The stately house that my great grandfather built in the early 1800s stood on a hundred and fifteen acres of prime land surrounded with forests on all sides. The holding embraced orchards of mango trees that produced the choicest of succulent mangoes, an area of guava trees - trees that we, as kids, would clamber playing 'catch', and a mixed stand of various fruit, plum, and lemon trees. The aura, the calm serenity, and the enchantment of the private resort drew the family, every cold season, to its portals.
Hunting in the forests at Bhalwa was a favorite sport with the family and game was plentiful in the extensive private forest. Usually after the mid day meal and a rest, the family would gather for an outing in a jeep to shoot jungle fowl, partridge, or other game birds for sport and pot. We, the younger ones, used 16 bore shotguns, .410s, or .22 rifles and were encouraged to take first shot at game or bird, as training in marksmanship was highly desired in scions of landed gentry.
After four to five hours of a thrilling hunting trip in the forest, we returned home. Game, that was bagged, was unloaded from the jeep and could comprise of jungle fowl, partridge, green pigeon, a hare or two, and sometimes a muntjac (chink). Whilst we unlimbered (and got our circulation going, after a bone chilling trip in the cold air of an open jeep) the cook would be summoned and instructed how the game was to be prepared: roasted, curried, or hung from the rafters to attain that most desirable 'gamey' smell.
During the day we took exploratory hikes around the compound or swam in the river or (my favorite) lay in easy chairs in the sun reading Mickey Spillane or Agatha Christi thrillers. I would be lulled into drowsiness by the many birdcalls and the soothing sight of bees and butterflies making their way amongst the flowers. The garden covered a large area and was terraced in places. Intricate cement drains carried water to every corner. On a walk through the garden, the gentle aroma of roses would give way to the sweetish smell of sweet peas growing through bamboo trellises and further on, past tall molded iron storks decorating a fountained pool, to a large jujube tree from the branches of which, on thick ropes, hung a swing.
The monotonous call of the ‘brain-fever’ bird or the raucous squabbling of jungle babblers disturbed my catnap and dragged me back from dreamland. I then continue reading from where I had nodded off.
But we were unaware of the danger that lay in wait!
During a winter leave at Bhalwa, an incident comes clearly to mind: my brother, cousin, and I had enjoyed the hunt and after dinner, which comprised the game we had bagged, we prepared for bed. There was no electricity in the house so we brushed our teeth by the light of a hurricane oil lamp and raced each other to bed. The last person in would have to put out the lamp. My brother was slower than we and would often have the losers’ task of lowering the lamp wick for the night.
That particular night whilst my cousin and myself huddled under coverings with our knees pulled up to our chest to fight the icy cold of the sheets, my brother decided to take the lamp to his bedside table to enable him to douse the flame by extending his arm from under the coverings. As I recall, instead of diving under the blankets, as was our custom, he did an unusual thing: prior to diving under the covers, he first turned down the eiderdown of his bed and gasped. Coiled neatly in the warmest place, was a banded krait - one of the deadliest snakes of India.
My grandfather believed: “When a person’s time is not up, God, in his mysterious ways, exposes the danger.” The truth of this realism will stay with me forever
Spirits of the Lake
A story based on folklore, common in forest villages of northern India
This place is evil, said Talsar Singh.
He lived in official Forest Accommodation built on a prominence overlooking a large scenic lake some 300 feet below. A village of some thirty odd indiscriminate houses straddled the northern end of the lake whilst wild migrating mallards, orange sheldrakes, and storks dotted the lake waters in the winter.
Conversation at the village square invariably oppressed and filled him with foreboding. The men spoke of ghosts and churails (spirits) that lived in the lake and assumed varied forms – especially of young beautiful women - who could, and often did, lure unmarried men and overcome them. The men in a state of ecstasy followed them into the water and were sucked under. It was believed that if a person spoke (even once) to these churails or acknowledged their greetings they would be hypnotically attracted and have no power against their bewitchment.
The story had an electric affect on Talsar: a man with a vivid imagination - he was thoroughly rattled, and showed it - much to the amusement of the village folk.
“Look at their feet,” Talsar was told, “if they are Churails their feet will point backwards, that’s how you can tell.”
Talsar would surreptitiously look at the feet of the village girls when he ‘made eyes’ at them or engaged them in conversation. The girls caught on to this and would wear long skirts that hid their feet, leaving Talsar floundering in confusion.
Talsar made certain he was home well before dark. He cooked his meals over a kerosene stove and locked himself securely in his room. No amount of knocking or calling out his name induced him to open the door; he had heard churails could speak in the voice of acquaintances and friends.
Village youngsters occasionally trekked up to Talsar’s cabin at night and threw stones on the galvanized tin roof to frighten him. They would call out his name and threaten him with dire consequences if he did not open the door. Next morning Talsar told the village elders of the episode and how the churails had tried to get him to open the door.
Talsar became the butt of all jokes and an object of fun and entertainment. Of course, Talsar had no idea that his ‘leg was being pulled’ and defended himself with indignation.
Innocence has its own attraction, and so innocent love visited his lonely and disturbed life.
She was the daughter of a woodcutter who drank too much and was often in fights. He had no permanent work and depended on Talsar to pick him to the ‘weekly work gang’ for odd jobs in the forest. He was paid at the end of the week and future work depended on whether he was picked the following Monday.
Gauri, a young, nubile, elf-like girl was this wood cutters daughter who helped at home, working on their small plot of land behind the house, and looked after the livestock. She was pretty, quick-witted, and full of fun and laughter. It was her last year at school after which the family would look for a suitable boy for her to wed.
Talsar noticed her when he first came to the village. She teased him about the churails and was the one to wear long dresses that covered her feet. To tease him she would look at him with a strange fixed stare that left Talsar completely nonplussed and scared. The small hairs on the back of his neck rose and he got very agitated. Gauri would burst out laughing and raise her skirt to show him her feet. In time she felt sorry for him and realized that his plight was real - he really was petrified of ghosts and spirits.
A bond grew between the two young people; she saw how gullible and simple he was and sided and protected him when she felt the churail stories were frightening him. She did her best to assure him that these were only stories and that no one in the village had seen any churails, but Talsar was cynical, “No one has seen God, that doesn’t mean he is not there!”
The festival season was a difficult time for him. Small theatrical groups (nautanki’s) arrived at the village and put on shows that lasted well past midnight. Only if someone offered a bed to Talsar for the night, would he stay back and enjoy the dancing and singing. The lack of such an offer would see him make his way back to his ‘quarters’ before dark. The disappointed look in Gauri’s eyes squeezed his heart, but no one knew the terror churails held for him.
At times when he did attend these festivities, he would sit so he could glance casually at the ‘women's section’ to espy Gauri and watch the light in her eyes that always brought a catch to his throat. Their glances locked and held for lingering stolen moments.
Talsar was not aware that his surreptitious p
eeks had been noticed by the gathering. They smiled behind their hands and jostled to give Talsar a seat that gave him a clear view of Gauri. Talsar thanked fate for this consideration, unaware that his friends engineered his good luck.
He considered approaching Gauri’s father by yearend to ask for her hand. That would save the father from having to look for a suitable boy and Talsar, on his part, would promise to do his best to enroll him in the forest rolls as a permanent worker – thus ensuring for him a regular assured income.
The day Talsar was fished out of the lake started as any ordinary day.
Talsar cooked an early breakfast and walked down the path skirting the lake heading to the village and then on to the forest - his work place. Talsar spent all day at work there, supervising road repairs and ‘fire line’ cutting. He usually had a snack lunch in the late afternoons and continued work until 5 pm. That day he had not carried his lunch with him. This was not unusual as often when work was close to the village he preferred to walk back to his billet for a short lunch. That day too, he took the road skirting the lake, but on his way he saw Gauri collecting firewood in the green belt between the road and the lake. His heart leaped with pleasure; he would steal a moment to chat with her before proceeding further. He scrambled down the slope to meet her. She smiled bewitchingly and backed off.
She is playing games with me thought Talsar and lengthened his stride. Villagers grazing their cattle saw Talsar scramble down the slope and wondered at it. Perhaps he had gone to relieve himself – but they had glimpsed his face and he was grinning broadly. Now why should he be grinning so, they wondered, ambling towards the spot. On reaching the area they could not see him, it was only a narrow piece of land between the lake and the road and yet he was nowhere to be seen. They put it out of their minds thinking he must be behind a bush until one of them pointed to ripples in the lake.
Realization hit them then and they rushed down into the lake waters. A short search and the body was found and dragged out. They laid the body on the damp ground and pumped his chest in a form of resuscitation. Fortunately Talsar regained consciousness and looked around incomprehensibly. He was lifted and with two men supporting him taken to the village dispensary.
There he lay in a cot with two men rubbing hot oil into the soles of his feet and the palms of his hands. He slowly lost his stricken look and a warm glass of milk brought color back to his cheeks.
A small crowd, gathered outside, was eager to hear Talsar's story and strained their necks through the open window to hear every word he said. After a lot of prodding and persuading by the local doctor, Talsar, in a slow wavering voice told them how Gauri had lured him into the lake. She had smiled at him whilst all the time beckoning him to come to her.
“But, didn’t you see her feet?” someone asked
“I did,” said Talsar in a week voice. “They were normal, the right way round!”
The Morning After
Sam had lost his job as a fruit sorter at the wholesale fruit market.
He wasn’t paid a duchess’ dowry, but enough to fetch him two square meals, a twist of tobacco, and a bottle of the local hooch every day
He shared his digs with two other mates; they too did off-line sub minimal jobs. But, sheez! They still had their jobs, didn’t they? And it put food in their stomachs. Sam didn’t give up his bunk; his mates had chipped in to keep the rental on his billet valid. Sam was grateful- flee ridden it might be, but it was still ‘home sweet home’!
He was procuring the odd few jobs: cleaning out the trashcan containing rotting fish entrails (phew!), swabbing down trawler decks… any thing that paid money was welcome. Sam was under forty with a body that was lean wiry and strong; he could ‘work a horse off its hind legs’ they said.
These days he couldn’t afford a drink (bloody disaster!) so the evenings stretched out long and slow. He got to thinking – he had plenty of time to do that now – he’d have to get his life back on track, enough of wallowing in this ‘self-pity’ stuff. He thought of his better days: his courtship and marriage, the days he held down a good job (those were the days, huh?). He was loath to think of the break up of his marriage and his slow spiral into drunken squalor.
Denise was sweet and innocent - they all were that way in the beginning- her good looks turned many a head and that was his undoing. Her dazzling smile charmed all; he would walk down the street proudly with her on his arm and all would tip their hats to her. He loved her, man, honest he did!
Frank, his immediate boss, suave, slick talking, and well turned-out, took a g’dam hankering after them, always around he was, feeding them at expensive joints, entertaining them, giving them gifts, and taking them out for spins in his sports coupe (Sam would have to squeeze and huddle into the space behind the two seats – damned uncomfortable it was). Sam could not understand why Frank was being so ‘goody, goody’ to them. Not until one rainy afternoon when he caught Frank and Denise in his own bloody bed! Then he understood. Yeah, he did too! And his temper exploded. He kicked Frank’s bare ass out the front door into the pelting rain.
“Please, Sam, give me my clothes,” Frank begged. “Don’t throw me out stark naked on the street; think of your job, Sam.”
But Sam had laughed and slammed the door in his face, “suffer, you f------g cur!” he yelled through the door.
Sam swung around his anger assuaged. His wife, his sweet darling wife, got out from under the blanket: slim and lovely, stark nude, her breasts firm; she stood with arms akimbo in front of him. “You want to throw me out too?” she jeered, facing him defiantly. And then he saw her eyes, the look pierced his heart: the loathing and contempt were smoldering there. He gulped, stumbled, and shot through into the rain himself, desperate to get away.
Them were far off days, man; dimmed in memory with alcohol that had softened and driven away the pain. Now with his mind clearing, the memory was stark again, and he felt a stab of despair at having let his life slide into such intoxicated insouciance. She hadn’t done it; he had done it to himself. He determined to set his life back in order again. And with that decision he felt his resolve beginning to assert itself. He was working night shifts too now and was able to save a little something every day. He’d have to get out of this rut; do something dignified, and he did: with sheer guts and determination.