all she could do was tie an old scarf over her head and pull her shawl tight across her shoulders. Holding the shopping bag close to her body, she quickened her pace. She was almost running. But the raindrops were coming down faster now. Big, heavy pellets of rain.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up the hill. The ruins stood out in clear outline. Then all was dark again. Night had fallen.
I won’t get home before the storm breaks, thought Usha. I’ll have to shelter in the ruins. She could only see a few feet ahead, but she knew the path well and began to run.
Suddenly, the wind sprang up again and brought the rain with a rush against her face. It was cold, stinging rain. She could hardly keep her eyes open.
The wind grew in force. It hummed and whistled. Usha did not have to fight against it. It was behind her now, and helped 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 up before her, grim and forbidding.
She knew there was a corner where a piece of old roof remained. It would give some shelter. It would be better than trying to go on. In the dark, in the howling wind, she had only to stray off the path to go over a rocky cliff edge.
Who—whoo—whooo, howled the wind. She saw the wild plum tree swaying, bent double, its foliage thrashing against the ground. The broken walls did little to stop the wind.
Usha found her way into the ruined building, helped by her memory of the place and the constant flicker of lightning. She began moving along the wall, hoping to reach the sheltered corner. She placed her hands flat against the stones and moved sideways. Her hand touched something soft and furry. She gave a startled cry and took her hand away. Her cry was answered by another cry—half snarl, half screech—and something leapt away in the darkness.
It was only a wild cat. Usha realized this when she heard it. The cat lived in the ruins, and she had often seen it. But for a moment, she had been very frightened. Now, she moved quickly along the wall until she heard the rain drumming on the remnant of the tin roof.
Once under it, crouching in the corner, she found some shelter from the wind and the rain. Above her, the tin sheets groaned and clattered, as if they would sail away at any moment. But they were held down by the solid branch of a straggling old oak tree.
Usha remembered that across this empty room stood an old fireplace, and that there might be some shelter under the blocked-up chimney. Perhaps it would be drier than it was in her corner; but she would not attempt to find it just now. She might lose her way altogether.
Her clothes were soaked and the water streamed down from her long, black hair to form a puddle at her feet. She stamped her feet to keep them warm. She thought she heard a faint cry—was it the cat again, or an owl?—But the sound of the storm blotted out all other sounds.
There had been no time to think of ghosts, but now that she was there, without any plans for venturing out again, she remembered Grandfather’s story about the lightning-blasted ruins. She hoped and prayed that lightning would not strike her as she sheltered there.
Thunder boomed over the hills, and the lightning came quicker now, only a few seconds between each burst.
Then there was a bigger flash than most, and for a second or two the entire ruin was lit up. A streak of blue sizzled along the floor of the building, in at one end and out at the other. Usha was staring straight ahead. As the opposite wall was lit up, she saw, crouching in the disused fireplace, two small figures—they could only have been children!
The ghostly figures looked up, staring back at Usha. And then everything was dark again.
Usha’s heart was in her mouth. She had seen, without a shadow of a doubt, two ghostly creatures at the other side of the room, and she wasn’t going to remain in that ruined building a minute longer.
She ran out of her corner, 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. She 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!’
‘Usha!’
‘Binya!’
‘It’s me!’
‘It’s us!’
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 excitedly.
‘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.’
‘Then we may have to wait till morning,’ said Suresh. ‘And I’m feeling hungry!’
The wind and rain continued, and so did the thunder and lightning, 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 although the wind continued to blow, it was now taking the clouds away, so that the thunder grew more distant. Then the wind, too, moved on, and all was silent.
Towards dawn, the whistling thrush began to sing. Its sweet, broken notes flooded the rain-washed ruins with music. ‘Let’s go,’ said Usha. ‘Come on,’ said Suresh. ‘I’m hungry.’
As it grew lighter, they saw that the plum tree stood upright again, although it had lost all its blossoms.
They stood outside the ruins, on the brow of the hill, watching the sky grow pink. A light breeze had sprung up.
When they were some distance from the ruins, Usha looked back and said, ‘Can you see something there, behind the wall? It’s like a hand waving.’
‘I can’t see anything,’ said Suresh.
‘It’s just the top of the plum tree,’ said Binya.
They were on the path leading across the saddle of the hill.
‘Goodbye, goodbye . . .’
Voices on the wind.
‘Who said goodbye?’ asked Usha.
‘Not I,’ said Suresh.
‘Not I,’ said Binya.
‘I heard someone calling.’
‘It’s only the wind.’
Usha looked back at the ruins. The sun had come up and was touching the top of the walls. The leaves of the plum tree shone. The thr
ush sat there, singing.
‘Come on,’ said Suresh. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye . . .’ Usha heard them calling. Or was it just the wind?
GHOSTS OF A PEEPUL TREE
SOME MUSINGS
The West has its revenants, its spirits of the dead, lost souls searching for lost loves; but in India, and Asia in general, we have a far greater variety of spooky beings, and there is no corner of our country where you won’t come across tales of hauntings and the supernatural. So grow a tulsi plant at your door or window, to keep those negative forces at bay!
The villages of India have always harboured a large variety of ghosts, some of them good, some evil. There are the prets and bhoots, both the spirits of dead men; and the churels, ghosts of women who change their shape after death. Then there is the pisach, a sort of hobgoblin; and the munjia, a mischievous, and sometimes sinister, evil spirit. One thing they have in common: nearly all of them choose to live in the peepul tree.
There is not much difference between the bhoot and the pret—the latter is simply a better class of ghost, less inclined to indulge in malicious activities. It is usually the spirit of one who has loved the earth so much that he cannot bear to take final leave of it. The pret lives either in its former home or in a peepul tree, and is sometimes honoured by the title of Purwaj Dev, an ancestor god. Prets often take the form of snakes, living in people’s gardens, where they are fed with milk and honoured by the household.
* * *
There is a story of a villager who was in the habit of beating his son unceasingly. One day, the villager visited a garden where a Purwaj Dev dwelt in the form of a snake. The serpent threatened to bite and kill the villager unless he promised to treat his son better. The villager went away a chastened man.
The lady of the house was very fond of the snake and gave it milk every day; and in return for this favour, the snake would often guard her baby and rock its cradle.
* * *
A ghost which, in the past, was often responsible for the desertion of a house, or even of a village, was the churel.
A churel is the ghost of a woman who has changed her shape after death. She is full of animosity towards men, probably because, in life, she was unfairly treated by them. She is covered with hair, has the ears of an ape, and her toes are two or three feet in length. Sometimes her feet face backwards. During the day, the churel has no power, but at night, she lies along the branches of a peepul tree, directly over a footpath. Should any man pass beneath the tree, the churel’s prehensile toes stretch out, grip the man by the neck and throttle him.
* * *
The pisach can be a malignant, sometimes amorous, ghost. It has no body or shape, but dwells in a peepul tree or a graveyard. In the Vetal Panchvishi, there is the story of a young wife who, while her husband is in another town, falls in love with a young man. On her husband’s return, the wife would have nothing to do with him; as soon as he was asleep, she ran to join her lover near the house of her maidservant. But the lover, who had arrived first, was bitten by a cobra, and died before the woman arrived. A pisach (who had seen everything from a nearby peepul tree) now entered the dead man’s body and began to play the lover to the errant wife. After some time, out of sheer wickedness, the pisach bit off the woman’s nose, left the corpse and went back to the peepul tree.
The unfortunate lady, now without a nose, ran home screaming that her husband had bitten it off. The husband was arrested, and his execution ordered; but a stranger suggested that a search be made at the maidservant’s cottage. There they found the lover’s body on the bed, and between his teeth was the wife’s nose. Finally, the husband was acquitted, and the wife placed on a donkey and driven out of the city.
* * *
The Marathas used to be familiar with an evil spirit known as munjia.
A munjia is said to be the disembodied spirit of a Brahmin youth who has died before his marriage. Like other spirits, it lives in a peepul tree, often rushing out at tongas, bullock carts and bicycles, and upsetting them. (No instance has as yet been recorded of its trying conclusions with a bus.) When passing a peepul tree at night, should anyone be so careless as to yawn without snapping his fingers in front of his mouth, a munjia will dash down his throat and completely ruin him. It is quite possible that people suffering from indigestion have made the mistake of yawning under a peepul tree.
* * *
It is not surprising that in villages, after dark, everyone is supposed to carry a lamp, even the blind. And if you ask the blind man what use a lamp is to him, he will reply, ‘Fool, the lamp is not for my benefit, but yours, lest you stumble against me in the dark.’
THE HAUNTED BICYCLE
I was living at the time in a village about five miles out of Shahganj, a district in east Uttar Pradesh, and my only means of transport was a bicycle. I could, of course, have gone into Shahganj on any obliging farmer’s bullock cart, but, in spite of bad roads and my own clumsiness as a cyclist, I found the bicycle a trifle faster. I went into Shahganj almost every day, collected my mail, bought a newspaper, drank innumerable cups of tea and gossiped with the tradesmen. I cycled back to the village at about six in the evening, along a quiet, unfrequented forest road. During the winter months it was dark by six, and I would have to use a lamp on the bicycle.
One evening, when I had covered about half the distance to the village, I was brought to a halt by a small boy who was standing in the middle of the road. The forest, at that late hour, was no place for a child: wolves and hyenas were common in the district. I got down from my bicycle and approached the boy, but he didn’t seem to take much notice of me.
‘What are you doing here on your own?’ I asked.
‘I’m waiting,’ he said, without looking at me.
‘Waiting for whom? Your parents?’
‘No, I am waiting for my sister.’
‘Well, I haven’t passed her on the road,’ I said. ‘She may be further ahead. You had better come along with me, we’ll soon find her.’
The boy nodded and climbed silently on to the crossbar in front of me. I have never been able to recall his features. Already it was dark and besides, he kept his face turned away from me.
The wind was against us, and as I cycled on, I shivered with the cold, but the boy did not seem to feel it. We had not gone far when the light from my lamp fell on the figure of another child who was standing by the side of the road. This time it was a girl. She was a little older than the boy, and her hair was long and windswept, hiding most of her face.
‘Here’s your sister,’ I said. ‘Let’s take her along with us.’
The girl did not respond to my smile, and she did no more than nod seriously to the boy. But she climbed up on to my back carrier, and allowed me to pedal off again. Their replies to my friendly questions were monosyllabic, and I gathered that they were wary of strangers. Well, when I got to the village, I would hand them over to the headman, and he could locate their parents.
The road was level, but I felt as though I was cycling uphill. And then I noticed that the boy’s head was much closer to my face, that the girl’s breathing was loud and heavy, almost as though she were doing the riding. Despite the cold wind, I began to feel hot and suffocated.
‘I think we’d better take a rest,’ I suggested.
‘No!’ cried the boy and girl together. ‘No rest!’
I was so surprised that I rode on without any argument; and then, just as I was thinking of ignoring their demand and stopping, I noticed that the boy’s hands, which were resting on the handlebar, had grown long and black and hairy.
My hands shook and the bicycle wobbled about on the road.
‘Be careful!’ shouted the children in unison.
‘Look where you’re going!’
Their tone now was menacing and far from childlike. I took a quick glance over my shoulder and had my worst fears confirmed. The girl’s face was huge and bloated. Her legs, black and hairy, were trailing along t
he ground.
‘Stop!’ ordered the terrible children. ‘Stop near the stream!’
But before I could do anything, my front wheel hit a stone, and the bicycle toppled over. As I lay sprawled in the dust, I felt something hard, like a hoof, hit me on the back of the head, and then there was total darkness.
When I recovered consciousness, I noticed that the moon had risen and was sparkling on the waters of the stream. The children were not to be seen anywhere. I got up from the ground and began to brush the dust from my clothes. And then, hearing the sound of splashing and churning, I looked up again.
Two small black buffaloes gazed at me from the muddy, moonlit water.
WOULD ASTLEY RETURN?
The house was called Undercliff because that’s where it stood—under a cliff. The man who went away—the owner of the house—was Robert Astley. And the man who stayed behind—the old family retainer—was Prem Bahadur.
Astley had been gone many years. He was still a bachelor in his late thirties when he’d suddenly decided that he wanted adventure, romance and faraway places. He’d given the keys of the house to Prem Bahadur—who’d served the family for thirty years—and had set off on his travels.
Someone saw him in Sri Lanka. He’d been heard of in Burma, around the ruby mines at Mogok. Then he turned up in Java, seeking a passage through the Sunda Straits. After that the trail petered out. Years passed. The house in the hill station remained empty.
But Prem Bahadur was still there, living in an outhouse.
Every day he opened up Undercliff, dusted the furniture in all the rooms, made sure that the bed sheets and pillowcases were clean and set out Astley’s dressing gown and slippers.
In the old days, whenever Astley came home after a journey or a long tramp in the hills, he liked to bathe and change into his gown and slippers, no matter what the hour. Prem Bahadur still kept them ready. He was convinced that Robert would return one day.