Up till that hour I had
sympathized
with Mr.
Kipling - Poems
He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long
trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him,
he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says
that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province
could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among
the dishes, and you repent of your irritation.
In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when
found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to
live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three
nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in
Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an
inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at
the threshold to give welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses
officiating as dak-bungalows--where nothing was in its proper place
and there wasn't even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand
palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as
uncomfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where
the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where
they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good
luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and
deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw
whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just
to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy
of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that
I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a
dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in
dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts.
In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of
them.
Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of
handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other
Stories. " I am now in the Opposition.
We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest
part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in
dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten
and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and
the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely
used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to
Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent
double with old age, said so.
When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the
land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise
like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The
khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib
once. Did I know that Sahib?
trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him,
he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says
that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province
could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among
the dishes, and you repent of your irritation.
In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when
found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to
live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three
nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in
Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an
inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at
the threshold to give welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses
officiating as dak-bungalows--where nothing was in its proper place
and there wasn't even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand
palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as
uncomfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where
the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where
they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good
luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and
deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw
whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just
to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy
of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that
I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a
dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in
dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts.
In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of
them.
Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of
handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other
Stories. " I am now in the Opposition.
We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest
part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in
dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten
and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and
the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely
used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to
Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent
double with old age, said so.
When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the
land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise
like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The
khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib
once. Did I know that Sahib?
