M ajor Longwood felt good as he settled down into the easy chair of the resthouse at Kaithu: he had managed to escape the blistering Calcutta summer. This was his third trip to Simla in the last two years since he had come from England. Calcutta was his headquarters; he was allowed sick leave once a year, in addition to the annual one month's leave. Being a well-planned man, he only fell ill in the summer, never in winter when the Calcutta weather was tolerable. This time, he had been given two weeks for recuperation and rest.
Longwood found the general atmosphere and climate in Simla similar to that of England, and that was the main reason he preferred it to any other hill station. He was particularly fond of this resthouse too. Most of the resthouses in Simla were located on the spur at vantage points, but this one was further down the hill. It was a comfortable double-storey house with half a dozen outhouses attached to it.
'Would you like to have some tea, sahib?' Birbal the cook asked him.
'No Birbal, come sit down,' Longwood said, pointing to the stairs on which the cook sat whenever he wanted to chat with him. 'Tell me, how have the last few months been?' he asked.
Three cooks and about a dozen servants were employed to take care of the guest house which was normally occupied the whole year around, except winters. On his first visit, the Major had struck a cordial and affectionate relationship with Birbal, who was nearly sixty-five years old.
'They went fine sahib! All days go fine,' Birbal said in his philosophical tone. Longwood laughed loudly slapping his thigh, 'Knowing you, I should have known the answer beforehand,' he said.
'Was it very hot in Calcutta, sahib?'
'Yes, very hot. What will you know about that weather Birbal? You have never gone out of this town of yours. Anyway, tell me what has gone on in the last six-seven months since my last visit.'
At Simla, as almost everywhere in India, the locals knew everything that the Britishers did, and they readily communicated their knowledge to their European sahibs.
'Nothing much, sahib. I am always busy here catering to other big sahibs. What will I know of the fashionable world?' he said respectfully.
'No, I mean the scandals, the rumours, the stories that went around. You have been watching us people for the last many decades. So you know our inner and outer lives,' Longwood said jovially.
Birbal smiled in his innocent way and shook his head, 'I don't know anything sahib. Lots of big sahibs like you came and went. Their memsahibs, so fair and colourful, chattered around like summer flowers. They went out in the mornings and came back late in the evenings.'
'You are a scoundrel, I will ask the other chap. What is his name…Ramu? Yes Ramu. He will give me a better and more detailed picture!' Longwood joked.
For the next few minutes both of them sat in companionable silence, looking out at the serene forest.
'There was one incident, sahib. However, no one could make head or tail out of it.'
'Well you can tell me all about it later. I forgot I have to meet a friend at the Mall. Will you bring me that cup of tea now please?' Longwood said.
It was after nearly eleven that night that the Major settled down with a book in his bed. It had been a hectic day. The excursion to the Mall had been as entertaining as he had expected. However, the heavy dinner with that extra helping of caramel custard, which his hostess had forced on him, had made him feel bloated. He had skipped the cup of tea that he usually had after dinner.
Yawning, Longwood put the book aside, he had read enough. Switching off the table lamp, he adjusted the quilt around him, tucking it in from all sides.
But deep sleep evaded him. Through the night he had dreams about a girl, a fair pretty local girl, who kept on crying and moaning without saying a word. He woke up three or four times in the night with an overwhelming feeling of sadness.
In the morning, the feeling of grief stayed with him and he didn't feel like going out. He spent the whole day reading and dozing.
'Are you not feeling well, sahib?' Birbal asked respectfully when he brought the Major his after-dinner tea.
'I don't know Birbal. Nothing physically wrong with me, but I've been feeling very sad since morning,' he said.
'Something the trouble sahib?' Birbal asked, in a worried tone.
'No, no. Never mind, forget it,' Longwood said. After all, he himself could not understand why he was feeling this way. He had had a light dinner and despite Birbal's efforts to make him taste the dessert, he did not do so.
'Bring my cup of morning tea at five, please Birbal. All this lying low has made me lethargic. I'll go for a jog tomorrow,' he said.
After Birbal left, he read for an hour disinterestedly and then decided to sleep. He had switched off all the three lights in the room and was about to switch off the table lamp when he saw, in front of him, the outlines of a figure taking shape. He rubbed his eyes thinking it was a trick of the light, but no, a figure was definitely forming in front of him—it was getting clearer every second. In a minute, a girl who looked around sixteen was standing in front of him.
Oddly enough, Longwood did not feel any fear or terror.
'Who are you?' he asked, the incongruity of the situation not escaping him.
'I am Manju's spirit.' She had not spoken, but he understood.
Spirit! She was a ghost! Longwood thought, as he got up from his bed.
'I want you to take revenge for my murder,' the girl said.
'Murder? What are you talking about?'
'I was killed two months ago. I want you to take revenge.'
'Look, I don't know why you've come to me. If you are a spirit, as you say you are, why don't you take revenge yourself? You must possess more powers than me!'
Was he really talking to a spirit? Or was he dreaming? And then it struck him! The girl in his dream the previous night and the one standing before him now were the same! How could this be? And why wasn't he feeing scared or frightened.
'I have seen you before, I saw you in my dream yesterday!' he blurted out.
'Yes, I came in your dream. You have to help me sahib, you have to punish the guilty,' she said.
'Well…why don't you tell me your story. I'll decide after I hear it,' he said.
She was the daughter of a milkman, the girl said, and her marriage had been fixed with a boy in the adjoining village. Sometimes her father sent her to the resthouse with their daily supply of milk. About two months back, when she came to leave the milk ration as usual, an Englishman stopped her near the kitchen. He pressed himself on her. Frightened, she tried to escape from him, but he was too strong for her. She bit him hard on his right arm, but he did not let go. He dragged, and then carried her to his room, where he threw her on the bed. She opened her mouth to scream when a pillow was stuffed on her face and that is how she breathed her last.
Longwood was quiet for sometime.
'What happened to your body? What did he do with it?' he asked, not sure what to think yet of the entire story.
'He buried it.'
'Buried it! Where did he bury it? And no one saw him doing it?' he asked incredulously.
'He buried it in the bathroom, underneath the bath tub.'
'But…but how did he do that alone?'
'The bath tub was yet to be installed, sahib. He covered me with sand and cement and placed the tub on top. He supervised when the tub was being cemented permanently.'
Longwood stared at the figure. Was it the truth?
'You believe me, sahib, don't you?' she asked sadly.
'I just don't know why you aren't taking revenge of your murder yourself. I have heard that spirits do that,' he said lamely.
'It is not only revenge I want, it is justice. My disappearance has brought shame on my family, sahib. I want everyone—my father, the villagers, my fiancé—to know that I was murdered. I want my murderer to face trial and be punished for what he did to me,' she finished with dignity.
Longwood looked at the trembling figure and knew that she was telling the truth.
'Who was your murderer?'
'Your junior sahib, Michael Saab.'
'Michael!' Longwood said, startled.
Michael, the nineteen-year-old boy who had just come from England. He had committed this gruesome crime? When had he come to Shimla? Busy with his thoughts he did not notice when the figure of the girl disappeared. 'Hey, where did you go?' he called out to the empty room. 'This is too much!' he said loudly, and then he remembered—she was right, he had granted Michael two weeks' leave around two months back.
He had another sleepless night. When Birbal came with his tea early the next morning, Longwood related the incident to him. 'Oh, that is what I was going to tell you the day you came sahib,' Birbal said. 'The milkman's daughter disappeared suddenly—everyone thought she had run away.'
Over the next thirteen days, Longwood tried to get some action taken in the case. He lodged an FIR in the Boileauganj Police Station and filed a case in court. At night, Manju's spirit would appear before him and he would discuss the case with her.
When the case came up for evidence, he told the shocked judge that the spirit of the victim would come and give her evidence as there was no witness to the murder apart from herself. And, as Longwood said she would, the spirit did come into the judge's chamber and recited exactly what had happened with her to the astonished judge. Later that day, the bath tub was removed and Manju's decomposed body was found underneath. Michael broke down and confessed to his crime.
This building, along with the outhouses, was dismantled a decade back. There is a Trishul and a small Shiv Temple near the site now.