Introduction
Late colonial Calcutta, the second city of the British Empire, a city riven with inequalities and contradictions, well-lit boulevards on the one hand and crooked lanes on the other. One perhaps wouldn’t immediately associate the space of the city, especially one such as the bustling metropolis of colonial Calcutta with the supernatural. After all, with the marvels of nineteenth century technology that peopled its streets, from gas lamps to the expanding grip of the railways, one would think one had left the darkness and terrors of the past far behind. However, ghosts, spirits and revenants continued to figure prolifically in the lanes and by-lanes of Calcutta in the works of authors as diverse as Rabindranath Tagore and Sajanikanta Das. Ghost stories may seem to be an unusual entry point in our attempt to paint a portrait of Calcutta from a bygone era, but their affective and aesthetic impact is, by no means, negligible. This short story by Pramatha Chowdhury, for instance, offers a compelling image of everyday life of the colonized subject. Short and witty, it serves as a moving depiction of the petty cruelties of a society structured by racial hierarchies in the guise of a mere ghost story.
We had just set foot in Calcutta back then, to go to school here. Not because we believed that schools in Calcutta were better than those in the suburbs. Schools were the same everywhere. They were manufactured out of the same mold. They all doggedly shoved education down the throats of students, but sadly no one emerged from them educated. And even if a few did, they only had their own efforts to thank for it, neither the education, nor the educators. We had come here to fend off the vicious curse of malaria.
Three months after our arrival, Sarada-dada started living with us as our guest. I don’t know how exactly he was related to us. He was not a blood relative, nor was he related to us by marriage, he didn’t even hail from our village. He must have come from somewhere, but he definitely did not live there. He used to float around from household to household. Back home in those days zamindars or landlords were a dime a dozen. Somehow he traced some sort of kinship to all of them. No one knew what sort of relation though; he just spent his days as a guest in each of their houses, and he would be well looked after everywhere.He was a Brahmin and his manners bespoke good breeding. So he could be anything, a brother, a brother-in-law, an uncle or just a distant relative—everyone would welcome him as their own. He would never ask for money. He had an older female relative in Kashi who was a widow. He would ask her for money if he needed it. She was called Sukhada. Sukhada apparently owned a small fortune and didn’t have any children. So Sarada-dada took pride in the fact that he was close to this Sukhada.
The boys and I were overjoyed that Sarada-dada was here, even though we had never met him or heard of him before. We thought we would be able to talk to him freely. We didn’t really know a lot of people in Calcutta, we didn’t have family here or a lot of friends, anyone to talk to, for that matter. And at school, our conversations with our classmates weren’t much of a thrill. At that time, Calcutta boys and their conversational skills were much like the milk that we got here—thoroughly watered down.
Every evening, Sarada-dada would sit with us and tell us stories; tales of things that he had experienced in his eventful life. Ma had warned us in advance that all his stories were completely made-up. But that didn’t deter us. Lies may not stand at a court of law, but they are such an important ingredient for good stories. Be that as it may, Sarada-dada would mostly tell us ghost stories. We never told our mother this. I’d heard that one of my father’s favourites, a tobacco-seller used to tell my older brother ghost stories every now and then, and, soon, he was too scared to walk from one room to another at night. My father had forbidden his favourite tobacco-seller from coming to our house after that. So, we took care not to snitch on Sarada-dada to ma, lest she repeat the whole tobacco-seller incident. Besides, we had no reason to fear ghosts in Calcutta. It was a big city, there were lights along the roads, and there were buildings wherever one looked—there was no wilderness to speak of. Ghosts were supposed to be scared of lights and roaring crowds. Calcutta, though not as well-lit as other cities, was definitely noisier. Ghosts tend to avoid such places. Sarada-dada only told us stories based on real-life events, happenings that he had witnessed firsthand. One day I asked him—you only tell us about ghosts from the countryside. Haven’t you ever seen a British ghost?
Sarada-dada replied, where would I see them? The British never die in this country. And if they don’t die, how will they come back as ghosts? See, so many trains have accidents every day and thousands of Indians die, but have you ever heard of a white man dying in one of those?
—Then who on earth are buried in all those cemeteries?
—All firangis. I am not saying that a few British people do not die every now and then. But the ones that do die do not deign to come back to haunt us.
—Why?
—If they die here, they don’t end up living in trees, or walking around like regular ghosts. They travel around and haunt first class compartments of trains, instead. And the firangi ghosts board the second-class compartments. But I had run into one this one time, I can’t even talk about it properly. It still makes me cry, after all these years.
—But we want to hear the story about the British ghost!
Sarada-da sighed and began his story—
—Okay, I’ll tell you everything. But don’t repeat this to anyone else.
—Why not?
—I don’t know, then someone might try to sue me for libel. You know, you can be fined for badmouthing even a dead person, you can even be jailed. I don’t want to go to prison.
But he continued, nonetheless—
This one time, I was travelling to Kashi from Calcutta. By the time I reached Howrah, the train was on the verge of leaving the platform. I ran along to catch it and stumbled into a first-class compartment thinking that I’d switch to a third-class compartment at the next station. The train started moving and the next thing I know, a British man came out of the lavatory. He was around six feet tall, and he reeked of alcohol, fancy, foreign liquor. The first thing he said on entering the carriage was, “Kala admi, get off the train.” I was terrified, my whole body was shaking. I only managed to say in broken Hindi, “Sir, how will I get off now? I’ll change compartments at the next station.” But the man was obstinate, he said, “That won’t do. Your clothes are dirty, and your body has too much badboo. Go to the gosalkhana, change your clothes, and wash yourself, then sit there. Come out only when I leave. Do what I say. Do you know I am the Bada-Sahib of the Railway Service?” I did what he said to save my skin, went to the lavatory and undressed. It was a cold winter night, but I splashed my whole body with water. A gust of wind blew in through the windows and took my clothes away. I kept sitting in that lavatory, stark naked. The white man bustled through the compartment and kept yelling at me from time to time. He called me a variety of names, pig, ass, bear and other terms of endearment, I sat there and took it all in silently.
Almost an hour went by. I was soaking wet and shivering – not a stitch on my body – while in the adjacent room, the Bada-Sahib went on drinking and making merry.
On the way, the train stopped suddenly, for almost a minute. There was a familiar click – the sound of a latch opening, – and then it started back on track again. There wasn’t a single sound from the next room; so I finally left the lavatory and tried to get into the compartment. But good heavens! The white man had shut the doors of the washroom from outside. I was trapped in that blind pit. Half an hour later, the train reached Bardhaman station. I threw caution to the wind, leaned out of the lavatory window, and started screaming, “Coolie! Coolie!” After a while, a coolie did come and open the latch, but then he switched on the lights, took one look at my naked, ghostly figure, and ran away, scared. At last, the stationmaster turned up – “It’s not a ghost, only a thief,” he declared, and on hearing this, the coolies promptly entered the carriage and started pummeling me, dragging my half-comatose form onto the platform.
The stationmaster urged, “Quick! Get him some clothes. If some memsahib chances upon him while he is naked, and faints – my job will be on the line.” A passenger managed to get me a saree, draping it around my bare body, I told the stationmaster everything. He informed me that the Bada-sahib of the Railways was currently in Shimla – besides, no white man had ever boarded this train, nor got off it. It dawned on me then, that my tormentor had not been a white man – it had been the ghost of a white man.
Then, the stationmaster dispatched me to the police station. There too, it boiled down to being beaten first, and then being interrogated by the constable. To him too, I recounted the details of all that had transpired. He believed me readily about the ghostly encounter because he too, had once gone through considerable harassment at the hands of a petni.
The very next day, I was brought to court. Apparently, my transgression was severe, and so the judgement must be recorded without delay. The hakim was an amicable gentleman, and highly educated. He too, was entirely convinced of the presence of apparitions in the compartment – because he was a staunch theosophist. But be that as it may – neither gods, nor ghosts serve as a valid excuse in a British court. Both God and Devil exist outside the peripheries of British law. And so, inevitably, he gave me a jail term of one month. My offence was to be – travelling without a proper ticket, or proper clothes in a first-class compartment, while being wasted on ganja. He even warned me – “You can smoke up all you want, but do not ever get into a first-class compartment again when you are stoned, especially without your clothes on!”
I pleaded, “But Sir, I do not smoke ganja!” He shot back, “You are a ganjakhor! And that is precisely why I have let you off with a light sentence. Otherwise, the penalty would have been far more severe!”
So, there you go. Now you have heard the tale of a “first-class” ghost. I, for one, feel that the uncouth ghosts of the village are far more civilized than these first-class ghosts!
Translation : M.D. Mahasweta and Priyanjana Majumder