Kodaikanal, Christmas week, 2010
I
was staying at a research station in South India set up by an
Englishman near the end turn of the 19th century. The station was
located at one of the hill stations primarily because of the nature
of research and not because of the climate, as was popular with the
British during the days of the Raj. The estate sprawled over 100
acres of woodlands and had a few colonial houses apart from the
research facilities themselves. The guest house, where I was put up,
soared to a maximum height of around 25 feet at the apex of its
sloped roof, but was overshadowed by trees that rose to heights of
more than a hundred feet. It had walls nearly two feet thick
and was, I understood the residence of the aforesaid Englishman in
the first decade of the 20th century.
It
was the week after Christmas and there was a chill in the air. Night
comes early in these places in the hills and it was pretty late when
I was walking back to my quarters, tired after finishing a day of
demanding work. I decided to take a short cut through the woods
instead of taking the long winding path. There was nothing to worry
as the lights of the guest house would be visible once I reached the
crest of the ridge that separated it from the office building.
Anyhow, I had my electrical torch to light my path up to the top of
the ridge. Using this I started trudging up the incline and when I
had just crested the ridge and spotted the light on the guest house
roof, there was a power shut-down and the lights went out. I pulled
out the torch, and it somehow managed to slip out of my grasp and die
a sudden death.
This
did not perturb me considerably as I had a fair idea of the bearing I
had to take. However, in reality, walking down the slope, trying to
avoid tree stumps and fallen trees, I somehow managed to get lost in
the woods with only a matchbox at my disposal. I lit one and checked
the box. There were two more matchsticks in it and in the light of
the one I had just lit, I perceived that I was well and totally lost.
I knew I had to go downhill, and downhill I went. I had a strange
feeling I had travelled more than I should have and sat down on a
tree stump to review my situation. The stump felt cold and I realized
that I was sitting on a stone and not a tree stump as I had thought
at first. In the light of my last match, I saw that this was no
ordinary stone, but a grave stone and etched on the stone in capital
Roman letters were the words ‘LT. CABLE’. There was no further
information on the stone.
I
shuddered and recalled the character of Lt. Joseph Cable of the
United States Marines in the movie ‘South Pacific’, but reasoned
that there was little chance of a U.S. Marine being buried in India.
May be someone who had been consumed by consumption or the local
wildlife, I thought rather irreverently. Having spent my last match,
I had no option but to wait out the power outage.
**
When
the lights came on again, I perceived that the guest house lights
were uphill from me and not downhill as I had surmised they should
have been, making it clear that I had wandered off my course. I made
my way back to the guest house and narrated my adventures to the
chowkidar at the guest house. It was cold and I was shivering and not
only because of the light drizzle that had wet me in the woods. So he
lit a nice little fire in the fireplace of the drawing room, where I
sat down to record my day’s observations on the computer that was
provided for the use of the inmates of the guesthouse. I made
enquiries with the chowkidar about the grave. He informed me that
the Englishman’s son had been with the army and had died of
tuberculosis when visiting to his family for Christmas. This
confirmed the post-mortem diagnosis of the cause of death that I had
made earlier. He then retired to his quarters for the night, leaving
me alone in the building,
My
usual companion for such outings used to be a collection of horror
stories and I was in the middle of Bram Stoker’s story ‘The
Squaw’, where the main protagonist was a female cat. As if to
remind me of the story, the resident cat leapt on to the computer
table and sat behind the mouse. I had given her the sobriquet
‘Blofeld’ in spite of her being a female, after the villain from
the Bond movies, as she used to settle down on my lap for hours
together, when I used the computer, probably making me one of the few
persons working with a desktop computer with a mouse and a laptop
cat.
Some
time passed and I sensed a sudden excitement on the part of the cat,
which bounded away with a shriek. I turned around to see a young
Englishman attired in the colonial British army uniform sitting on
the armchair behind me. He had a pleasant smile on his face and
appeared to bear no malevolence. He too had a laptop cat. I, however,
noticed that there was something odd about his uniform. At one
shoulder he sported the pips of a full Lieutenant while there were no
pips on the other.
"So,
the chowkidar has been telling you stories," he said, continuing to
smile bemusedly. "I am Lt. Joseph Cable, but of the Skinner’s
Horse and not the U.S. Marines as you thought. I was surprised at the
coincidence that you not only got my first name right but also the
cause of my death. Nothing as romantic as the young Sahib being
consumed by his shikar. It was tuberculosis that got me."
"I
used to come back here around Christmas time to visit family. I
continue to do so for old times sake and relive my memories so to
speak," he continued.
"I
am sorry that I sat on your grave," I apologized, for there
appeared to be no need for anxiety. "I notice that you have a
laptop cat too and the pips on your shoulder seem to be missing."
"Oh,
my cat is the ancestor of your laptop cat, and that is why your cat
got spooked. And there is no need for that apology," he smiled. "That was not my grave you sat on."
"You
seem to be quite an observant and bonhomous chap", he said, "many
would have been spooked by seeing me, let alone notice the absence of
the pips."
"That's the second time in a month a military officer has called me bonhomous", I said.
"Well, it’s the truth", he said, continuing, "My grave is about a
hundred yards south of the stone you sat on. Look around tomorrow
morning in proper lighting and you will understand why I am so amused
with your discovery."
I
promised to do so and the cheerful chap carried on, "I have a
present for you to remember this night". So saying, he kept a small
‘baccy pouch on the mantelpiece above the fireside. "Take it
after you discover the truth of the gravestone you sat on", he
instructed me, adding "I shall watch your progress with
considerable interest" before disappearing into thin air of the
hill-station.
**
The
next morning I went around and located his grave which not only
mentioned his rank and regiment but also his date of birth and death
unlike the stone I had sat on. So, after all the stone I had sat one
was not his gravestone. Then what was it, I pondered and what was the
truth that he was so tickled about? As I walked back, I came across
the stone I had actually sat on and it had exactly the same words I
had seen the previous night.
For a moment, I
really could not comprehend the truth. Then, walking back to the guest
house I came across not one but two more such stones and realized to
my utter surprise that the stone I had sat on was one of the few
marking the alignment of the low tension cable that had been buried
in order to carry electricity to the guest house and that the dot
between the L and the T had got obliterated.
I
rushed back to the fireplace, picked up the pouch and opened it.
Inside were two pips from the uniform of a Lieutenant of the British
Indian Army. They continue to be my proud possessions to this day. If
you care to visit me, I shall be only too glad to show them to you.
***
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