JOLLY JOHN'S LAST LAUGH

      The bungalow, which I have bought from Richbold Montgomary, had a down to earth price tag. The war with China is just over. Most of the remaining Europeans, and Englishmen in particular, have started leaving India in a hurry. Another war is more than a possibility.

      The tension has no chance to dissolve easily, but I am a confirmed bachelor with the resolution to remain in India. Both of my parents, of English origin, were issued their Death Certificates after they had breathed their last here.

      When alive, my parents used to say to me that they could hardly find a better place than the foothills of the Himalayas, characterized by the endless blue of sky or flaunting gold of paddy fields or its rich tropical forest. So, after their death, I preferred to live by memories of mom and dad rather than by settling alone in England or Australia.

      In fact, I hanker upon a simple but good life, rich of experience and knowledge like millions of my type of person. You do not need to be crude to define us - just very lonely, shy and unsociable.

      My perception is that I am rich by both sunrise and moonlit night. My bank balance on the contrary may lead to make me liable for worst situations, even crimes, which I am afraid of. So, the glitteratti of the West does not seem to me to be my cup of tea for obvious reasons.

      During my first inspection of the property, I find three important things. One that Montgomery may have a large sized name, but he had a small sized bungalow. Two, the price was a symbol of a desperate sale. Third, the impeccable scenic beauty of the place is not a common truth but an extraordinary one to enter into one's brain and senses.

      The white but worn out and neatly planned single story duplex house stands at the middle of the valley, surrounded by a set of tall hills on guard from characters born of our belief in the gods and demons, whom local people strongly used to believe in as dwellers behind those "mountain ranges."

      The peasants used to travel to a certain temple down in the foothills for offering prayer with small animals like birds, chickens and goats. Their route to the temple was the road laid down in front of my bungalow. On various occasions, they used to move in a procession with much sound and bustle, by blowing drums and trumpet, women blowing conch shells, children quarreling with each other.

      A few large rooms with a portico, a balcony at the first floor, apart from a square sized green lawn are parts of my possession.

      I have felt jubilant to possess this one; the Montgomery's of Nainital went on staying for generations. I am settling down with the new place of dwelling at my newer address. My first action is to learn and know it more for acclimatization. With every new morning I start to learn newer things in that house.

      The footprints of the predecessors start being wiped out with the arrival of footprints of newer set. The nameplate of brass - JOHN TAYLOR (JOLLY) - has been fixed at the gate. The sun is flashing on my nameplate every morning.

      The road that can take me to the valley from the bungalow is a straight one, by the side of which a large contingent of trees stand in ovation for me, as I start a long stroll in the morning, when the light and shadow piercing through the leaves of the trees reaches for my shoulder blades and caresses my cheeks or softly touches my receding hairline.

      The ecstatic chivalry of the morning sun accompanies me, step by step in harmony with morning breeze and chill.

      But the moment I put my steps inside the bungalow, crossing the front door to enter the large drawing room, my invisible company goes for a change. It is not the mellowed darkness of old and stinking furniture or worn out walls of a time tested old house, but rather an air of wet emotions moving around me and remaining close.

      Thick but not alive. A very uncanny feeling of the seemingly insensible sense, one that hardly murmurs but goes for deep sigh of nothingness.

      Such nothingness can have no place under the sun but only in the darkness, you can smell its sweat and breathing more and more with the passage of time.

      Within a few weeks of my stay, I can diagnose the closeness of the air, smelling female perfume of imported French make, speaking in silence - a lot of no words but so much of soundless whisper - till I find a small locally made wooden pot with a lid. The pot contains a small dose of vermilion. So far as I know, the European family had nothing to do with vermilion.

      I ask myself one day, "Am I becoming possessed by some spirit?" The answer knows the question or vice-versa. "No, Never." Then what is it exactly surrounding my body and soul round the clock? The inquisitive mind has endless journeys to and fro in search of the answer but can hardly identify being so much at ease. At the expense of a month or a bit more, the complete profile of the company has been painted.

      The mirror, which I use to comb at or fix up a tie, has given me a shadowy feeling of an English woman staring at me or at my reflection in the mirror, which one neither me nor the mirror is clearly sure of. One day, I suddenly look around to check, and obviously, I see no one there.

      Very shortly, my cheerful profile is gone. The reason I have had a nickname of Jolly is fading fast.

      "Vikhoo, come here! I found some thing, say, a ghost figure in the mirror for few days, Do you find anything, objectionable?" I ask him. "No, Jolly Sahib, nothing of the sort." I do not bring more details to him. Otherwise, he will take the matter to the public, making them suffer in panic and me in tension.

      Under the carpet of my apparently nothing-happened attitude, I am at first feeling gloom for buying a suspected ghost house. Then I start searching for a logical solution. The diversion from that pinching problem is another hideout. I decide to adopt. "I have to divert my mind" I tell myself spontaneously.


      Colonel Sundaram is a South Indian by birth. They are known for their sharp intellect and strong mathematical sense. He is of erect physique with sharp nose and a dark skin. As one of my mates in the group of morning walkers, while having a stroll on the green for about an hour, he used to shared with us his good jokes and rich stories from life in Indian Army.

      "Sundaramji, you often talk about logical solution of problems. In war also, you have seen top level officers solving problems in logical manner. Now, you tell me, does only man possess that kind of mindset or beasts are also prone to that." He is taken aback at my out of the way question. He smiles and answers.

      "Way back in late forties, during the Second World War, I had a worst toothache in the extremely dense forest on the border between Burma and China. At one point, I was alone, and suffering from such acute pain that I was weeping on a low branch of a large tree for hours. That was winter season. Perhaps, such suffering could hardly be tolerable.

      And medication there was a far cry. It was before dawn, I heard huge movement of leaves, as a monstrous ape did hang from higher branch of the same tree to throw a broken leafy branch to me with a grimace. Before I came to senses to understand anything, he was gone. Then I analyzed the whole episode by logically putting pieces in one chain. His behavior became clear to me.

      I chewed the leaves and tender branch covered in them like a hungry cow. Gradually the pain started receding to end. I was cured. People believed that it was miracle of God. Myself as the victim believed that the miracle was the result of the strong observation and logical thinking of a wild beast in order to turn into a typical physician at that odd hour by prescribing the herb that would heal."

      Colonel Sundaram stops. Then says, "Jolly Sahib! Don't you think that if this incident was documented and shown to the world, human beings, seen as the only animal with thought processes and brains, would have been dethroned of their centuries old supremacy and pride - which could be the greatest news ever?"

      I am amazed. Speechless. "What a story! But Sundaram Sahib, you found logical thinking by the ape in this story, but I see an aroma of love in your story as well. Isn't there?" Sundaramji nods in confirmation.

      I have thought of serving this rich storyline on a platter to my readers quickly. Let them share the taste of it.


      When on my way back home under the trees, a thing has struck my perception. Is there any logical solution of my problem without a single wave on the surface? I have shrugged. As I scratched my head, I am sure to know that I have no flash of answer. A part of my mind retorts, "All questions need not have answers."

      The way to fight my problem logically has gotten momentum. I have become confident enough to solve this problem in my own way without anybody's intervention. I have become so confidant that I have become a little careless to cross dingy roads till finally a horse carriage hits me. My ankle has gotten a hairline fracture, so I have to take admission in a local Nursing Home in Simla. Next day, the first visitor, with bouquet of flowers at hand, is a lady I haven't met before.

      "Hello! I am Dorothy, Dorothy Smith. Professor of English Literature at Simla College. My apology. When the carriage hit you, I was inside it. Actually, I had instructed the driver to run back fast to my home, where my gas oven was not put off by mistake."

      "So, was every thing okay?" I ask.

      "Yes! I rushed, entered, and opened all doors and windows of my flat. The accumulated gas went out fast. I was saved." She smiles in relief.

      "That's fine. Thank god! A hairline fracture is much more welcome than a holocaust." I smile in humor.

      She blushes for few seconds. "I am awfully sorry and embarrassed. Please don't make me ashamed. I could not sleep well last night."

      "Neither did I!" I laugh - in pain.

      "Hey! Please don't tease me. I already know that. By the way, this accident has brought us close. We haven't known each other, although we've both been staying in Simla for years. Right?"

      "Yeah! That's true. Well... err.... What about your husband?" I ask.

      "I am a Divorcee. My ex-husband is in Delhi, settled. Working as a Consulting Physician."

      "Oh! I'm sorry." I say.

      "No, no! Why you should feel sorry for that? I'm a self-reliant woman. I've no problem. By the way, I shall come to see you daily till you are fit and discharged to go home. Okay?"

      When she comes to know that I am a writer-cum-columnist of several leading magazines and newspapers, Dorothy is convinced that a friendship of understanding can be tried. She brings me to her flat after I am discharged. She gives care. She prepares mushroom soup, apple pie, lemon tart, all my favorites. She reads Tennyson, Shelly. She plays records of Nat King Cole, Harry Bellafonte & Frank Sinatra. We enjoy.

      Then, she says her story.

      And gradually, she raises love in me...love for a woman's company...elegance...comfort...wavelength till we grow to be bold enough to hug...to lock in a kiss... We try not to miss one another.

      During one rain swept night, she inserts herself in my blanket without speaking a word, her blue sleeping suit rolled up to allow my lips to shelter her nipples, my chin to rest on the small pillow of her breast and my palm pressed, soft and warm between her legs. I can feel the rise and fall of her breasts, listen to the fast rush of her breathing as we hold each other tight.

      We are asleep. Or lost. Or both. Thereafter.


      My return after a tiny sojourn of a couple of weeks sees the neighbors waiting in eagerness. All known faces are out there. And the Bungalow still has my nameplate.

      Vikhoo, my personal help, lends his hands with an ear to ear smile on the face. I feel happy that they all care for me. Under medical advice, I cannot move for eight weeks, except for a few small steps around my bed. Vikhoo takes me from room to room on a wheel chair. Even to the balcony.

      I sit alone to feel the nature that is around and to think of Dorothy only. My love. I miss her a lot, as she is in Mumbai attending a week long seminar. But, I think only of her. Her oval shaped face with curly hair is embossed in my brain. Her smile... her looks...her words...and the perfume she uses. In my mind, she traverses in a horizontal circle. And gradually, comes out with existence, that one can only feel.

      Within ten days, I am quite fit to walk limping from room to room, to the toilet. I reach the mirror to shave and comb on my own. As I approach it holding my shaving kit, I feel that typical ladies' perfume and a shadowy feminine figure emerging from behind like ever before.

      I slowly open my eyes to see the reflection on the mirror.

      It is of Dorothy's. Not anothers, I am sure of it.

      I have started laughing at last.


      By Partha Pratim Majumder

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