A Season of Ghosts Read online

  The raja promised most solemnly to do as she directed, and summoning the prince, said, ‘My brave young captain, go at once and fetch the singing water, the vanaspati rice and news of the queen’s relatives. Hurry, if you value your life, and return as soon as possible. And take this letter from the queen to her father.’

  The prince innocently set out for the city of the queen’s relatives, who were none other than the rakshasas. He travelled on horseback until he reached the seven hills covered by dense forest. From that point he had to continue on foot.

  He had not gone far when he found a tiger in his way. It was a fierce-looking tiger, and as it hadn’t killed any game for a day or two, it was in a bad temper. But the prince knew how to deal with this lord of the forest, and stepping up to him, said, ‘Good day, uncle, how are you?’ For he knew that the secret of survival in the forest is to address a tiger—or any other hostile creature, animal or human—as ‘uncle’ or ‘aunt’; it instantly disarms them.

  When the tiger realized the stranger was his nephew, he was a little confused. Greeting the prince gruffly, he moved off into the forest. A little further on, the prince met an elephant, whom he addressed as ‘aunt’, and a cobra, whom he saluted as ‘cousin’. He met a number of wild animals, and by establishing close kinship with all of them, passed unharmed through the forest. On emerging into the foothills, he came across a small thatched hut.

  Here the prince found a yogi immersed in a trance. When the yogi opened his eyes, the prince prostrated himself before him and said, ‘O wise one, help me in my quest. Tell me where I can find the singing water, the vanaspati rice and the relatives of the queen. Where is the person to whom this letter is addressed?’

  The yogi asked the prince to rest with him that night. While the traveller slept, he removed the letter from his coat, and breaking the seal, read it by the light of the dhuni, the perpetual fire which burned before him. The letter went:

  Dear Brother,

  As soon as you see the bearer of this letter, kill and devour him.

  Your affectionate sister,

  The Goat Rakshasi

  The yogi burned this letter, and taking up pen, ink and palm leaf paper, wrote the following:

  Dear Brother,

  The bearer of this letter is my son. Treat him well, and send through him the singing water and the vanaspati rice.

  Your affectionate sister,

  The Goat Rakshasi

  In the morning, unaware of the change of letters, the prince set out again on his journey. But the yogi warned him that he was now in rakshasa country.

  ‘If you succeed in your enterprise,’ advised the yogi, ‘do not leave behind a single bone which you may find in the palace, but bring them all away.’

  The prince finally reached the palace of the rakshasas—the same palace which had been visited by the seven goldsmiths. The rakshasa chief, on reading his sister’s letter, embraced the prince with affection, and introduced him to all his other rakshasa relatives before handing him over to the care of his old mother.

  The prince soon gained the confidence of the old lady, and one day he asked her, ‘Nani, show me the wonders of this palace. I wish to know the secrets of your life and death. Nani, I love both you and uncle so much that I dread anything bad might happen to you.’

  ‘Do not be afraid on our account,’ said the old woman. ‘We, the race of rakshasas, bear charmed lives. We fear no death. Come with me, and I will show you what I mean.’

  She took the prince into the large Hall of Life where innumerable birds were kept in cages: parrots, peacocks, pigeons, sparrows, woodpeckers, flycatchers and many others.

  The old rakshasa woman said, ‘Prince, these birds are our lives. As long as they live, we live. When they die, we die. You see, they are protected with great care and cannot be injured by anybody. That myna is my life, that crow is your uncle’s, and that peahen is your mother the queen’s!’

  Then the prince asked, ‘Nani, where are the singing water and the vanaspati rice?’

  The old woman took him into another room and showed him a bottle of a clear limpid liquid. When she opened the bottle, there flowed out of it the most enchanting music.

  ‘This,’ she said, ‘is the singing water.’ And then taking him into the garden, she showed him a very tall tree and said, ‘This is the tree of vanaspati rice.’

  The prince was shown other rooms, some of them full of gold and precious stones. He also saw the room in which the bones of all those persons who had been devoured by the rakshasas were kept. Then one day, when the rakshasas had all gone to a neighbour’s wedding feast, the prince decided the time to act had come. Entering the Hall of Life, and taking hold of the birds one at a time, he began to kill them by wringing their necks. He did not, however, take the life of the peahen, but took this bird with him.

  The bodies of the broken-necked rakshasa people

  Y The Rakshasas Z

  made a huge pile outside the palace gates. And the prince took the bottle of singing water and a branch of the tree of vanaspati rice, and tying the bones of the dead humans in a bundle, left the palace and in due course reached the hut of the yogi.

  The yogi sprinkled some of the singing water on the bones of the victims, and brought them back to life. Amongst them were the six goldsmiths. They rejoiced greatly when they saw the yogi for they recognized the seventh goldsmith. He told them how he had escaped from the clutches of the rakshasa goat, and how he had performed austerities to gain the power to save his friends. The yogi also revealed to the prince the true history of the queen, and suggested that they proceed together to the raja’s palace to expose her.

  Accompanied by the seven goldsmiths and bearing the singing water, the vanaspati rice and the peahen, the prince entered the forest again. He met his relatives, the tiger, the elephant and the cobra, and each of them presented him with one of their offspring. Then, accompanied by his nowlarge retinue, he finally entered the raja’s city.

  Assuming the garb of jugglers, the prince and the goldsmiths went to the Hall of Audience and announced that they would perform a wonderful magic-play called the ‘The Rakshasas Unveiled’. The raja and a great assembly gathered to watch the performance. The prince moved fearlessly amongst his strange collection of wild animals, and when he played on a flute, the animals began dancing in a circle round him. He then planted the branch of vanaspati rice, and it immediately grew into a tall tree, and cooked rice of the sweetest flavour rained down upon the spectators, who declared later that they had never tasted anything like it. Then he dug a large tank, and threw the bottle of singing water into it. Music filled the halls of the palace.

  The performance lasted several hours, and at the end of it the prince said, ‘Now we are going to show you our last and most wonderful act—the dance of the peahen!’ He let the bird out of its cage and began to play on his flute.

  As soon as the bird began dancing, the rakshasa queen ran out from the audience and began to dance before the whole assembly. The raja was horrified, but he held his peace. Then the prince broke one leg of the peahen, and behold! one leg of the rakshasa queen was broken too. The peahen continued dancing on one leg, and so did the queen. The prince then pulled out one of the bird’s wings, and as a result, the queen lost an arm; but the dance continued. Finally the prince broke the neck of the bird, and the queen, uttering a loud shriek, resumed her original shape of a forty-yardlong rakshasi, and fell dead on the spot.

  The next scene was still more wonderful. The seven goldsmiths came forward with the seven banished queens—and their sons! The children they had eaten in the cave had been brought back to life by the singing water.

  ‘And so,’ concluded Bibiji in her matter-of-fact way, ‘everyone lived happily ever after—except for the poor raja who was forced by his ministers to put an end to his hobby of collecting queens.’

  Who Killed the Rani?

  I

  I MET INSPECTOR Keemat Lal a few years ago, when I was living in the hot dusty town of Shahpur in the plains of northern India. My grandfather had owned a house and some land on the outskirts of the town. After his death, this property had been left to me; but as it now had very little value and the town had no attractions for me, I was anxious to sell it. The mild interest that a couple of local property dealers had shown made me decide to remain in Shahpur for a few months.

  Keemat Lal was the inspector in charge of the local police station. He was heavily-built, slow and rather ponderous, and inclined to be lazy. But, like most lazy people, he was intelligent. He was also a failure. He had remained an inspector for a number of years, and had given up all hope of further promotion. His luck was against him, he said. He should never have been a policeman. He had been born under the sign of Capricorn, and ought really to have gone into the restaurant business. But it was too late to do anything about it.

  The Inspector and I had very little in common. He was about forty-five, and I was thirty. I was a writer of sorts. He seldom read books, and wasn’t interested in mine. But, like most rural children, he had been brought up on folk tales and macabre fantasies, and he liked telling a good story as much as he enjoyed hearing one.

  Both of us spoke English, and in Shahpur there were not many people who did. In addition, we were both heavy consumers of beer. There were no places of entertainment in the town. The searing heat, the dust that came whirling up from the east, the mosquitoes—as numerous as the flies—and the general monotony, gave one a thirst for something more substantial than stale lemonade.

  Shahpur was under partial prohibition, which meant that you could not drink in restaurants or public places, only in the privacy of your own home. This put Keemat Lal in a difficult position. His wife was totally opposed to his imbibing alcohol, and refused to let him bring any into the house. And, as an inspector of police, it would not have been very wise of him to be seen drinking in the houses of friends or acquaintances, most of whom were local councillors or businessmen, who were frequently involved in litigation. So he turned instead to me—an outsider, a person with no particular attachment to Shahpur, and no involvement in local intrigue.

  An added advantage was that my house was on the outskirts of the town, where he would not be disturbed easily. Two or three evenings each week, just as the sun was going down and making it possible for one to emerge from the khas-cooled confines of a dark high-ceilinged bedroom, he would appear on my veranda steps, mopping the sweat from his face with a small towel which he used instead of a handkerchief. And I, having bathed for the second time that day, would get into a clean shirt and join him on the veranda. My only servant, excited at the prospect of serving an inspector of police, would hurry out with glasses, a bucket of ice and several bottles of Golden Eagle beer.

  One evening, when he had overtaken a fourth Golden Eagle, I said, ‘You must have had some interesting cases in your career, Inspector.’

  ‘Most of them were dull ones, Mr Bond,’ he said. ‘My successful cases were dull. The sensational ones went unsolved—otherwise I might have been a superintendent by now. I suppose you are talking of murder cases, being a writer. Do you remember the shooting of the minister of the interior? I was on that one, but it was a political murder, and we never solved it.’

  ‘Tell me about a case you solved,’ I said. ‘An interesting one.’ And when I saw him looking uncomfortable, I added, ‘You don’t have to worry, Inspector, I’m a very discreet person—in spite of all the beer I consume.’

  ‘But how can you be discreet? You are a writer.’

  I protested against this. ‘Writers are usually very discreet. They always change the names of people and places.’

  He smiled sardonically. ‘And how would you describe me, if you were to put me into a book?’

  ‘Oh, I’d leave you as you are,’ I said. ‘No one would believe in you anyway.’

  He laughed indulgently and poured out more beer. ‘I suppose I can change names too… I will tell you about a very interesting case. The victim was an unusual person, and so was the murderer. It is usually the nature or character of the victim that brings about his or her demise. The murderers are often colourless individuals, driven by greed, jealousy or revenge. But you must promise not to repeat the story to anyone.’

  ‘I promise,’ I lied.

  ‘Do you know Mussoorie?’

  ‘The hill station? Yes, I lived there as a boy. I remember the place quite well.’

  ‘Good. This happened about three years ago, shortly after I had been stationed at Mussoorie.’

  He took about two hours to tell me about the case, speaking in a rather blurred, hesitant voice. We finished a great deal of beer. I thought it was an interesting story—particularly because it threw considerable light on Keemat Lal’s own character.

  II

  Inspector Keemat Lal was off duty. That meant he was comfortably ensconced in the bar of the Himalaya Hotel, musing over the evening’s first brandy-and-water. He felt it would take at least three brandies to banish the irritability that had been growing in him all day. His application for a transfer had been turned down. He had given up hoping for a promotion, but he felt that his superiors at the divisonal headquarters might at least have had the heart to post him to a district where something happened. It was true he had been in Mussoorie for only three months; but three months in a fair-sized town in the plains would have seen him investigating at least three murders, a dozen dacoities, several cases of assault, and a good deal of 420. This last misdemeanour—cheating and swindling in their many forms—was popularly known as ‘420’, which was the section number of the Indian penal code which dealt with such crimes.

  But in this quaint little hill resort—six thousand feet above sea level—there had been, in the space of three months, no murders, no dacoities, no cases of assault, and an insignificant amount of 420.

  There had been a couple of thefts. In the most exciting case, the thief had turned out to be an itinerant hippie who had taken a fancy to the Victorian chamber pots still found in old Mussoorie houses. He had taken to pilfering them and selling them at a profit to an antique dealer from Delhi.

  And then there had been the book-thief. Keemat Lal had almost forgotten him. Of course that had been before his arrival, and there was nothing that could be done about it. A bookish visitor had joined the very old and much-neglected local library which had a membership of fifteen persons who seldom used it. The book collector, when he left Mussoorie, decamped with over a hundred library books. Everyone wondered why he would have bothered to take away so much unread—and surely worthless—books. But later, the municipality was

  startled out of its monsoonal lethargy when it transpired that the collector had made a small fortune by selling first editions of Plain Tales from the Hills and Memoirs of Fanny Hill, an early pirated edition of Tennyson’s poems and other literary treasures at a London auction. They sent for a bibliophile to value the remaining books, but of course the collector had taken everything of value.

  Keemat Lal emptied his glass and called for another brandy. While a waiter was fetching it, the Inspector looked out of the windows with distaste. It was drizzling, and a strong wind whipped the rain against the windowpanes. Though it was mid-February, too late for more snow, the weather was still very cold, and Keemat Lal had not taken off his muffler and woollen gloves. The hotel’s ‘Canadian stove’ gave out plenty of warmth. At home there would be only a charcoal brazier at which to warm his hands—and no brandy to comfort his stomach. His wife did not approve of alcohol even at high altitudes.

  He was about to start his second brandy when he noticed the steward hurrying across the empty lounge towards his table. He had a premonition of impending doom; but it passed, leaving only a sense of irritation. There was no one else in the room— Mussoorie did not get visitors before April—and he knew he was going to be disturbed.

  ‘Excuse me for bothering you, sir,’ said the young steward. ‘There is a man outside who wants to see you.’

  ‘Have you told him I am here?’ asked Keemat Lal grimly.

  ‘He seemed to know you would be here, sir.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell him to go to hell?’ suggested the Inspector.

  ‘I have already done so, sir. But he won’t go. Something seems to have happened at the Rani’s house.’

  ‘The Rani’s house? I didn’t know there were any ranis left in Mussoorie.’

  ‘Everyone knows this one, sir.’

  ‘Her chamberpots are probably missing. Tell the man we’ve found the culprit, and the Rani will soon get her commodes back.’

  ‘I think it’s something more serious, sir. The man is babbling about blood and murder. I can’t follow his dialect very well, but he appears to be quite frightened.’

  Keemat Lal sighed, looked sadly at his brandy, and swallowed it in one gulp. Then he got up slowly, rather painfully—he was a tall portly man his paunch swelling out over his belt—and walked heavily towards the hotel entrance.

  An icy blast from the door almost knocked the small woollen cap off his head. ‘Well, what is it?’ he said angrily, glaring at the swarthy, rather wildlooking man who stood shivering in the porch.

  ‘Salaam Inspector sahib. May the gods forgive me for disturbing you at this hour, but something terrible has happened. The Rani is dead. I saw her with my own eyes, when I took her the flour and sugar she had asked me to buy.’

  Keemat Lal looked at him disbelievingly. Sudden death was not in keeping with the atmosphere of Mussoorie. ‘Are you sure she is dead?’

  ‘As surely as I know I am alive, sahib. Her head is cut open, and there is blood everywhere.’

  Keemat Lal did not stand irresolute for long.

  ‘How far is the Rani’s house?’

  ‘About half a mile.’