Note to readers: Those of you who have not read The Day It Snowed in Ooty may read that story first, though it is not essential to this one.
I was the only lodger staying at the guest house of the Hogmanay Estate, a tea estate about forty kilometers by road from Darjeeling. I had just been appointed as the manager of the Estate and was yet to be allotted the Manager's Bungalow. My predecessor, who was yet to vacate the bungalow, had gone with his family to Darjeeling. The present owner of the estate, a Marwari from Calcutta had purchased it from Captain Mc Donnell's brother's grandson, who inherited the estate on the Captain's death, and was not keen on running it . The owner was a busy man with many business interests and came to the estate once in a way. In his absence, the Manager was the lord of the estate.
It was a cold night in winter and the fireplace was blazing to keep the room warm. The splitting of the aromatic wood made crackling sounds now and then. From time to time, 'Bahadur' poked at the burning logs piled on the andirons. It was almost dinner time and he started setting up the dining table for my supper. Bahadur is a sort of generic name used for a Gurkha whose name you didn't know, or, in the case of many an employer, didn't care to know. It means 'brave', as most Gurkhas certainly are. It is also a common name in the community.
As he placed my plate, I asked him in Hindi, "What's your name, Bahadur?"
He was a bit surprised, and replied, "No one staying here has ever asked me that question, sahib."
He added, "My name is Jung Bahadur Thapa."
I smiled, thinking that a Gurkha had to be a Thapa, Gurung or Chettri, for these were their most common surnames. During my time with the Gorkha Regiment, I had been surrounded by a flood of these names. I had also picked up a bit of Nepali. Though it had been a long time since I had spoken the language, I made my first overture with a simple, "I can speak a little bit of Nepali."
Thapa gave a big smile and encouraging said, "Sahib's Nepali is very good. Where did you learn it so well?"
I told him of my military service with the Gorkhali, as my men had called themselves, and said that they were the most loyal and bravest soldiers to have at one's side.
"My great grandfather was in the army," he replied. "He was an orderly to Captain McDonnell sahib," he said, adding, "and that his how our family came to this estate."
"Come and sit here at the table and tell me more about it," I invited.
"How can I sit at the same table as the sahib?" he demurred, his native deference for the master surfacing.
Relenting, I said, "Okay, bring your chair from the kitchen and sit here."
He went and brought a low stool from the kitchen. He placed it near my chair and sat down and started narrating the estate's story.
The Captain sahib had started his military service as a young subaltern in the Sirmoor Battalion of the British Indian Army. When Indian soldiers had risen in mutiny in 1857, a milestone in India's struggle for freedom, the unit had marched to Meerut to quell the rebellion. The colonial administration had called it the Sepoy Mutiny. The uprising had been crushed, at least according to the administration's records.
Some years later, as a Second Lieutenant, McDonnell had married an Englishwoman and in time had a daughter, who was named Kathy. He had inherited a substantial sum of money and had decided to retire to the hills. His orderly, Sher Bahadur Thapa, had suggested that he buy a tea estate near Darjeeling, and McDonnell had seen wisdom in the advice.
Hogmanay Estate had been purchased by Captain Douglas McDonnell in the 1890. The previous owner had died and the next generation, which was staying in London had no interest in moving back to India. So, they had put it up for sale and the Scotsman had got it at a rather cheap price. But it had been badly maintained for years and it took him quite a few years to get things rebuilt and repaired to his satisfaction. The estate had prospered and in time, he appointed a manager to take care of its routine responsibilities.
The Captain had also got the chapel renovated and, as he was musically inclined, had got a pipe organ imported from Europe and installed in it. He used to spend his free time practicing on the organ as he felt it gave him peace, especially after his wife had passed away. He lived for only two things in life – his daughter Kathy and the pipe organ. It was his greatest delight that his daughter too had become proficient in playing the instrument.
But, one day, Kathy informed her father at breakfast, that she desired to marry the son of the owner of the neighbouring estate. Subroto Mukherji, who frequently took her to Darjeeling in his jeep, was, like his father, an Indian. Long drives, for it takes quite a bit of time to cover forty kilometres in the hills, on winding roads in a cold climate amidst beautiful surroundings, can be quite intoxicating – especially if one's companion is comely or handsome. The Captain was incensed at the idea of his daughter marrying an Indian. He specifically forbade it and ordered her not to leave the estate in future.
That night, at dinner, Kathy informed him that she had gone to Darjeeling during the day and had got married to her beau. The Captain's pink face glowed red – redder than the flames in the fireplace. Wordlessly, he got up and reached for the shotgun which was mounted over the mantelpiece. Kathy, who knew that the gun was always loaded, was scared for her life. She opened the door and ran for the shelter of the chapel which was quite close by, in the belief that he might not shoot on hallowed ground.
She entered the chapel, sat at the pipe organ and started playing his favourite piece of music, hoping that it would soothe him. The Captain was not in control of himself. He walked into the chapel and unloaded both the barrels into her. Seeing her dead, he realised the destruction his rage had caused. He collapsed next to her and never recovered from the tragedy. Both had been buried near the chapel.
Thapa ended his narrative saying ominously, "People who have peeped into the chapel say they still see her hanging around the organ, though no one has heard her play it."
I reasoned with him, "A ghost, even if there is one, does not have a physical body, so it cannot play an organ."
Curious, I asked him, "Have you seen the ghost?"
"No, sir," he responded, adding bravely, "I have always been a bit wary of the ill effects that the ghost may have. But, if the sahib is willing to venture into the chapel, I shall be glad to accompany him. I am not afraid."
"Let's do that tomorrow evening," I told him, saying that I had to make some purchases in Darjeeling the next day, before I ventured into the chapel.
He, no doubt, thought that I was planning to buy some amulet, charm or, perhaps, a crucifix, to carry into the chapel.
I was the only lodger staying at the guest house of the Hogmanay Estate, a tea estate about forty kilometers by road from Darjeeling. I had just been appointed as the manager of the Estate and was yet to be allotted the Manager's Bungalow. My predecessor, who was yet to vacate the bungalow, had gone with his family to Darjeeling. The present owner of the estate, a Marwari from Calcutta had purchased it from Captain Mc Donnell's brother's grandson, who inherited the estate on the Captain's death, and was not keen on running it . The owner was a busy man with many business interests and came to the estate once in a way. In his absence, the Manager was the lord of the estate.
As he placed my plate, I asked him in Hindi, "What's your name, Bahadur?"
He was a bit surprised, and replied, "No one staying here has ever asked me that question, sahib."
He added, "My name is Jung Bahadur Thapa."
I smiled, thinking that a Gurkha had to be a Thapa, Gurung or Chettri, for these were their most common surnames. During my time with the Gorkha Regiment, I had been surrounded by a flood of these names. I had also picked up a bit of Nepali. Though it had been a long time since I had spoken the language, I made my first overture with a simple, "I can speak a little bit of Nepali."
Thapa gave a big smile and encouraging said, "Sahib's Nepali is very good. Where did you learn it so well?"
I told him of my military service with the Gorkhali, as my men had called themselves, and said that they were the most loyal and bravest soldiers to have at one's side.
"My great grandfather was in the army," he replied. "He was an orderly to Captain McDonnell sahib," he said, adding, "and that his how our family came to this estate."
"Come and sit here at the table and tell me more about it," I invited.
"How can I sit at the same table as the sahib?" he demurred, his native deference for the master surfacing.
Relenting, I said, "Okay, bring your chair from the kitchen and sit here."
He went and brought a low stool from the kitchen. He placed it near my chair and sat down and started narrating the estate's story.
**
The Captain sahib had started his military service as a young subaltern in the Sirmoor Battalion of the British Indian Army. When Indian soldiers had risen in mutiny in 1857, a milestone in India's struggle for freedom, the unit had marched to Meerut to quell the rebellion. The colonial administration had called it the Sepoy Mutiny. The uprising had been crushed, at least according to the administration's records.
Some years later, as a Second Lieutenant, McDonnell had married an Englishwoman and in time had a daughter, who was named Kathy. He had inherited a substantial sum of money and had decided to retire to the hills. His orderly, Sher Bahadur Thapa, had suggested that he buy a tea estate near Darjeeling, and McDonnell had seen wisdom in the advice.
Hogmanay Estate had been purchased by Captain Douglas McDonnell in the 1890. The previous owner had died and the next generation, which was staying in London had no interest in moving back to India. So, they had put it up for sale and the Scotsman had got it at a rather cheap price. But it had been badly maintained for years and it took him quite a few years to get things rebuilt and repaired to his satisfaction. The estate had prospered and in time, he appointed a manager to take care of its routine responsibilities.
The Captain had also got the chapel renovated and, as he was musically inclined, had got a pipe organ imported from Europe and installed in it. He used to spend his free time practicing on the organ as he felt it gave him peace, especially after his wife had passed away. He lived for only two things in life – his daughter Kathy and the pipe organ. It was his greatest delight that his daughter too had become proficient in playing the instrument.
But, one day, Kathy informed her father at breakfast, that she desired to marry the son of the owner of the neighbouring estate. Subroto Mukherji, who frequently took her to Darjeeling in his jeep, was, like his father, an Indian. Long drives, for it takes quite a bit of time to cover forty kilometres in the hills, on winding roads in a cold climate amidst beautiful surroundings, can be quite intoxicating – especially if one's companion is comely or handsome. The Captain was incensed at the idea of his daughter marrying an Indian. He specifically forbade it and ordered her not to leave the estate in future.
That night, at dinner, Kathy informed him that she had gone to Darjeeling during the day and had got married to her beau. The Captain's pink face glowed red – redder than the flames in the fireplace. Wordlessly, he got up and reached for the shotgun which was mounted over the mantelpiece. Kathy, who knew that the gun was always loaded, was scared for her life. She opened the door and ran for the shelter of the chapel which was quite close by, in the belief that he might not shoot on hallowed ground.
She entered the chapel, sat at the pipe organ and started playing his favourite piece of music, hoping that it would soothe him. The Captain was not in control of himself. He walked into the chapel and unloaded both the barrels into her. Seeing her dead, he realised the destruction his rage had caused. He collapsed next to her and never recovered from the tragedy. Both had been buried near the chapel.
**
I reasoned with him, "A ghost, even if there is one, does not have a physical body, so it cannot play an organ."
Curious, I asked him, "Have you seen the ghost?"
"No, sir," he responded, adding bravely, "I have always been a bit wary of the ill effects that the ghost may have. But, if the sahib is willing to venture into the chapel, I shall be glad to accompany him. I am not afraid."
"Let's do that tomorrow evening," I told him, saying that I had to make some purchases in Darjeeling the next day, before I ventured into the chapel.
He, no doubt, thought that I was planning to buy some amulet, charm or, perhaps, a crucifix, to carry into the chapel.
**
The next evening, we had a Patiala peg each before we embarked on our spiritual enterprise. He had lit a hurricane lantern to carry, since the chapel did not have power supply. He had spent a good part of the day cleaning and sharpening his khukri with its chakmak, though I am not sure what damage it could cause to a non-corporeal being. He probably did it to comfort himself for the impending ordeal, if any.
As we approached the chapel, he touched his belt and was reassured by the presence of the khukri in its scabbard. He pulled out a long and heavy key for the chapel door. Though the lock had not been opened for long, to our surprise, the key turned smoothly and noiselessly in the lock.
He pushed opened the heavy double doors, which too swung without a creak. He held the lantern over his head and ahead of him to illuminate the innards of the building.
The chapel was modest in size and the pipe organ was quite large. In fact, it actually dominated the small altar. As we entered, some unknown disturbance blew some dust off the organ. Thapa muttered, "I think, she is here."
Right next to the organ was a large window with four shutters. The glass in the windows was coated with decades of cobwebs and dust. Each window had a horizontal curtain rod above it. I opened my little bag of tricks and pulled out four different wind chimes made out of metal tubes. Each chime had seven tubes of different lengths and a metal striker in the middle to hit the tubes. Every one of those chimes produced a different note making up an octave. I hung each of the four chimes, covered four octaves, to the curtain road grill in each opening.
All was silent, as I put a napkin on the stool in front of the organ and sat down and started to play.
I had gone over my repertoire during the day and had selected Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Composed in the 18th century. it is considered to be the most terrifying music ever written. But I simply loved the piece. Also, it was old enough to be recognised by the Kathy or her father. The organ, which had holes in some pipes and dust in almost all pipes, produced an even more scarier and distorted version of it. After playing the prelude, I stopped and waited.
And then, as foreseen by me, something peculiar happened. The silence of the night was broken by notes emanating from the wind chimes. There was no wind, but the chimes were being agitated by some unseen force. Initially, they produced random notes, as if being tested. And then, to my delight they continued into playing notes of the Bach composition. Though the original piece had multiple voices in the fugue, limitations of the instrument used here resulted in the constraint of being in a single voice. But it was quite clear what composition was being played, though in a diminished form.
The presence seemed to be utterly in love with music. But I am not sure whether it was Kathy or her father who was playing the chimes. Maybe, some day I shall be able to figure out how to ascertain that. For the time being, I resolved to continue playing duets in the chapel with my new friend.
***
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Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.
