A Traveler's Tale

A name to conjure with… And as a boy, I’d heard it mentioned, by my father and others, described as a quaint little seaside resort with a small port on the Orissa coast. Years passed, and I transitioned from boyhood to manhood and eventually old age (is seventy-six old age? I wouldn’t know) and still, it was only a place I’d heard about and dreamt about but never visited.

Until last month, when I was a guest at the KIIT International School in Bhubaneswar, and someone asked me where I’d like to go, and I said, "Is Gopalpur very far?" And off I went, along a palm-fringed highway, through busy little market-towns with names Rhamba and Humma, past the enormous Chilika Lake which opens into the sea, through paddy fields and keora plantations, and finally on to Gopalpur’s beach road, with the sun glinting like gold on the great waves of the ocean, and the fishermen counting their catch, and the children sprinting into the sea, tumbling about in the shallows.

But the seafront wore a neglected look. The hotels were empty, the cafés deserted. A cheeky crow greeted me with a disconsolate caw from its perch on a weathered old wall. Some of the buildings were recent, but around us, there were also the shells of older buildings that had fallen into ruin. And no one was going to preserve these relics of a colonial past. A small house called ‘Brighton Villa’ still survived.

But away from the seafront, a tree-lined road took us past some well-maintained bungalows, a school, an old cemetery, and finally a PWD rest house where we were to spend the night.

It was growing dark when we arrived, and in the twilight, I could just make out the shapes of the trees that surround the old bungalow – a hoary old banyan, a jack-fruit, and several mango trees. The light from the bungalow’s veranda fell on some oleander bushes. A hawk moth landed on my shirt-front and appeared reluctant to leave. I took it between my fingers and deposited it on the oleander bush.

It was almost midnight when I went to bed. The rest-house staff – the caretaker and the gardener – went to some trouble to arrange a meal, but it was going to take time.

The gardener told me the house had once been the residence of an Englishman who had left the country at the time of Independence, some sixty years or more ago. Some changes had been carried out, but the basic structure remained – high-ceilinged rooms with skylights, a long veranda and enormous bathrooms. The bathroom was so large you could have held a party in it. But there was just one potty and a basin. You could sit on the potty and meditate, fixing your thoughts (or absence of thought) on the distant basin.

I closed all doors and windows, switched off all lights (I find it impossible to sleep with a light on), and went to bed. It was a comfortable bed, and I soon fell asleep. Only to be awakened by a light tapping on the window near my bed.

Probably a branch of the oleander bush, I thought and fell asleep again. But there was more tapping, louder this time, and then I was fully awake. I sat up in bed and drew aside the curtains.

There was a face at the window.

In the half-light from the veranda I could not make out the features, but it was definitely a human face.

Obviously, someone wanted to come in, the caretaker perhaps, or the chowkidar. But then, why not knock on the door? Perhaps he had. The door was at the other end of the room, and I may not have heard the knocking.

I am not in the habit of opening my doors to strangers in the night, but somehow I did not feel threatened or uneasy, so I got up, unlatched the door, and opened it for my midnight visitor.

Standing on the threshold was an imposing figure.

A tall dark man, turbaned, and dressed all in white. He wore some sort of uniform – the kind worn by those immaculate doormen at five-star hotels; but a rare sight in Gopalpur-on-sea.

"What is it you want?" I asked. "Do you stay here?"

He did not reply but looked past me, possibly through me, and then walked silently into the room. I stood there, bewildered and awestruck, as he strode across to my bed, smoothed out the sheets and patted down my pillow. He then walked over to the next room and came back with a glass and a jug of water, which he placed on the bedside table. As if that were not enough, he picked up my day clothes, folded them neatly and placed them on a vacant chair. Then, just as unobtrusively and without so much as a glance in my direction, he left the room and walked out into the night.

Early next morning, as the sun came up like thunder over the Bay of Bengal, I went down to the sea again, picking my way over the puddles of human excreta that decorated parts of the beach. Well, you can’t have everything. The world might be more beautiful without the human presence; but then, who would appreciate it? Back at the rest house at breakfast, I was reminded of my visitor from the previous night.

"Who was the tall gentleman who came to my room last night?" I asked. "He looked like a butler. Smartly dressed, very dignified."

The caretaker and the gardener exchanged meaningful glances.

"You tell him," said the caretaker to his companion.

"It must have been Hazoor Ali," said the gardener, nodding. "He was the orderly, the personal servant of Mr. Robbins, the port commissioner – the Englishman who lived here."

"But that was over sixty years ago," I said. "They must all be dead."

"Yes, all are dead, sir. But sometimes the ghost of Hazoor Ali appears, especially if one of our guests reminds him of his old master. He was quite devoted to him, sir. In fact, he received this bungalow as a parting gift when Mr. Robbins left the country. But unable to maintain it, he sold it to the government and returned to his home in Cuttack.

He died many years ago but revisits this place sometimes. Do not feel alarmed, sir. He means no harm. And he does not appear to everyone – you are the lucky one this year! I have seen him only twice. Once, when I took service here twenty years ago, and then, last year, the night before the cyclone. He came to warn us, I think. Went to every door and window and made sure they were secured. Never said a word. Just vanished into the night."

"And it’s time for me to vanish by day," I said, getting my things ready. I had to be in Bhubaneswar by late afternoon, to board the plane for Delhi. I was sorry it had been such a short stay. I would have liked to spend a few days in Gopalpur, wandering about its backwaters, old roads, mango groves, fishing villages, sandy inlets… Another time perhaps. In this life, if I am so lucky. Or the next, if I am luckier still.

At the airport in Bhubaneswar, the security asked me for my photo-identity. "Driving licence, PAN card, passport? Anything with your picture on it will do since you have an e-ticket," he explained.

I do not have a driving license and have never felt the need to carry my PAN card with me. Luckily, I always carry my passport whenever I travel. I looked for it in my little travel-bag and then in my suitcase, but couldn’t find it. I was feeling awkward fumbling in all my pockets when another senior officer came to my rescue. "It’s all right. Let him in. I know Mr. Ruskin Bond," he called out and beckoned me inside. I thanked him and hurried into the check-in area.

All the time in the flight, I was trying to recollect where I might have kept my passport. Possibly tucked away somewhere inside the suitcase, I thought. Now that my baggage was sealed at the airport, I decided to look for it when I reached home.

A day later I was back in my home in the hills, tired after a long road journey from Delhi. I like travelling by road, there is so much to see, but the ever-increasing volume of traffic turns it into an obstacle race most of the time. To add to my woes, my passport was still missing. I looked for it everywhere – my suitcase, travel-bag, in all my pockets.

I gave up the search. Either I had dropped it somewhere, or I had left it at Gopalpur. I decided to ring up and check with the rest house staff the next day.

It was a frosty night, bitingly cold, so I went to bed early, well-covered with razai and blanket. Only two nights previously I had been sleeping under a fan! It was a windy night, the windows were rattling, and the old tin roof was groaning, a loose sheet flapping about and making a frightful din.

I slept only fitfully.

When the wind abated, I heard someone knocking on my front door.

"Who’s there?" I called, but there was no answer.

The knocking continued, insistent, growing louder all the time.

"Who’s there? Kaun hai?" I call again.

Only the knocking.

Someone in distress, I thought. I’d better see who it is. I got up shivering and walked barefoot to the front door. Opened it slowly, opened it wider, someone stepped out of the shadows.

Hazoor Ali salaamed, entered the room, and as in Gopalpur, he walked silently into the room. It was lying in disarray because of my frantic search for my passport. He arranged the room, removed my garments from my travel-bag, folded them and placed them neatly upon the cupboard shelves. Then, he did a salaam again and waited at the door.

Strange, I thought. If he did the entire room why did he not set the travel-bag in its right place? Why did he leave it lying on the floor? Possibly he didn't know where to keep it; he left the last bit of work for me. I picked up the bag to place it on the top shelf. And there, from its front pocket, my passport fell out, onto the floor.

I turned to look at Hazoor Ali, but he had already walked out into the cold darkness.