13/11/2016 1 Comment WANDERLUSTRohit Malhotra had turned forty a few months ago but his looks did not betray his age. He looked a lot younger than his years. In these years of life, he had seen a lot and experienced every kind of lust. But no lust quite matched his wanderlust.
His motorbike and he, a pair made for each other, had hit the roads every couple of months in their travels to the hills. Together, they had covered almost every inch of the hilly terrain in Himachal, Uttaranchal, Kashmir, the North-east and all the way down south in the Nilgiris. Even at the height of militancy in Kashmir, Rohit had followed the tug of his wanderlust and travelled on his trusty motorcycle, riding between the bullets and never once getting hit. He had slept in an abandoned shed alongside the road in Kausani and taken shelter from rains for two long days in a small nook in a hill near Dhanaulti – surviving off dry fruits and rainwater. He had also lived for four days with a local Naga tribal family in Tuensang when he ran up a high fever. Life always threw him a lifeline when he needed one. Rohit rode on, gently pulling the throttle and feeling the engine rev up. At this age, he no longer felt thrill in speed but quite enjoyed the powerful purr of his 250cc Yamaha. He rode leisurely, occasionally stopping by the side of the hilly tracks to soak in the ambience of the mountains. He had an intimate equation with the hills and his soul spoke a language of silence that only the pines and cedars could understand. Rohit had left Shillong a trifle late in the morning, after a hearty breakfast of toasted bread, boiled eggs and delicious steamed momos served with a pot of piping hot coffee. The sky was a clear blue with nary a speck of cloud in it. The breeze was cool but not chilly. This was July, the peak of the monsoon season in Meghalaya, hardly the best time for a biker to hit the roads. But today, the morning was uncharacteristically sunny. It had rained continuously for many days. From the verandah of his hotel, which overlooked the lake below, he could see the green roof of the Governor’s House. The skies had begun to clear up since the previous evening and when the day ended yesterday, the sun had peeped out for the first time in many days. Rohit had sat at the window of his hotel room admiring the orange hue in the western sky. As Rohit rode his bike up towards Upper Shillong, the air grew colder. He had a windcheater on and it was doing well to keep the wind from getting to his skin, but Upper Shillong was a thousand feet above the town of Shillong and a lot colder. He rode on unhurriedly – for him the journey had always been more important than the destination. Yet today, he was a little more eager than normal to arrive at the destination. Since his days as a young schoolboy, he had read about Cherrapunjee, the wettest place on earth. He had planned numerous times to go to Cherra but had not been able to actually make it happen until now. “The wettest place on earth must be visited during the wettest season” he had told himself. Therefore, although it might have appeared foolish to most men, Rohit decided to come here during the monsoon. In the distance, two huge hemispherical orbs loomed large. These were radar stations which belonged to the Indian Air Force. The entire north-eastern territory of India was under the surveillance of these two radars. Shillong houses the headquarters of the Air Force’s eastern command and in the distance Rohit could see the buildings and communication towers. A chopper roamed overhead. Rohit continued on the main road, leaving behind on his left the entrance to the air command premises that bore a threatening board of caution, “Defence land. Keep off.” The undulating lands of the East Khasi Hills unfolded before him. The beauty of the land was mesmerising. Unlike the tall hills of the Himalayas, these were gradual in their profiles. The verdant hills and valleys seamlessly merged into each other with large meadows interwoven between them. Cattle grazed idly on the grass. A shepherd boy sat listlessly by the side of the road, chewing on a blade of grass, very like the cattle he had been sent to tend. Rohit waved at the little boy as he passed. In the distance, a plume of smoke rose slowly from the chimney of a house into the sky. Everything seemed so peaceful! Rohit had been warned by his friends that the weather could change suddenly in these hills. He could see that the sky was no longer the same azure that it was when he had started from Shillong. There were masses of clouds overhead and a dark, brooding firmament over the distant hills. The air was laden with moisture and it tingled in his nostrils as he rode on. There was something about the virgin freshness of mountainous air that could only be experienced but never quite explained. He enjoyed the sensation. The road dipped. Rohit turned off the engine and slipped the gear into neutral. He often did this while riding downhill. The bike glided noiselessly down the slope. The topography descended towards the plains of Bangladesh, which were still about twenty-five kilometres away. In the distance, there was a streak of lightning which was followed by a sharp clap of thunder. The sky had suddenly become overcast. Rohit took off his helmet and placed it on the handle, letting the rear view mirror jut out through the visor. He felt breeze pass through the strands of his hair. Sunshine was fast receding from the hills and shadows were beginning to take over. He looked to his right and saw that the top of the hill had already been enveloped in a cover of clouds. Here, in these hills, visibility changed very fast and as he travelled further, drops of rain began to fall. Rohit looked around to see if he could find a place to seek shelter from the rain that was now promising to come down heavily. He seemed to be alone on this road. The road was like a single strip of ribbon laid upon the hills. Rohit could no longer see the far end. It was already covered in clouds that had descended right down. The pine trees had begun to sway furiously in the breeze and in the distance he could hear the sound of approaching rainfall. There was a loud clap of thunder and almost at once the sky opened up over the man and his motorcycle. Rohit turned the ignition key of his bike. The engine refused to start. He tried again and again. “Drat! It had to happen now!” Rohit cursed. He brought the bike to a halt and got off it, rainwater streaming down his face and body. He guided the machine to a spot in the woods skirting the road. It is never a good idea to stand under tall trees in a storm but there was nowhere else he could have gone now. There were tall trees everywhere. So, he parked his bike in a small opening among the pines and cuddled himself close to the trunk of a big tree. The thick foliage of pine needles on the branches above provided a sorry excuse for a shelter but it seemed a lot better here than out on the road. Rohit continued to sit under the tree. And, the sky continued to pour relentlessly. Minutes ticked on and hours began to pass. He sat quietly. Daylight gradually began to fade but there were no signs of the weather holding up. Rohit pulled the windcheater closer to his body. The temperature had fallen and he was beginning to shiver. Cherrapunjee must be less than twenty kilometres away, he surmised. He tried to kick start the bike a few times. Nothing happened. Almost three hours went by. It surprised Rohit that not a single vehicle had passed by on the road since he had stopped here. He was drenched to his skin and the rain was beating down as heavily as ever. He began to worry about spending the night in the middle of nowhere, amid fierce lightning and deafening claps of thunder, possible wild animals and the potential of running up a fever in this cold and wet weather. He had been caught in the rain many times in the past but despite his extensive travels all over the country, he had never seen such torrential rainfall anywhere else. The Khasi hills were truly living up to their reputation today. His backpack, which held his essentials, was soaked and laden. He thrust one hand into it and pulled out a packet of dried fruits. He popped a few almonds and a fistful of raisins into his mouth. The morning’s breakfast had run its course and Rohit was now beginning to feel pangs of hunger. He began to think of leaving his motorcycle behind and walking towards Cherra. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, he cursed himself for staying put so long. Had he started to walk when the rain began, he would have probably reached the village by now. Rohit pulled himself up on his feet. His clothes felt as if they weighed a ton. Water trickled down his back and disappeared into the crack of his butt. Along the route, it tickled his spine. There are few things on earth more uncomfortable than soggy underwear, he thought, discomfited. He lifted his backpack and a stream of water drained out of it too. The bag was soaked and heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder with effort. He ran his fingers through his hair. It felt matted. Leaving behind the bike, he started to walk downhill on the road. There was just enough light left in the day to see a few metres down the road. The trees had already turned into ghostly silhouettes. Rohit lumbered down the road. The road dipped some more and then turned sharply to the left. Opposite this bend in the road, in the fading light, Rohit detected the outline of a cobbled path that went into the woods, to his right. He walked up to the path and looked around. There was a signboard that had fallen into bad times. It stood askew at the entrance of the path. Rohit’s eyes lit up. If there was a path, there must be a house or a village close by that it led to. He dropped his bag to the ground and dug his hand into it. He pulled out his torchlight and focused it on the signboard. The torch lit up the area. The words on the signboard were barely visible, the paint having worn off with time. With effort, Rohit managed to read the letters. The signboard bore the name - Dr William Ashley, MD. Below the name was written “1876 - …..” The rest of the signage was missing. An arrow pointed in the direction of the woods. The town of Shillong had been developed by the British during the days of the Raj as a getaway from the sultry heat of the plains. It was the headquarters of Assam, an area that included all of the north-east and extended as far as Sylhet, now in Bangladesh. It found favour with the Englishmen, who were reminded of the weather and topography of their homeland. Endearingly, they had named it the Scotland of the East. Many Englishmen had built houses and settled down in Shillong and its surrounding areas. Some even married into the local communities. Rohit guessed Dr Ashley might have been one of them. He left the road and advanced step by step along the cobbled path, deeper and deeper into the woods. For the second time in the day, he felt foolish for having waited so long before venturing out of his temporary shelter by the side of the road. The beam from his torchlight showed the way. The path did not seem to have been walked upon very frequently. He strode on. A cat crossed his path. Or, it could have been a fox. The animal’s eyes reflected the beam from the torch. It disappeared into the trees as quickly as it had emerged. The path took several twists and turns. Rohit must have walked about half a kilometre when up ahead he saw, lit up by a streak of lightning, the outline of a house. In the momentary flash, he saw the tall spire of the house and its long sloping roofs. The house was less than a hundred metres away from where Rohit was standing. He felt a wave of relief and increased the briskness of his steps as he headed towards the house. The house appeared to be dark and without lights. During the flashes of lightning, Rohit saw that it was a two-storied house in typical English architecture. A chimney stuck out from the roof. The path curved and led up to an entrance that was blocked by an iron gate. Rohit shone his torch at the gate. It bore a nameplate – Dr William Ashley, MD. He tried to push open the gate but it would not budge. In the light of the torch, Rohit saw that the gate was locked from inside. A large padlock hung from the latch within. Rohit pointed the light towards the house. The building was offset from the gate by a patio of about fifty feet. The main entrance door was covered by an awning and had four or five steps leading up to it. On one side, between the house and the gate was another house – a small one - presumably servants’ quarters. Through a crack in the door of this house, a flicker of light escaped. Rohit picked up a stone lying at his feet and banged the iron gate with it. He struck it again a few more times. Receiving no response, he shouted out loud, “Anybody home?” In his excitement at having found a possible shelter to spend the night in, Rohit missed the fact that the sky had started to hold back. The downpour had been reduced to a drizzle and the streaks of lightning seemed to have retreated into the distance. “Anybody home?” he shouted again. For a moment, Rohit considered climbing over the gate and entering the compound. He banged the gate a couple of times more. This time, the door opened and a figure stood in the doorway. Rohit shouted almost reflexively “Hello, please let me in!” The silhouette at the door was of a woman. At once she disappeared into the house and then, within moments, returned with a kerosene lantern. In the light of the lantern, Rohit could see her face – the face of a woman in her mid-twenties. She walked gingerly up to the gate and raised the lamp a little higher to study the face of the unexpected guest. “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed and hurried back into the house. Confused, Rohit remained outside the gate, wondering if she had mistaken him for a resident of the house. But if so, why had she rushed back into the house? Soon the woman reappeared and hastened towards the gate. She sifted through a bunch of keys that she now carried in her hands and upon finding the right key, opened the padlock. “Come, come” she urged, “and just look at you, you are drenched!” Such hospitality in the middle of nowhere, under hostile climatic circumstances, seemed godsend to Rohit. He could barely believe his luck and could not help but reflect upon the irony that he had spent half a day just a stone’s throw away from here, collecting rainwater. He picked up his backpack and followed the woman as she led the way to the main building. As he stood under the awning, for the first time since the rains began he actually had a covering above him. The woman fiddled with the keys and turned the knob. The door opened with a groan. She raised the lantern and the inside of the room lit up. A musty smell of dampness hung heavy in the air. Rohit followed the woman inside the house. In the light of the lantern, Rohit could see that the room was very well appointed, with large and heavy wooden furniture, a rug carpet on the floor and a fireplace on one side. The walls had a large number of paintings and from the ceiling hung a large chandelier. Whoever lived here had inherited a fortune, Rohit said to himself. “Upstairs”, the woman said softly, smiling as she spoke. Rohit sensed a trace of suggestiveness in the way the woman smiled at him. He smiled back. Beyond the room was a wooden stairway that led to the floor above. The woman led the way. She tiptoed on the stairs, almost gliding up noiselessly. Rohit followed, his soaked shoes making sloppy noises with every step. Rohit felt a tinge of embarrassment. The elegantly waxed wooden floors deserved greater respect than this. The bedroom on the first floor was huge. In the middle was a big four-poster bed covered with expensive silk linen. The woman placed the lantern on a study table on one side of the room and went on to light an oil lamp placed in the middle of the table. As the room lit up, Rohit could see that the room did not have too much furniture. The bed and the table, along with a chair placed near the table, were the only pieces. An old grandfather’s clock hung from a wall but had long stopped working. The hands were frozen. As he was examining the objects in the room, he became aware of being watched. He turned towards the woman. Her gaze was fixed upon him. She had a pout on her lips and, Rohit thought, a come-hither look in her eyes. She was a strikingly beautiful woman. In the lights and shadows of the two lamps, he noticed that her blouse displayed a deep cleavage and a shapely bosom that rose and fell with her breathing. She was wearing a pair of loose beige pajamas, a type that Rohit felt was passé for the current times. The woman belonged to the local Khasi tribe, slightly mongoloid in her features but extremely attractive. “Your room, Sir,” the woman said without shifting her gaze from him. “I hope the bed is made well and to your liking.” “Indeed. Indeed. Thank you very much,” Rohit gushed, unable to contain his gratitude. The woman flashed a pretty smile and turned on her toes before gracefully exiting the room. As she left, Rohit’s eyes followed her. What a beauty! Rohit dumped his backpack on the floor and took out its wet contents one by one. He placed them on the table – his clothes, drenched but still neatly folded, the packet of dried fruits, a toiletry pouch and his passport, safely sealed inside a plastic folder. He took off his windcheater and then his shirt. He let them fall on the floor. Wondering what to wear, he looked around. Neatly laid out on the bed was a pair of cotton slacks and a shirt. That surprised Rohit. The thought that he had while standing outside the gate returned to him. Had the hostess mistaken him for another guest who was expected around the same time? If so, he could not help but wonder where the original guest might be in this wet weather. Rohit changed into dry clothes and went up to the table to blow out the lamp. A writing pad lay on one corner of the table. Next to it was a quill in an inkpot. He picked up the pad and flipped through the pages. Neatly printed on the top of each page was “Dr William Ashley, MD”. Rohit’s brows furrowed and for a moment he wondered whether he had wrongly read the year on the signboard on the road as 1876 instead of 1976. And, a quill in an inkpot! “This place is caught in a time warp,” he mused inwardly. He blew the lamp out and plunged into the soft, warm bed. After a trying day out on the road, this seemed heavenly. It was not long before he was fast asleep and snoring. The sound of a gun startled him awake! He considered for a moment if it might have been a dream. But it sounded so real and so close. Rohit sat motionless on his bed, his teeth chattering. Suddenly, he felt cold. Was the unnatural hospitality a trap? He quietly retreated from the centre of the bed to a corner. His heart was thumping loudly. Trapped between sleep and fear, he sat uneasily. The minutes ticked by but there was silence. Ticked? Rohit suddenly became aware that the old grandfather’s clock was ticking. He raised the finger of his right hand to the side of his neck. A vein was throbbing violently. The jugular vein! Cut it and a man dies in no time. An image flashed before his eyes – that of an African Masai slitting the jugular vein of a cow and drinking its blood. He had seen the ritual. Seen……but where? He had never been to Africa. But suddenly he knew that he had seen it. And, jugular? Where did he learn that word from? His knowledge of the human body was rudimentary. His only study in the field was in the form of women. Rohit was confused. Unconsciously, he started uttering, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come…….” It was a prayer that Rohit had never learnt ! The clock on the wall ticked on and its hands moved little by little. Then it happened again. One, two, three…..three shots. Three unmistakable gunshots! Rohit was now wide awake. But suddenly he was no longer nervous! Slowly, he stepped out of bed. Ever so slowly, he went to the table and lit the lamp. The lamp cast a shadow on the door. He walked to it and held it ajar. There was darkness outside. He looked at the clock. It was a little over midnight. He turned back towards the room. The red hue of the lamp fell on his face. His lips broke into a smile. He held his chest forward and taking long, determined steps, started pacing the room. He adjusted his bowtie and looked down at his sparkling tanned boots. The heels made a wooden sound as they landed on the floor. He saw his refection on the mirror that stood by the side of the bed. His sharp European features appeared more pronounced now. There was a tap on the door. “Bill?” queried a female voice. “Come in Jenny,” he replied, the confidence in his deep baritone unmistakable as he spoke in a chaste British accent. Jenny entered the room, the top two buttons of her blouse undone and her beige trousers showing no crease. He smiled at her and asked “Done?” A smile crept upon her lips and she nodded. He held out his hands and she rushed into them. The two of them tumbled into bed and presently all the garments came off one by one. She climbed on him and quickly led him into the throes of a hitherto unattained ecstasy. The bed creaked and the floor shook as his body rose and fell in uncontrolled orgasmic spurts. He slumped under her as she moved off him and almost immediately he slipped into a slumber. Rohit woke up, cringing his eyes away from the rays of the morning sun that had arrived upon his face. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked. A window was partly open and the sunlight had entered through it. The satisfaction of the night still hung on his sleepy face. He sat up on the bed and looked around. There was dust all over the place. The room did not appear to have been lived in for ages! He was startled. He climbed out of bed and went up to the table. His stuff was there just as he had placed them last night, slightly drier than before. The writing pad and the inkpot were no longer there. He realised that he had nothing on his body. The place felt eerie. He picked up his wet clothes and wore them. He hurriedly stuffed his articles inside the bag and made a rush for the door. He ran down the flight of stairs. The hall was in a state of disrepair. A rat scrambled across the floor. The chandelier was missing and the furniture had layers of dust on them. He pushed open the main door and came out onto the patio. It was a sunny day and the sky was blue once again. The patio was unkempt and shrubbery had invaded most of the compound. He stopped by the smaller house at the entrance and pushed open the door. There was nobody inside. The interior of the house was dilapidated and vegetation had covered the entire floor. Rohit felt a chill of terror travel down his spine. Horrified, he made a mad dash for the gate. The gate was open and looked like it had not been operated for centuries. He rushed out and continued to run till he could no longer see the house behind him. Panting, he doubled up and crouched on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Nothing seemed to make sense at all. He had never hallucinated in his life and everything of the previous night had seemed so real. Yet, nothing seemed real now. Rohit felt delirious. “Are you all right?” a voice behind him asked. Rohit was startled for the umpteenth time since he woke up. He jumped, terror written on every inch of his face. He turned around to find himself face to face with a young man in his late twenties. Perhaps early thirties. “Well, this is not a good place to be hanging around, is it?” the man quipped. “May I help you?” “Err…yeah…no….I want to get out of here….my bike….the road…” Rohit mumbled. “Relax,” the man said reassuringly, “let’s walk to the road together.” Rohit felt great relief at finding company. The two men started walking towards the road. The man began speaking – “This is an area that people usually do not visit. So, I am surprised to see you. They say that things happen here.” He looked at Rohit and chuckled. “Strange things happen here. It is said that Dr Ashley’s spirit lives in the house. Who knows! But the story of the Ashley Mansion is indeed queer. People who have had the misfortune of spending time in the cursed house swear that the doctor arrives in the night and unites with his lover – the traitorous Jenny.” Rohit stared ashen-faced at the man as he continued with his storytelling. The man paused and looked inquisitively at Rohit. “Did you see anything there?” he asked with a look of curiosity. Rohit felt his blood freeze. Words refused to leave his parched throat. He wished the man would stop his tale at that very moment. But the man did not. He continued. “Jenny was the caretaker Robert’s wife. A very pretty woman, shapely and well endowed. She attracted Ashley’s attention. Initially, the two met secretly when Robert was sent off on errands. Later, their meetings became more frequent and more daring. One day, Robert returned to find his wife in the doctor’s bed. Livid, he struck her. Then he turned to Ashley and punched his nose. He then stomped out of the house, leaving a weeping Jenny and a bleeding Ashley. He did not return that day or the next. Five days later, he did. It was late at night. He was feeling remorse for striking Jenny and had come to take her away from the mansion, away from the evil eyes of his employer.” At this point, the man stopped speaking and the expression on his face hardened. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared into the distant horizon. “Then?” Rohit asked. His voice was more of a squeak. “Then, he entered the house,” the man continued, “and lit a lamp. Jenny was sleeping on the bed. He went to the bed and sat beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and shook her.” The man fell silent. The two of them continued to walk. Rohit looked up and saw that they had almost arrived at the main road. With the distance between them and the mansion increasing with every step, he felt life returning to his veins. “Well, what happened then?” Rohit was terrified but curious. The man’s face became contorted and his voice changed. “Jenny took out a gun from under the quilt and shot Robert through his chest. He stumbled backwards and fell on the floor. She stood over his body for a long time and then shot him again and again and again. The bitch shot him three times!” Then, in a calmer tone, the man said, “There you are.” The steel in his voice had gone. They had walked up to the point where Rohit had parked his bike. “Can I get a repairman nearby?” asked Rohit. “No, sir, I am afraid,” the man answered, “You can get nothing here.” Desperate, Rohit kicked the bike’s starter. Miraculously, the engine purred to life! “Ah, it is working!” the man exclaimed. “Please allow me to leave now.” With that, he turned and started walking back towards where he had come from. “Hello!” Rohit shouted after him. He had already mounted his motorcycle and was ready to ride off. The man stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him. “I’m just curious,” Rohit shouted, “How do you know so much about something that happened a hundred years ago, and in such detail?” The man looked at Rohit for a while and slowly his face broke into a crooked smile. Then he spoke. “I am Robert Wallang,” he said and disappeared into the woods.
1 Comment
Rohit Malhotra
15/11/2016 03:17:52 am
Very nicely written.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Blogger
|