The Stranger
He looked around. It was a dark and lonely night.
Though it was nine, the street lights hadn’t come on. He couldn’t see more than a few metres ahead of him. The rain had stopped but the dampness hung heavy in the air. The leaves of the trees were still laden with rain drops which fell when the breeze caressed them.
It was quiet, very quiet and the only sound he could hear was the echo of his own footsteps. This was his third evening in Landour, a picturesque town nestling in the hills above Mussoorie. He was a writer and had come to do the background research for his
second novel, a ghost story set in the British times. His routine at Landour was simple. He would get up rather late and have a lazy breakfast at Devdar Woods, the hotel he was staying in. Soon after, he would walk down to the most happening place in Landour called ‘Char Dukan’, which literally meant four shops. He had made friends with Nilesh, the partner in one of the establishments, who had arranged a table and a chair right under the awning. He would sit there every day, soak in the atmosphere and make little notes on his iPad.
In the evenings, he would explore the place and after a light dinner, walk back to his hotel. What he enjoyed most was the trail from Char Dukan to Devdar Woods. It was always deserted and serene.
Today, however, seemed different. There was something in the air which he couldn’t quite place his finger on. The road to Devdar Woods was wide with an embankment on one side and a valley on the other. Tall and majestic devdar trees grew on the slopes of the valley and created a magnificent collage of green and brown during the day. Now all he could make out were silhouettes of the imposing devdar trees punctuating the thick blanket of blackness that seemed to have enveloped Landour.
It was the month of September and even during the day it was cool. Now with the rain and night coming together, it was getting chilly. He shivered involuntarily.
“Are you feeling cold?” he heard a voice and jumped in the air.
He turned to his left. A man of about sixty-five, medium height and build, was standing beside him. He was wearing a long coat and hat and carrying an umbrella in his left hand.
“I am sorry, if I scared you.”
“N. . . No it’s okay,” he said, his heart still thumping.
The stranger seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.
“What is your name?”
“Aman.”
“You are new to Landour, aren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I know everybody in Landour. My name is Rupert Smith. I retired as a Head Postmaster sometime back. My office was just opposite Char Dukan. Where are you staying?”
“At Devdar Woods.”
“Nice joint. Can I walk with you? My place is nearby.”
“Sure.”
Smith was quite a conversationalist and kept the banter going. Soon they had reached a church. The fog had increased in intensity and the visibility had become even worse.
“My resting place has come. You go straight and turn to the left and keep walking for 500 metres. You will reach a fork, take a turn to the right and soon you’ll find yourself at the entrance of your hotel.”
Smith tipped his hat in an old-fashioned way.
“Goodbye, my friend,” he said and walked away. Within moments the thick fog had enveloped him.
Aman suddenly felt chilly and digging his hands into his pocket started following the directions given by his newfound friend.
Ten minutes later, he found that he had completely lost his way and seemed to be moving in circles. He had left his mobile in Devdar Woods and was now wondering
how long he would have to brave the chill before he met someone who could guide him.
“You seem to be lost.”
Aman almost bit his tongue. He swirled back. A very tall, very thin man was standing with a flash light in his hand. He raised the flashlight and Aman could make out tiny eyes, a long sharp nose, almost non-existent lips and small ears with long ear lobes. His voice was rich and smooth.
“Y. . .yes. . .I think I am lost. Can you please guide me to Devdar Woods?”
“Sure. Please come along. I have been staying in Landour for many years now and I know the place like the back of my hand.”
“Were you working here?”
“Yes. In the bank opposite Char Dukan, beside the post office.”
“Then you must be knowing Mr. Smith.”
“Rupert Smith! Of course.”
“I met him half an hour ago. He is very pleasant to talk to.”
“Half an hour ago? Today! That’s impossible. You must have met someone else.”
“No, no. It was Mr. Smith all right. He is a man of average height and build. He was wearing a long coat, sporting a hat and carrying an umbrella. He introduced himself and chatted with me on various issues. We walked together till the church after which he went home.”
“Sounds like Smith but. . .!” The stranger mumbled something under his breath which Aman couldn’t understand.
“Okay, let’s go to the church and you show me the spot where you last saw him,” he said.
They walked side by side, the stranger maintaining a stoic silence and Aman busy wrestling with his thoughts.
Ten minutes later, they had reached the church. Its spires stood out like ghostly sentinels in the dark, dismal night.
Aman took a few steps and pointed to his right. “Here, this is the place where I bid goodbye to Mr. Smith. Since I could hardly see anything, I presumed he had crossed
an empty stretch to his house which lay beyond.
“Where did Smith say he was going to?”
“His resting place.”
“Come, I’ll show you his resting place,” the stranger said and waved his flashlight.
Aman gasped in horror as he stared at what lay in front—three neat rows of graves!
Aman’s face had turned ashen as he stepped back.
“Come, let’s go. On the way I’ll tell you how Smith died,” the stranger’s voice was soft and gentle.
They started walking slowly even as the mist enveloped them in a haze of cold
“Smith was quite right when he said he had retired as the head postmaster. He retired forty years ago. After his retirement he chose to settle down in Landour, a place
where he had spent most of his life. His wife passed away the same year he retired. His only son Jeff was in London and kept writing to his dad to come and join him. But the old man was adamant. He lived alone but he did not lack company. He was a sociable fellow and made friends easily. His best friend and neighbour was Mike Benjamin who was a decade younger but shared many common interests with Smith. Every night after
dinner they would walk from their houses which were close to Char Dukan, right up to Devdar Woods and back again. Smith more often than not would talk to Benjamin about his son and his family and show him photographs. Benjamin, who was a bachelor, enjoyed sharing his friend’s happiness.
One evening, Smith was carrying an entire bunch of letters with him. He was planning to read out to Benjamin bits and pieces from various letters which would show how his grandson and granddaughter were becoming smarter with each passing letter.
They sat down under the shade of a lamp post and Smith began reading. Just then there was a sudden gust of wind and the entire packet flew from Smith’s hands and landed on the slope. Before Benjamin could react, Smith had turned and jumping over the short parapet had landed on the slope. Even as Benjamin watched, he began sliding. Benjamin did not hesitate and crossing over, held the parapet with one hand and with the other
grabbed Smith’s hand. The ground was wet and Smith started slipping. They struggled for a few moments and then Smith cried out, ‘Let go, Benjamin, there is no way
you can hold on.’
‘I shall hold on as long as I can. . . I shall never let go. . . ,’ Benjamin replied, panting with the strain.
The two friends struggled for a few vital seconds and then followed each other to their death.”
They had reached a crossroad. The stranger stopped.
“Okay friend, we part from here. You go straight and within ten minutes you will reach your destination.”
Aman took a few steps and then stopped. There was something not quite right with the stranger’s story.
He turned back. The stranger was still standing at the same spot staring at him. The moon had finally appeared from behind the clouds and was shining on the stranger’s face. He was smiling, a strange almost eerie kind of smile, which curled his lips but didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I’m Benjamin,” he said and started walking towards Aman. . . .
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