Ghost Stories From The Raj by Ruskin Bond

Author:Ruskin Bond [Bond, Ruskin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
ISBN: 9788171679928
Publisher: Rupa Publications Private Limited
Published: 2002-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

From Indian State Railway Magazine (December 1928)

'There are more things—'

A Tale of the Malabar Jungles

by H.W. Dennys

T WAS DORA TORRINGTON WHO STARTED THE SUBJECT AS WE lay in deck chairs near the tennis court enjoying that pleasant hour in late summer between sunset and the dressing gong. She was of the restless, wealthy type who are never happy unless mixed up in the very latest craze. It had started with Women Suffrage, and now consisted of a mania for a religion which, from her conversation, we gathered was a cross between Spiritualism and Christian Science. Her position as hostess gave her privileges, and her audience tried not to appear bored as she dwelt on a lecture she had recently attended.

"He was such a dear little man," she rambled, "all bald-head and forehead, and he gave us such an interesting talk on the subject of 'Faith.' Do you know he said that the Bible was quite correct,— literally I mean—when it says that faith can remove mountains, and he gave us all kinds of weird stories to prove what he said. Then he went on to say that he saw no reason why, if we had sufficient faith, we shouldn't be able to do even more than that, and actually create things! Wouldn't it be too thrilling if we could think of wanting a new car so hard that it suddenly arrived."

Her audience stirred. The idea had possibilities.

"Think too," said Vera, whom I would have you know is my wife, "of being able to concentrate so hard on Tim that half his face suddenly disappeared behind a beard. It might make him look quite distinguished, though I'm afraid," she added sadly, "it could never make him good-looking."

I stiffened. Humour of this type struck me as being crude and certainly unjust. I was about to launch a snappy counter-attack, when a grunt from the chair on my left diverted my attention.

Peter Mainwaring, who occupied it, was apparently the only one present who hadn't treated the idea as a joke, and as I glanced at him was mumbling to himself with a far away look in his, eyes.

I postponed my snappy reply, and gave him a dig with my elbow to bring him back to earth.

"What's biting you, Peter?" I enquired. "Bring it out and let the public enjoy it."

"It's not so foolish or impossible as you all think, because I've seen it," was the unexpected reply.

Ten pairs of eyes focussed themselves on Peter curiously, who finding himself the centre of attention, grew flurried and evidently regretted his remark.

"I scent a story," quoth pretty Yvonne Elder, removing her graceful young self from the edge of a table to the comfort of a deck chair. "Let's have it Peter before we go in to dress."

Peter, who had just returned from a shooting trip in India, and had been more than usually silent of late, glanced round enquiringly. We were unanimous in assent. Peter's stories, few and far between, were invariably good. As he is a far better story-teller than I shall ever be, I will give it in his own words.

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