The Lieutenant’s Grave

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 20^th 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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