by Ruskin Bond
But it had left our family alone until, one day, the peepul tree had been cut down.
It was nobody’s fault except, of course, that Grandfather had given the Public Works Department permission to cut the tree which had been standing on our land. They wanted to widen the road, and the tree and a bit of wall were in the way; so both had to go. In any case, not even a ghost can prevail against the PWD. But hardly a day had passed when we discovered that the Pret, deprived of his tree, had decided to take up residence in the bungalow. And since a good Pret must be bad in order to justify his existence, he was soon up to all sorts of mischief in the house.
He began by hiding Grandmother’s spectacles whenever she took them off.
‘I’m sure I put them down on the dressing-table,’ she grumbled.
A little later they were found balanced precariously on the snout of a wild boar, whose stuffed and mounted head adorned the veranda wall. Being the only boy in the house, I was at first blamed for this prank; but a day or two later, when the spectacles disappeared again only to be discovered dangling from the wires of the parrot’s cage, it was agreed that some other agency was at work.
Grandfather was the next to be troubled. He went into the garden one morning to find all his prized sweet-peas snipped off and lying on the ground.
Uncle Ken was the next to suffer. He was a heavy sleeper, and once he’d gone to bed, he hated being woken up. So when he came to the breakfast table looking bleary-eyed and miserable, we asked him if he wasn’t feeling all right.
‘I couldn’t sleep a wink last night,’ he complained. ‘Every time I was about to fall asleep, the bedclothes would be pulled off the bed. I had to get up at least a dozen times to pick them off the floor.’ He stared balefully at me. ‘Where were you sleeping last night, young man?’
I had an alibi. ‘In Grandfather’s room,’ I said.
‘That’s right,’ said Grandfather. ‘And I’m a light sleeper. I’d have woken up if he’d been sleep-walking.’
‘It’s that ghost from the peepul tree,’ said Grandmother.
‘It has moved into the house. First my spectacles, then the sweet-peas, and now Ken’s bedclothes! What will it be up to next? I wonder!’
We did not have to wonder for long. There followed a series of disasters. Vases fell off tables, pictures came down the walls. Parrot feathers turned up in the teapot while the parrot himself let out indignant squawks in the middle of the night. Uncle Ken found a crow’s nest in his bed, and on tossing it out of the window was attacked by two crows.
When Aunt Minnie came to stay, things got worse. The Pret seemed to take an immediate dislike to Aunt Minnie. She was a nervous, easily excitable person, just the right sort of prey for a spiteful ghost. Somehow her toothpaste got switched with a tube of Grandfather’s shaving-cream, and when she appeared in the sitting-room, foaming at the mouth, we ran for our lives. Uncle Ken was shouting that she’d got rabies.
Two days later Aunt Minnie complained that she had been hit on the nose by a grapefruit, which had of its own accord taken a leap from the pantry shelf and hurtled across the room straight at her. A bruised and swollen nose testified to the attack. Aunt Minnie swore that life had been more peaceful in Upper Burma.
‘We’ll have to leave this house,’ declared Grandmother.
‘If we stay here much longer, both Ken and Minnie will have nervous breakdowns.’
‘I thought Aunt Minnie broke down long ago,’ I said.
‘None of your cheek!’ snapped Aunt Minnie.
‘Anyway, I agree about changing the house,’ I said breezily. ‘I can’t even do my homework. The ink-bottle is always empty.’
‘There was ink in the soup last night.’ That came from Grandfather.
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!’
The Overcoat
t was clear frosty weather, and as the moon came up over the Himalayan peaks, I could see that patches of snow still lay on the roads of the hill-station. I would have been quite happy in bed, with a book and a hot-water bottle at my side, but I’d promised the Kapadias that I’d go to their party, and I felt it would be churlish of me to stay away. I put on two sweaters, an old football scarf, and an overcoat, and set off down the moonlit road.
It was a walk of just over a mile to the Kapadias’ house, and I had covered about half the distance when I saw a girl standing in the middle of the road.
She must have been sixteen or seventeen. She looked rather old-fashioned – long hair, hanging to her waist, and a flummoxy sequined dress, pink and lavender, that reminded me of the photos in my grandmother’s family album. When I went closer, I noticed that she had lovely eyes and a winning smile.
‘Good evening,’ I said. ‘It’s a cold night to be out.’
‘Are you going to the party?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. And I can see from your lovely dress that you’re going too. Come along, we’re nearly there.’
She fell into step beside me and we soon saw lights from the Kapadias’ house shining brightly through the deodars. The girl told me her name was Julie. I hadn’t seen her before, but I’d only been in the hill-station a few months.
There was quite a crowd at the party, and no one seemed to know Julie. Everyone thought she was a friend of mine. I did not deny it. Obviously she was someone who was feeling lonely and wanted to be friendly with people. And she was certainly enjoying herself. I did not see her do much eating or drinking, but she flitted about from one group to another, talking, listening, laughing; and when the music began, she was dancing almost continuously, alone or with partners, it didn’t matter which, she was completely wrapped up in the music.
It was almost midnight when I got up to go. I had drunk a fair amount of punch, and I was ready for bed. As I was saying goodnight to my hosts and wishing everyone a merry Christmas, Julie slipped her arm into mine and said she’d be going home too.
When we were outside, I said, ‘Where do you live, Julie?’
‘At Wolfsburn,’ she said. ‘Right at the top of the hill.’
‘There’s a cold wind,’ I said. ‘And although your dress is beautiful, it doesn’t look very warm. Here, you’d better wear my overcoat. I’ve plenty of protection.’
She did not protest, and allowed me to slip my overcoat over her shoulders. Then we started out on the walk home. But I did not have to escort her all the way. At about the spot where we had met, she said, ‘There’s a short cut from here. I’ll just scramble up the hillside.’
‘Do you know it well?’ I asked. ‘It’s a very narrow path.’
‘Oh, I know every stone on the path. I use it all the time. And besides, it’s a really bright night.’
‘Well, keep the coat on,’ I said. ‘I can collect it tomorrow.’
She hesitated for a moment, then smiled and nodded. She then disappeared up the hill, and I went home alone.
The next day I walked up to Wolfsburn
. I crossed a little brook, from which the house had probably got its name, and entered an open iron gate. But of the house itself, little remained. Just a roofless ruin, a pile of stones, a shattered chimney, a few Doric pillars where a veranda had once stood.
Had Julie played a joke on me? Or had I found the wrong house?
I walked around the hill, to the mission house where the Taylors lived and asked old Mrs Taylor if she knew a girl called Julie.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Where does she live?’
‘At Wolfsburn, I was told. But the house is just a ruin.’
‘Nobody has lived at Wolfsburn for over forty years. The Mackinnons lived there. One of the old families who settled here. But when their girl died…’ She stopped and gave me a queer look. ‘I think her name was Julie…Anyway, when she died, they sold the house and went away. No one ever lived in it again, and it fell into decay. But it couldn’t be the same Julie you’re looking for. She died of consumption – there wasn’t much you could do about it in those days. Her grave is in the cemetery, just down the road.’
I thanked Mrs Taylor and walked slowly down the road to the cemetery; not really wanting to know any more, but propelled forward almost against my will.
It was a small cemetery under the deodars. You could see the eternal snows of the Himalayas standing out against the pristine blue of the sky. Here lay the bones of forgotten empire-builders – soldiers, merchants, adventurers, their wives and children. It did not take me long to find Julie’s grave. It had a simple headstone with her name clearly outlined on it:
Julie Mackinnon
1923-39
‘With us one moment,
Taken the next,
Gone to her Maker,
Gone to her rest.’
Although many monsoons had swept across the cemetery wearing down the stones, they had not touched this little tombstone.
I was turning to leave when I caught a glimpse of something familiar behind the headstone. I walked round to where it lay.
Neatly folded on the grass was my overcoat.
No thank-you note. But something soft and invisible brushed against my cheek, and I knew someone was trying to thank me.
The Tunnel
t was almost noon, and the jungle was very still, very silent. Heat waves shimmered along the railway embankment where it cut a path through the tall evergreen trees. The railway lines were two straight black serpents disappearing into the tunnel in the hillside.
Suraj stood near the cutting, waiting for the mid-day train. It wasn’t a station, and he wasn’t catching a train. He was waiting so that he could watch the steam-engine come roaring out of the tunnel.
He had cycled out of the town and taken the jungle path until he had come to a small village. He had left the cycle there, and walked over a low, scrub-covered hill and down to the tunnel exit.
Now he looked up. He had heard, in the distance, the shrill whistle of the engine. He couldn’t see anything, because the train was approaching from the other side of the hill; but presently a sound, like distant thunder, issued from the tunnel, and he knew the train was coming through.
A second or two later, the steam-engine shot out of the tunnel, snorting and puffing like some green, black and gold dragon, some beautiful monster out of Suraj’s dreams. Showering sparks left and right, it roared a challenge to the jungle.
Instinctively, Suraj stepped back a few paces. And then the train had gone, leaving only a plume of smoke to drift lazily over tall shisham trees.
The jungle was still again. No one moved. Suraj turned from his contemplation of the drifting smoke and began walking along the embankment towards the tunnel.
The tunnel grew darker as he walked further into it. When he had gone about twenty yards, it became pitch black. Suraj had to turn and look back at the opening to reassure himself that there was still daylight outside. Ahead of him, the tunnel’s other opening was just a small round circle of light.
The tunnel was still full of smoke from the train, but it would be several hours before another train came through. Till then, it belonged to the jungle again.
Suraj didn’t stop, because there was nothing to do in the tunnel and nothing to see. He had simply wanted to walk through, so that he would know what the inside of a tunnel was really like. The walls were damp and sticky. A bat flew past. A lizard scuttled between the lines.
Coming straight from the darkness into the light, Suraj was dazzled by the sudden glare. He put a hand up to shade his eyes and looked up at the tree-covered hillside. He thought he saw something moving between the trees.
It was just a flash of orange and gold, and a long swishing tail. It was there between the trees for a second or two, and then it was gone.
About fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel stood the watchman’s hut. Marigolds grew in front of the hut, and at the back there was a small vegetable patch. It was the watchman’s duty to inspect the tunnel and keep it clear of obstacles. Every day, before the train came through, he would walk the length of the tunnel. If all was well, he would return to his hut and take a nap. If something was wrong, he would walk back up the line and wave a red flag and the engine-driver would slow down. At night, the watchman lit an oil lamp and made a similar inspection of the tunnel. Of course, he could not stop the train if there was a porcupine on the line. But if there was any danger to the train, he’d go back up the line and wave his lamp to the approaching engine. If all was well, he’d hang his lamp at the door of the hut and go to sleep.
He was just settling down on his cot for an afternoon nap when he saw the boy emerge from the tunnel. He waited until Suraj was only a few feet away and then said: ‘Welcome, welcome, I don’t often have visitors. Sit down for a while, and tell me why you were inspecting my tunnel.’
‘Is it your tunnel?’ asked Suraj.
‘It is,’ said the watchman. ‘It is truly my tunnel, since no one else will have anything to do with it. I have only lent it to the government.’
Suraj sat down on the edge of the cot.
‘I wanted to see the train come through,’ he said. ‘And then, when it had gone, I thought I’d walk through the tunnel.’
‘And what did you find in it?’
‘Nothing. It was very dark. But when I came out, I thought I saw an animal – up on the hill – but I’m not sure, it moved away very quickly.’
‘It was a leopard you saw,’ said the watchman. ‘My leopard.’
‘Do you own a leopard too?’
‘I do.’
‘And do you lend it to the government?’
‘I do not.’
‘Is it dangerous?’
‘No, it’s a leopard that minds its own business. It comes to this range for a few days every month.’
‘Have you been here a long time?’ asked Suraj.
‘Many years. My name is Sunder Singh.’
‘My name’s Suraj.’
‘There’s one train during the day. And another during the night. Have you seen the night mail come through the tunnel?’
‘No. At what time does it come?’
‘About nine o’clock, if it isn’t late. You could come and sit here with me, if you like. And after it has gone, I’ll take you home.’
‘I shall ask my parents,’ said Suraj. ‘Will it be safe?’
‘Of course. It’s safer in the jungle than in the town. Nothing happens to me out here, but last month when I went into the town, I was almost run over by a bus.’
Sunder Singh yawned and stretched himself out on the cot. ‘And now I’m going to take a nap, my friend. It is too hot to be up and about in the afternoon.’
‘Everyone goes to sleep in the afternoon,’ complained Suraj. ‘My father lies down as soon as he’s had his lunch.’
‘Well, the animals also rest in the heat of the day. It is only the tribe of boys who cannot, or will not, rest.’
Sunder Singh placed a large banana-leaf over his face to keep away the flies, and was soon snoring
gently. Suraj stood up, looking up and down the railway tracks. Then he began walking back to the village.
The following evening, towards dusk, as the flying foxes swooped silently out of the trees, Suraj made his way to the watchman’s hut.
It had been a long hot day, but now the earth was cooling, and a light breeze was moving through the trees. It carried with it a scent of mango blossoms, the promise of rain.
Sunder Singh was waiting for Suraj. He had watered his small garden, and the flowers looked cool and fresh. A kettle was boiling on a small oil-stove.
‘I’m making tea,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing like a glass of hot tea while waiting for a train.’
They drank their tea, listening to the sharp notes of the tailorbird and the noisy chatter of the seven-sisters. As the brief twilight faded, most of the birds fell silent. Sunder Singh lit his oil-lamp and said it was time for him to inspect the tunnel. He moved off towards the tunnel, while Suraj sat on the cot, sipping his tea. In the dark, the trees seemed to move closer to him. And the night life of the forest was conveyed on the breeze – the sharp call of a barking-deer, the cry of a fox, the quaint tonk-tonk of a nightjar. There were some sounds that Suraj couldn’t recognise – sounds that came from the trees, creakings and whisperings, as though the trees were coming alive, stretching their limbs in the dark, shifting a little, reflexing their fingers.
Sunder Singh stood inside the tunnel, trimming his lamp. The night sounds were familiar to him and he did not give them much thought; but something else – a padded footfall, a rustle of dry leaves – made him stand alert for a few seconds, peering into the darkness. Then, humming softly to himself, he returned to where Suraj was waiting. Another ten minutes remained for the night mail to arrive.