The Zamindar's Ghost

one

Tej Bahadur didn’t believe in ghosts. There were no such things, he told himself, even though he had seen his first ghost at the age of ten. It was his mother’s.

He had heard that ghosts always stayed behind when they had unfinished business in the land of the living. It was as if human proclivities passed onto their corporeal form: Hate. Revenge. Love. The list was endless.

Tej Bahadur stayed on in the sleepy town of Ooty years after his mother’s passing.

‘You are destined for great things,’ she used to tell him. ‘You have your father’s blood running through your veins.’

Hah! He chuckled at the memory as he took another good, long swig of the local moonshine. It singed his innards as it made its way down, but he welcomed the old, familiar burn.

‘Destined for great things,’ he scoffed.

It would have been funny, had the joke not been on him. The job of a head constable in the sleepy town of Ooty in the 1930s didn’t exactly entail social or financial advancement.

‘Unlike the Zamindar, Digvijay Rana,’ Tej Bahadur spat out in disdain. ‘The Zamindar of Ooty!’

He took another swig of moonshine and wiped off the remnants around his lips with the sleeve of his once pristine uniform. His alcohol dependence had increased partly due to the onset of the numbing chill of winter and partly, even if only for a few hours, to forget his pitiful failure of an existence.

The sky was dark, nary a star to be seen, as the clouds loomed angrily overhead, threatening any moment to unleash their wrath. In his inebriated state, the head of the constabulary had inadvertently stumbled his way to Azad Manor, the grand archetypal residence of the Zamindar, prior to his death.

Tej Bahadur snorted as he took another sip of his drink; the imposing Azad Manor dwarfed the diminutive constable. He spat at the foot of the large bronze gates in disdain.

‘The Zamindar and his charmed family,’ he thought, ‘responsible for countless deaths and squashed dreams, and yet, they donned a façade of respectability.’

There were two things every child in Ooty knew. The first was the Rana family motto: ‘The Rana family’s name is only as good as its reputation.’

‘Such a fucking farce,’ he thought, as he glared at the manor again. In the ubiquitous moonlight, the residence seemed almost sinister, darkness eating through each of its numerous windows, save for one.

The lone illuminated window had by it the one good thing that the Ranas brought to Ooty. A thin smile crept upon Tej’s weathered face, as he warmed his eyes on the figure by the window. The shapely bosom in the silhouette was unmistakable. He could feel the heat building up in his loins; the view, and even its silhouette, was enough to warm the blood of any man.

For all purposes, Archana Rana was a widow. Arjun Rana, her husband, and the Zamindar’s son, leading a small militia of the British East India Company, had ridden deep into the hills to quash a peasant uprising. He had left six years ago. Archana patiently waited for his return.

Tej Bahadur took another swig as he felt passion build between his legs. He needed some more liquid courage to continue ‘keeping vigil’ over Azad Manor.

The stillness of the night was shattered as lightning cracked over the manor for a brief second, illuminating it in all its grim glory.

It was then that Tej Bahadur noticed a pair of eyes that were fixed on him. They did not belong to the lady by the window.

When the lightning had struck, for a brief second, he had seen another figure staring at him from one of the unlit manor windows. The figure had glimmering eyes that radiated a kind of evil that words couldn’t describe. There was something ominous about the sight and Tej could have sworn he saw a menacing grin spread across the face that accommodated that pair of eyes.

Tej’s heart galloped within his chest. His hand that held the flask was covered in goosebumps. The constable found it difficult to breathe as the startling fact hit him with the force of a bullet: Archana Rana lived alone.

Tej Bahadur felt a chill on his nape.

It was then that the clouds burst out, releasing a torrential downpour over the sleepy little town.

The dread-filled nature of the manor reminded Tej Bahadur of the second thing every child in town knew.

The Zamindar’s ghost haunted Azad Manor.

‘It was just a trick of the light,’ he mumbled to himself, but there was a crack in his voice. His hand trembled as he raised his arm for another swig from his flask, but quickly decided against it.

He told himself that his shivers were because of the cold, but he knew in his heart that he was lying. He could feel the unnatural drop in temperature, an eeriness in the space around him and then he felt a presence behind him, a second before he heard it.

‘Bahadur,’ a bloodcurdling whisper reached his ears and he felt someone’s breath on his nape, but when he turned around, there was no one there.

‘Just a trick of the light and wind,’ he mumbled unconvincingly, as he made his way away from Azad Manor with an apparent haste in his step.

‘Was Azad Manor truly haunted by the Zamindar’s ghost?’ he wondered aloud, once he was a good distance away from the manor.

‘No,’ he growled, as he downed the remaining moonshine in one long gulp; he enjoyed the burn it brought to his innards.

‘Just a trick of the light and wind,’ he repeated to reassure himself.

Tej Bahadur didn’t believe in ghosts.

There were no such things.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

two

‘Perforated stomach, broken ribs, dislocated knees, sawed-off fingers and a sliced-off tongue, for starters,’ said the feminine voice, but the anger in it was apparent. A Shih Tzu stood behind the lady, supplementing her threats with squeaky barks.

The children looked on in horror as she listed out the gory, graphic details of the fate that would befall them if they did not heed her words.

‘I might …’ she continued, ‘decapitate you as well. And, that is before I let Tuffy loose upon you. You will be just as terrifying as the ghost that haunts Azad Manor. Mark my words, if I ever catch you stealing strawberries from my garden again, you will meet your maker.’ She said this without a tinge of remorse. ‘Do I have to repeat myself?’ she asked, finally calming down.

She didn’t.

The entire band of little rascals scurried away post-haste, many tripping over loose twigs as much as their own shoelaces.

They knew the old lady meant business.

Within a couple of seconds, her beloved garden was free of pests, specifically the two-legged kind.

All except one.

‘You don’t scare me, Mrs Mehra,’ the boy said with a defiant glint in his eyes, which didn’t hold the mischievous twinkle of youth the other children had; this boy’s eyes only showed a contempt for authority.

Sharvani Mehra was disappointed.

‘It’s Miss Mehra,’ she corrected him categorically.

‘Mrs!’ she thought to herself. ‘Hmmph … the gall of the boy!’

She was still attractive for her age. Barely into her fifties, if it weren’t for a few streaks of grey that adorned her hair, she could easily have passed off for being in her late thirties. She kept her hair tied in a perfect bun, not a strand out of place, impeccably accentuating her sensual face and hourglass figure. She hoped the boy was acting defiant to elicit some sort of response from her or maybe taking in a few extra minutes to mentally build a fantasy that Sharvani couldn’t exactly approve, nor completely condone.

She was used to getting such responses from the opposite sex, even at her age. There was something inexplicably attractive about her, which she had come to, over time, welcome and embrace. But one look at the ruffian and it was clear the only fantasy that the prepubescent had about Sharvani involved a noose and her lifeless body hanging from its end.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ she repeated coldly.

In response, she was greeted with an overripe strawberry flung with deadly accuracy, catching her right in the middle of her forehead.

‘ANGREZ BHARAT CHHODO … ANGREZ BHARAT CHHODO (British, quit India),’ the boy began chanting with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Sharvani sighed.

She was always made to endure such taunts because of her mixed heritage. A supposed English ‘nobleman’ had seduced her mother and charmed her off her feet, finally leaving her mother with only Sharvani and a deep sense of regret.

Sharvani had vowed to never let that happen to her; she would be the one twisting men around her fingers, and not the other way around.

When it came to men, Sharvani learnt it was always best to give them what they expected little by little, till they were hooked. That always had them eating out of her hand. And then, of course, without warning, she would take it all away.

If this ruffian expected her to play the part of the British, she would play it to the hilt.

She smiled and lifted up a finger signalling she would be back, and calmly made her way to her humble abode.

Both the boy and Tuffy looked on, visibly confused.

They didn’t have to wait long.

The boy’s confusion was replaced by sheer horror, when Sharvani came out of the house with an old but well-maintained Pattern 1853 Enfield musket, slung carelessly on her shoulder.

‘For Queen and country,’ she cried in an overtly English accent.

The hair on the back of the boy’s nape rose, as he watched Sharvani place the rifle over her shoulder, taking careful aim.

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he whimpered. The last ounce of courage fought the tide of fear that was threatening to engulf him.

She put down her rifle, stunned by his words.

‘Of course …’ she said with an apologetic ring, ‘of course … you’re right … I can’t shoot you like this … I might miss ...’ as she put on her glasses that were held in place near her ample bosom, with a meshed, metal lanyard.

She took aim once again. ‘Much better,’ she said with a tinge of satisfaction.

The boy looked on, too petrified to move.

And then, she fired.

The sound of the powerful weapon cracked through the air, reverberating with a loud bang. Sharvani fell over from the force of the recoil, causing the glasses to be knocked off her face.

She looked at the boy.

He scampered through the bushes, running like someone had lit his trousers on fire.

Her aim had been perfect: exactly three feet above the boy’s head, just about enough to dissuade him from any more one-man uprisings against the so-called British.

‘Heavens, Miss Mehra,’ cried another female voice from behind her. ‘Is this the sort of activity a woman should be partaking in, especially at your age?’

Sharvani smiled, instantly placing the voice. ‘You are only as old as you feel … now help me up! I think I pulled my back with that last shot.’

The young lady raced towards her, walking as fast as her clothing allowed. She wore a calf-length plain-cut dress, coupled with simple sandals; a plain hairband completed her ensemble.

‘Ishita,’ said Sharvani and smiled, ‘how nice of you to stop by.’

Ishita looked at her. The younger woman’s features were plain, yet beautiful. Without the slightest hint of make-up, she had a pure, raw femininity about her, which many would consider attractive. She was radiant and fresh like a ripe apple. Her thin figure and pale complexion betrayed her life as a homebody.

Tuffy excitedly scampered to Ishita, running circles around her, his furry tail wagging like a pendulum. She ruffled his fur lovingly, albeit absent-mindedly. Her attention was focused on Miss Mehra, who was still lying flat.

‘Are you alright?’ she asked, the concern in her voice genuine.

‘Nothing a glass of sherry can’t fix my dear,’ Sharvani said with a smile, taking Ishita’s hand.

‘Miss Mehra,’ she said exasperatedly, ‘it’s barely ten in the morning. This behaviour is unbecoming of a matron towards young orph—’

Ishita bit her tongue.

‘They’re still children,’ Sharvani said, visibly cross.

Ishita replied, almost instantly, ‘Yes … I’m sorry … it’s just …’

‘And ex-matron,’ Sharvani corrected her coldly.

‘What?’

‘Ex-matron,’ she repeated. ‘I retired, remember …’ Sharvani said with a grin, ‘when I handed over the responsibilities to you … the new matron?’

Ishita heaved a sigh of relief. Sharvani’s grin was a tell-tale sign that her anger had subsided. Ishita had learnt this the hard way, through countless years of tutelage under Miss Mehra.

Ishita was an orphan herself, and it was only because of her long-standing relationship with Sharvani, from caretaker, to teacher, to a mother figure, and now, eventually, a friend, that Sharvani decided to step down in favour of the younger Ishita as head of the Rana Orphanage, after it had reopened.

‘I’m glad you are not angry …’ Ishita exclaimed.

‘Who says I’m not?’ she asked, giving her younger counterpart the all-too-familiar death stare.

‘Um … I …’

‘Relax,’ Sharvani said, as she unknotted her eyebrows, giving Ishita a slight smile. ‘I’ll stop being mad if you join me for a glass of sherry,’ she said with a wink.

‘But it’s ten in the … oh what the hell,’ Ishita said good-naturedly. ‘One glass won’t kill me,’ she finished as she followed Sharvani and the dog into the house.

‘What did I miss?’ Ishita asked, taking a small sip. The weather outside the patio was perfect, and the cold, crisp air invigorated her. Perfect weather wasn’t something one associated with the winters of Ooty. But today, the sun had come out after several days, and the greenery in Sharvani’s garden looked fresh, touched by both rain and morning dew.

There was even a slight nip in the air that the town was now getting accustomed to and had even come to embrace.

It was the perfect weather for pakoras and piping hot tea.

Or sherry.

‘So …?’ Ishita asked again.

Sharvani looked on quizzically.

‘When you were shooting this morning ...’

‘It was one shot my dear. Hardly what you would call a shooting.’ Sharvani smiled, as she relished the familiar, chilled, fruity taste tingle her taste buds.

‘It was one of your hooligans,’ Sharvani finally answered her question.

‘I think I know who you are talking about …’ Ishita replied, ‘little boy, wee height ... button nose …’

‘That’s the one!’

‘Vijay!’ Ishita exclaimed. ‘He’s … he’s always been a little bit of a rebel.’

‘I think the correct word would be a rascal,’ Sharvani said, taking a sip of her drink.

‘Language, Miss Mehra.’

‘I’ve told you a hundred times before, please call me Sharvani.’

Ishita grinned. ‘Old habits die hard, Miss Mehra. I’ve been calling you that for as long as I remember … I can’t up and change it at a moment’s notice.’ Ishita continued to smile as she took another small sip. ‘I’ve been used to calling you Miss Mehra ever since I learnt how to speak English. I don’t think you ever let up on your disciplinarian … my mistake … authoritarian attitude,’ she said and winked.

Sharvani chuckled. ‘It had to be done … someone had to keep you little rascals in line and for whatever it was worth, I think I succeeded a little, but …’ she sighed deeply, ‘given a chance, I would have done things differently, given you all a little more love, and a little less scolding, been a little more understanding and disciplined a little less with the belt.’

Ishita laughed, almost snorting out some of her sherry. ‘Well … a gun is a definite step up from spanking our bare bottoms. I remember clearly that was your favourite form of corporal punishment.’

‘The boy needn’t have been worried; that old relic is always only loaded with blanks. Truth be told, I don’t even have any live ammunition.’ Sharvani chuckled. ‘I’m surprised it fired the way it did, but the old forms of punishment were always the best,’ she said mischievously. ‘Nothing better to remind a child of their mistakes than a stinging backside.’

‘Miss Mehra,’ Ishita said animatedly, ‘you used to carry out the punishment even when the children were nine or ten.’

She chuckled. ‘They used to stay in line more due to the embarrassment than the physical pain. But you are one to complain … you were always the lamb of the group. It was always Arjun Rana who was the mischievous one …’

Ishita laughed. ‘He wasn’t even part of the orphanage.’

Sharvani nodded.

‘His father was the Zamindar, and the orphanage was in his name. The boy didn’t have any friends to play with. I remember many a times he used to bring in Archana Sharma as well … you know her … the tea plantation owner’s daughter ...’

Ishita nodded. ‘Didn’t that become the Rana Tea Plantation after her marriage to Arjun?’

Sharvani looked glum. ‘Digvijay swindled Sharma out of his tea plantations, exploiting a father’s love for his daughter.’

‘Poor Archana.’

Sharvani nodded. ‘It was so much easier when you all were kids, too distant from and untouched by the stark, ugly realities of life. Those days …’ Sharvani said melancholically, ‘so, carefree … they seem so, so long ago.’

A silence crept up between them, but soon enough a smile appeared on Ishita’s face. It was very slight and very brief. Sharvani noticed it, but ignored it, for she knew it too well.

Ishita was never good at keeping secrets. She would spill it out sooner than later.

‘Thank you …’ Ishita said out of the blue. There was a warm earnestness in her voice.

Sharvani looked at her, eyebrows raised.

‘For everything. You have always been the closest thing to a mother for me. You are someone who took an abandoned child from the streets when no one would have her. You gave me food, shelter and the love and warmth that I wasn’t destined to have.’

Sharvani smiled warmly. ‘It’s not …’

But Ishita didn’t let her finish. ‘I’ve always tried, ever since I was young enough to understand, to emulate you in every way possible … to try and be like you … and I dare say, I’ve succeeded a little.’

‘The children love you …’

‘You think?’

Sharvani nodded.

‘I’ve always been worried, and scared of disappointing you … I always felt I would fall short of your expectations. You were the only pillar that a scared little girl held onto in a storm, and I’m afraid of letting you down.’

Sharvani put her hand on her younger counterpart’s shoulder. ‘Don’t be, for you have turned out to be a fine woman, one who is both loved and respected by all those who are lucky enough to know you. You spread happiness, Ishita. Don’t let anyone tell you any different. And you truly care about the children.’

Ishita smiled. It was bittersweet. ‘Really?’

‘You are a person