I shall always remember that magical summer in Shillong, when my cousins and I spent our summer vacations at the old collector’s bungalow.
It was a house we came to love, with its many nooks and corners that held several secrets. For a week, we occupied ourselves exploring Shillong’s many limestone caves, criss-crossed by burbling brooks even as Bahadur, the old watchman, kept an eye on us.
One evening, I saw Bahadur sitting by himself on the lawn in front of the bungalow. A faraway look in his eyes made me suddenly ask him, “Why does everyone call you Bahadur?” For he did not look like a Gurkha. His eyes gleamed behind his thick glasses and he stood tall for his age. But he laughed and didn’t reply.
We sat together in silence. Then Bahadur turned to me and asked, “Would you like to hear a ghost story?”
I jumped up, all excited, and called the others around. We sat spellbound, mouths agape, listening to Bahadur’s deep voice narrate the story of the ayah’s ghost that haunted the corridors of the collector’s bungalow.
It all began during World War II, when rumours of a Japanese invasion spread like wildfire through the town. The occupants of the bungalow were sure they were safe because there were secret passages and underground shelters built into it. At a moment’s notice, everyone could plunge in through the trapdoors and lose themselves deep in the mountain recesses to escape the enemy.
One winter, the alarm was sounded. Everyone climbed hurriedly down the trapdoors and into the secret chambers. But it turned out to be a false scare. A group of straggling INA soldiers, war-weary and hungry, had been mistaken for the Japanese! Only when the shame-faced laughter had died away, did everyone realise that the collector’s five-year-old son and his ayah were missing.
A massive manhunt was launched. For more than a week, they searched, but the ayah and her young charge were nowhere to be found. The grief-stricken collector retired prematurely and left with his wife for England. The house closed in on itself. The trapdoors were boarded up. The occasional occupants of the bungalow would tell tales of hearing someone screaming, the pitter-patter of running feet and of the sounds of gently-dripping water. No one tarried long.
That night, we cowered in our beds, the sheets pulled up over our heads. Sleep eluded us, as our imagination ran wild. We heard the soft plop of tears falling from a woman’s cheeks, the faint scream of someone trapped far below ground. And the loud drumming noise of someone running to find a safer place.
Next morning, we felt braver and with Bahadur’s help, located the trapdoor in the old library. We were armed with ropes, torches and pocket knives. The trapdoor gave way after a few big heaves and we found ourselves looking down a stairway. Then things happened suddenly. A gust of wind blew into the library and we heard a weird screech. Something musty and black whooshed over our heads and flew around the library. “Bats!” we cried in sudden understanding.
We were disappointed that the mystery had such a tame explanation. Later that afternoon, Bahadur came up to me and said, “Don’t you think there’s something left unanswered?”
I looked bewildered and he explained, “There must be an opening in the mountains on the other side, through which the wind entered, don’t you see?”
We set off together, Bahadur and I, to find that unknown opening. After we had climbed a while, we came to a huge boulder. Bahadur heaved it aside, and we looked into a narrow cave, barely a metre wide.
“Come now,” said Bahadur and taking me by the hand, led me inside. Every so often he would stop and listen, as if straining to catch a familiar sound. All of a sudden, he began running. He had heard something. I struggled to keep up. Soon I could hear it too — the sound of water falling drop by drop onto hard ground.
We came to a stop. I gasped for breath as I looked around the cavernous hall, its domed ceiling and floors lit up by thousands of glittering limestone pillars. Stalactites! Then Bahadur pointed at something. Amidst the pillars, sat a woman, her face hidden beneath the thick folds of her saree. Her chin was cupped in her hand. The tears flowing from her cheeks ran down to form a deep puddle below. She was just as I had imagined the ayah to be. Only what we were looking at was not a woman but a stalactite, a piece of limestone, delicately crafted by nature.
“I knew I would find Ayah someday,” said Bahadur softly. “I have looked for her ever since I got lost in the mountains.” Then he swung me high into the air, laughing. As I looked down, I noticed that the collector’s son had the most intense blue eyes I had ever seen.
