The Bunglow : A Shillong Ghost Story
Dr. Saumya Shankar Chowdhury presents a Shillong ghost story set in 1950. Discover Rathin, a new herbarium assistant, and the terrifying secret hidden in his dilapidated, rain-soaked bungalow.
Climbing the steps to the dilapidated bungalow atop the hillock, Rathin looked mesmerised at the fireflies blinking at him with tiny eyes. The gentle illumination created a surreal atmosphere, almost out of a Salvador Dali painting. Sometimes nature could surprise you in mysterious ways. There were enough reasons to love this Hill Town. His job as an herbarium assistant in the Botanical Survey of India in Shillong, at a princely monthly salary of three hundred rupees had just begun. An Intermediate or 12th standard qualification was sufficient for the job. Rathin was a science graduate from Calcutta University and was seemingly overqualified for the job.
Shillong, the capital of Assam, was new to him. The Earthquake of 1950 had devastating consequences in some parts of the state. Yet Shillong seemed to have escaped unscathed. Quaint cottages with small gardens, neatly trimmed hedges, orange and pear trees with juicy fruits in full bloom, were few of the quintessential traits which adorned the picturesque hill town.
Rathin had always wanted a place of his own, refusing to share lodgings or put up with meddlesome relatives. He searched for a suitable place in Laitumkhrah, which was a walking distance from his office and was happy to discover the old bungalow. The office was down the hill, at the bottom of a steep incline.
His duties entailed him to preserve specimens of rare species of plants collected by Botanists all over the region as prescribed by international standards. During the recess, it took all off twelve minutes for him to walk to the house atop the hillock near the bus stand in Laitumkhrah. He would gobble the food, which he himself prepared in the mornings before he left for office. It usually consisted of a coarse fare of rice with lentils and vegetables and occasionally a piece of fried fish.
Back in office, he would spend the rest of the afternoon in the herbarium, labelling the various collected specimens till closing time, till his eyes would smart from the fumes of formalin, used liberally as a preservative.
Weekends were holidays and he would take long walks by the Wards lake or carry a book to read, lying on the on a grassy knoll by the Golf Links. He would catch the latest movie in Bijou on alternate Sundays in Police Bazar and would trudge lazily to his quarters, after a satiating Chinese meal of noodles and soup in Hong Kong Restaurant, a luxury even by his high standards. Back in his lodgings, he would be lost in the latest edition of the Bengali Magazine, Desh, occasionally dozing off with the article or story unfinished, the magazine resting on his hairy chest, gently rising and falling with the rhythmic breathing movements. On other days, he would keep himself engrossed with collections of ghost stories which he borrowed from the library in Nongrim Hills. The gentle whisper of the pines on windy evenings would add to the charm of reading a ghostly tale in Shillong.
That day was no different in his weekday routine except for the fact it was raining heavily. The downpour was so severe that he couldn’t walk to his humble rooms during the lunch recess. He had a cup of tea and a stale cake in the canteen. The rains wouldn’t relent, even for a second, till late evening. The road was slippery and he walked uphill with great care. For eight annas, one could get a black and yellow taxi to Laitumkhrah point on normal days. He tried flagging down a couple, but they wouldn’t take him for less than a rupee. He was yet to receive his first salary and had just enough to get by for a week or two. Government formalities took time for your first salary, he would console himself and it would be the recurring narrative for the next loan of ten rupees from a well to do relative in Lachumiere.
Rathin walked back to his home atop the hill but by the time he reached, it was already 8 O’ clock. There were not many streetlights in the area and it was pitch dark.
The rain had stopped and for the first time after landing in Shillong, did he see fireflies. There was hunger in his stomach and he would have to warm the food in the kerosene stove. He had prepared lentils with the last of the potatoes that morning. He made a mental note to pick some summer squash or chayote, a popular edible vegetable growing in abundance in the landlady’s garden.
The bungalow was actually a stand-alone house which had seen better days. The wooden floorboards needed repairing, as did the patchy ceiling and the washrooms. The landlady promised repairs after Christmas. She was happy to let out the couple of rooms which were in liveable conditions, for fifty rupees a month. The rent was considerably lower than the average house in Laitumkhrah. Rathin bargained for thirty and she agreed. It was a good deal, in spite of the ruins.
Rathin had grown to like the place, secluded from the hustle bustle of the busy street below. But all was not well inside the bungalow. A corner of the kitchen had an overhanging beam, which tilted dangerously to one side, threatening to fall any time. It would not let him cook in peace on the kerosene stove. He would anxiously look up from time to time with the perpetual fear that the beam would fall the next minute.
Rathin remembered Robert Frost’s ‘Stopping By The Woods On a Snowy Evening’ while climbing the steps to the bungalow in the dark. But like the poet, he too couldn’t afford to waste time to stop and admire nature at its best, his moment of joy interrupted by the landlady’s crisp voice,
‘Ah! There you are. It has been quite a downpour you know’, she had a sad tinge to her otherwise cheerful disposition. The landlady was a retired teacher from a prestigious boarding school in Darjeeling. Rathin marvelled at her diction and vocabulary. Pointing towards the house, she said,
‘Young man! I took the liberty to inspect the rooms for repair. I want to replace the beam. Please shift your kitchen temporarily to the storeroom if you wish to’, she said in a voice that was quivering, yet firm. Rathin simply nodded. He couldn’t converse with her in English with the same fluency. He knew no Khasi and even Hindi was alien to him.
‘Your kitchen was damaged in the rains this afternoon, but the bedroom was spared. Come and share my food. There is no electricity. I will lend you a spare lantern’, saying this, the landlady seemed to vanish into the mist. Rathin felt a slight shiver down the spine. ‘Do come! I shall be waiting for you, young man!’, the shiver subsided a little as he heard the voice again.
Back in his rooms, he managed to light a near end- of- life candle and removed his wet clothes, shoes and socks. After the ablutions, he changed into dry clothes. In the flickering candle light, he decided against visiting the kitchen.
Draping a shawl around his shoulders and putting on a pair of slippers, he slowly walked down to the landlady’ s house.
The door to her kitchen was open and he could see the old lady bending over, fetching a plate of rice. He had earlier squirmed at the thought of having food in her kitchen where they cooked and consumed meat, both acts considered sacrilegious in his village. But he was too hungry to care.
He sat on the bench near the ‘chulha’, the fire from the clay stove providing heavenly warmth on a dark and cold evening.
‘Please don’t hesitate. Have your fill’,
the voice seemed to come from the adjacent room.
The meal was cold. But Rathin was frightfully hungry and devoured the simple fare of rice, pulses and a small slice of fried fish. The landlady had kept a tumbler of warm water on the table to drink. It felt good to gulp the warm liquid after the simple yet filling dinner.
‘I am going to sleep. Please close the door after you. Good night!’, The voice sounded in pain. Rathin didn’t give it a thought, and mumbled inaudible words of thanks.
It had started to rain heavily by then. He dimmed the lantern.
He was sure he had finished the plate of rice but on the kitchen sink he noticed a full plate of rice with pulses and vegetables, similar to the stuff he dished out in the morning.
Rathin ran up the steps to the bungalow. He changed into dry clothes and snuggled inside the damp quilt.
He slept till late morning, waking up to knocks on his door. A carpenter and a couple of labourers accompanied by the landlady’s daughter crowded the verandah.
‘So sorry! What a terrible tragedy. We left for the village last evening. They were supposed to repair the beam yesterday but couldn’t come due to the rains. If only mother wouldn’t have come here….’, she was sniffing by then, the unfinished sentence causing a mild unpleasant sensation in Rathin’s heart.
What was she saying? The haze of sleep was clouding his thoughts. Rathin decided to boil water for tea.
He went to the kitchen but had to take a step backwards. The heavy beam of wood had fallen and was lying on the floor. It was a mess. A plate of rice was on the floor, unfinished and with distinct stains of lentils, visible on the floor.
Rathin walked out to the Verandah and checked the letter box. The morning’s copy of the ‘The Shillong Times’ was there. As the kettle was boiling, he glanced at the headlines. It was the usual political stuff. Something on the front page caught his eye. On the left-hand column there was a small news item. It didn’t make sense. The print stared back at him-
RAINS CAUSE DEATH IN SHILLONG-
A retired teacher died in a freak accident in Laitumkhrah as an overhead wooden beam collapsed on her…
Rathin was stunned to react even as he heard the daughter saying,
‘The funeral is today evening in our village church in Mylliem. Please do come if you can. Meanwhile, please allow them to start the repairs,’ she continued in a voice full of sorrow,
‘She came up to close the windows in your bedroom. She entered the kitchen. The beam collapsed on her. Seems she died instantly.’ Saying these words haltingly, she left, leaving a dazed Rathin on the verandah. The carpenters got to work. The kettle was letting off steam furiously.
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