Dr Lindsay Smith, Calcutta, 15 December 1880
“You do realise, John, that this household will not be celebrating Christmas this year?”
John Foster had been staring at the rosebushes outside the window, his mind entangled in the the evaluation of horses he wanted to bet on that day. He blinked and looked at his mother. She often did this, trying to catch his attention with startling announcements. He decided to abandon the Turf Club and to pay attention to his breakfast companions.
He noticed that across the table, their guest, Dr Lindsay smith, had also looked up from his plate, surprised by Mrs. Foster’s sudden announcement. Poor fellow, he was probably regretting coming out to India. Rats drive the man from his hotel, and now his mother was driving Christmas out of his life.
“Why, mother?” John asked mildly.
“Well, you clearly don’t care about the loss that we had, but I do,” she replied shortly.
Turning to her guest, she spoke more gently. “Dr Lindsay, I feel terrible about disappointing you, especially when you have travelled so far for us. But I’m sure you’ll understand. My sister lost her son in the Boer war in Transvaal this February. I’ve only just come out of mourning. I don’t have the heart to host a Christmas party this year. I spoke to Mr Foster before he left for Cawnpore yesterday, and he was annoyed about my decision, especially as we are hosting you. But I simply cannot bring myself to think of anything festive. I think of poor my poor sister, left all alone in the world, and my heart just breaks.” She finished with a sniff.
Dr Smith energetically denied any disappointment. He was not even expecting to celebrate Christmas while he was away from England, he was keen to experience the local festivals, he would be too busy with the work at the medical college. John decided to rescue him before he ran out of comforting platitudes.
“Don’t fret, mother. Clive and his sister asked me to their Christmas party, and I told them I’ll come. I will get them to invite Dr Smith too. They will be thrilled to meet him. Lindsay, believe me, the only place in Calcutta where Christmas is not a bore is the Governor’s house. That’s where we’ll go. The Governor’s son is a student at the Calcutta medical college. Perhaps you’ve met — his name is Clive Hennessey? He knows you — everyone at the college knows you, I dare say. He has been hinting that he would like to meet the great malaria specialist staying with us. Shall we end mother’s worries and attend the Governor’s Christmas party?”
Lindsay smiled. “Why not, if Mrs. Foster does not have any objection.”
Mrs Foster sighed and stood up. The Indian bearer rushed to pick up the shawl that she had dropped. She took the shawl from him without looking at him. She was annoyed at John’s suggestion that her Christmas parties were a bore.
“No, no, please don’t get up, either of you,” she said, “I have an appointment with my dressmaker. She has been waiting this past hour. I have no objection to your attending the Governor’s Christmas party, Dr James. I hope you will have a good time. These young people will tell you a lot of stories about the Christmas ghosts in that house, but it is all a lot of nonsense, and I hope you will not pay any attention to them. The Governor is particularly unhappy about the stories. He was saying to me the other day at the Viceroy’s tea party — ‘Mrs. Foster, I worry that my children are getting into mixed company. All these Anglo-Indians you know. That’s where they got hold of these ghost stories’. That poor man. Christmas ghosts indeed!” She shook her head in disdain. “I will never understand what you young people are coming to, making these kind of things up.” With that original pronouncement, she left the room, nodding at the Indian bearer’s salaam.
Lindsay looked at John, eyebrows raised. “Did I hear that right? Christmas ghosts? I’m hoping you will tell me about these festive sprits. Or do I have to wait until the party?”
John slapped his thigh in mirth. “That’s a good one! Festive spirits indeed! Must tell Clive that. I think it’s best to wait until the party. Atmosphere, you know. And besides, Mandal does not like me to tell those stories, right, Mandal?”
The Indian bearer did not reply. He knew he wasn’t expected to.
Jagriti Pathak, Kolkata, 25 December 2015
The flight from Delhi to Kolkata landed at 10 PM. It was one of only two flights at that hour. Jagriti was tired and was very grateful for the airport’s quiet pace. What a welcome change from Delhi, she thought. I wonder if the work will be the same. Her two years in Delhi had been overwhelming and she was pleased to think that things would be easier at the new posting.
Easier and posher, she said to herself as saw the uniformed man holding up the large white sign with her name. “Dr Jagriti Pathak, Assistant Tax Commissioner, Kolkata”. She suppressed a smile and an urge to take a picture of the sign. No one had bothered to pick her up in Delhi, and never with such grand signs. She hoped she looked nonchalant as she walked up to the man with the sign. “Namaste,” she said, with what she hoped was a mix of politeness and authority.
“Namaste madam! Myself Mr KK Sharma. Your PA, madam,” he saluted. “Please give me your bag, madam. You came with only one bag, madam?!” He was a medium-sized, neat, breathless man. It was impossible to imagine him being anything other than a personal assistant in the Indian government.
“The car is here, madam,” added Mr Sharma, unnecessarily, since the large car was parked right next to him, and right next to the no parking sign. The driver stood holding the passenger door open. Jagriti nodded as he saluted, and got into the car. Mr Sharma placed her bags in the boot and jumped into the seat next to the driver.
“Hope the flight was comfortable madam.” He turned around as soon as they had left the airport.
“Yes, it was very comfortable. Next time, Mr Sharma, I don’t want the car to be parked in the no parking area. I am okay to wait for the car to come from the airport parking space,” Jagriti said.
He heard the unsaid criticism and was immediately contrite. “Yes madam, sorry madam.”
“How far is the airport from the house?” Jagriti asked.
“Only 45 minutes madam. But we have made a booking for you at the Taj, madam. You can stay there for 2–3 days. Or longer if you want, madam.”
Jagriti was surprised. “Why’s that? Is the official accommodation not available?”
“No, no, madam! It is very much available madam. You have been allotted the black brick residency on Sarat Bose Road. Actually, the last assistant tax commissioner Mr Vikash got that house moved to the Revenue department from the Police department. That’s one of the most beautiful of the government quarters. Very much in demand,” KK Sharma said with pride.
“So why did you book a hotel?”
Mr Sharma looked uncomfortable. “Madam, didn’t Vikash sir tell? He told me he would speak to you.”
“Vikash and I had many long conversations about the work handover. He did not say anything about the house. What is the matter, Mr Sharma?” She was amused at the increasing discomfort on the PA’s face. He opened his mouth to say something, and closed it again. He looked appealingly at the driver, who did not look away from the wheel. Clearly Mr Sharma was on his own. He took a deep breath. “The thing is, madam, today is Christmas.” He looked at Jagriti hopefully, as if that would mean something to her but she looked blank.
He took another deep breath and dove into it. “Sometimes there are ghosts in that house on Christmas night, madam. Many people have seen them, madam. There is one room on the first floor that become haunted after midnight. Vikash sir and his wife also have seen. He told me he was going to tell you but I think so he forgot, madam.”
Jagriti waited to see if there was more, but Mr Sharma was done. He looked embarrassed.
“What kind of ghosts are they? White saris? Long hair?” She asked with a straight face.
Mr Sharma was not amused. “No madam. I’ve never seen personally any ghosts. But I’ve talked to many people who have seen. It is always Europeans, madam. White people. From the British time. And,” he lowered his voice for dramatic effect, “they are singing songs. Sometimes dancing also. Ramkumar has seen with his own eyes, madam. Ramkumar, please tell madam.”
Ramkumar was not happy to be pulled into the conversation. Continuing to look at the road, he replied, “yes madamji. I saw the ghosts last year at Christmas party. I was serving the guests. Very late night, I think two am. We heard a scream from first floor. One of the guests had fainted in front of the door of the commissioner’s office on the first-floor. She said she has heard some singing from inside the room. She opened the door and saw a lot of British people in the room. They made angry faces at her. We all ran upstairs when we heard her screaming. But by then the British people had disappeared madam. The room was empty. It was very frightening, madam.”
I’m sure it was, thought Jagriti. The world is full of suggestive people. Aloud, she asked, “Is there a security detail at the house? And housekeeping staff?”
Mr Sharma replied, “Oh yes madam. 24–7 security hai. There are 3 fulltime gunmen deployed at the gate madam. You have a housekeeping staff of four. Two ladies two cooks. Ramkumar stays in a driver’s room next to the servant quarters where the housekeeping staff stays.”
“That’s a lot of people. I’ll risk the ghosts. Please take the car to the house. I don’t like hotels.”
“But madam, the housekeeping staff will all be sleeping in their quarters! You will be alone in the house, madam!” Mr Sharma was near tears.
“That’s enough, Mr Sharma. Ramkumar, please drive to the — what did you call it? — the black brick bungalow. ”
Click here for part 2 of the story.
