A loner in my childhood, my scrawny and weak figure prone to being bullied by sturdy and robust boys, I tended to wander around places frequented by few. Those curvy roads which fell into darkness after evening without street lights, the area near the pond where boys swam and splashed around in the water till sunlight stayed but became deserted later.
It was beautiful then. Surrounded by tall trees, the pond’s black motionless water took on the colour of the night reflecting the glow of the street lights and the luminous moon if there was one. My favourite, however, was The Green Street Cemetery of Christians at the fringes of the west side of the town. Being a Hindu, deaths meant cremation rites which lasted for 13 days.
The ashes that remained were poured into the Holy Ganges river. For me it meant being totally erased, making sure you don't come back. My mum said it meant eternal peace. But the Green Street Cemetery of Christians, situated next to an abandoned building which was rumoured to be an orphanage at one time, fascinated me with its neat rows of bodies buried amidst the grass interspersed with trees, each one marked by tombstones mostly built with marble or granite.
Quite a number of them were really ancient and some were recent as there was a thriving community of Anglo Indian Christians in town. The older graves had fallen into ruin. You could know there was no one left in their family or had migrated to other places to care for them. The newer ones would have flowers placed on them by their family and friends. Beautiful dewy red or white roses, often lilies and sometimes flowers whose names I was not aware of. But I would never get to meet the visitors because most of them would visit the Cemetery on Sundays.
My mother had no clue about my whereabouts. After school, I would ramble in the Cemetery. It was a long walk from home but I didn't mind it. Passing by congested small shops selling their wares, offices, apartments and residential colonies , the roads would gradually become noiseless, enveloped by a still air symbolising what lay ahead till one could see imposing iron gates leading to the Cemetery. There was a guard but only for the nights. He would come in at around 8.30 PM and leave at the crack of dawn. The iron gates were left open through the day. I would slip in quietly and drink in the serenity. I would gingerly walk around, careful not to step on the graves. Most people would have been scared. But I felt I was surrounded by good people. Dead. But good. The epitaphs said so.
“Loving father and husband”
“Beloved wife. Always in my heart”.
The trees I felt grew purposefully to provide shade to the dead in the heat. A few of the epitaphs were, of course, sadder as they were of people who had died young. There was Deborah.
“Deborah Brown
2 February 1932- 15 October 1950
Rest in Peace. If love would have saved you, you would have lived forever”.
I wondered what had happened to her.
Some were of a later date.
“Suzette Braganza
16 August 1989- 7 May 1997
You made our lives richer.”
“Michael Connors
9 December 2006- 26 July 2011
A light from our lives has gone.”
Most of the older headstones had disintegrated. But one caught my eye. It had wild grass grown all over it. I scraped at it and read what was still visible
“Ronnie
1928- 11 January 1943
Deliverer of Messages. Mourned by all.”
Ronnie? Who was Ronnie? What did it mean? Deliverer of messages? A sudden ringing of a cycle bell startled me. I turned to see a boy on a bicycle standing with one foot on the ground and the other on the pedal. Dark and tall, he had an annoyed authoritative look about him.
“What are you doing here? Don't you know nobody is allowed here?”
“Uhhh..,” I replied feebly. “I was just looking around.”
The boy’s lips curved into a mocking smile.
“Looking around for what? Ghosts? Do you know there are ghosts here that come out at this time to eat boys like you?”
I didn't answer. But suddenly I felt a cold wind in the midst of a hot summer evening. The boy laughed and pedalled away.
“Don't mind him…,” a voice called to me. I almost jumped out of my skin.
“He’s just a silly ass.”
I turned to face an old man with a crown of shining white hair. Around my height, in the soft glow of the sun setting behind him, his fair wrinkled countenance was open and guileless and he stood ramrod straight, surprising for his age.
“Ok,” I mumbled, discomfited. I knew I had no right to be amongst the graves.
“Have you come to visit someone…. someone in your family?” the old man prodded gently. But there was a twinkle in his eyes as if he knew.
“No,” I replied. After a moment’s hesitation, I blurted out the truth and my curiosity about Ronnie.
The old man laughed.
“It's ok,” he said. “So you want to know about Ronnie? I’ll tell you. Not today. Tomorrow. It's getting dark. I have to go now.”
He waved me away. “Bye,” he said.
“Bye…Mr…,” I looked at him questioningly.
“Edwards. You may call me Mr Edwards.”
I made my way to the Cemetery the next day and found Mr Edwards strolling around.
“Good afternoon Sir,” I called out to him. It sounded old fashioned but then Mr Edwards looked really old, almost a hundred years old though he didn't give the appearance of being sick or fragile from any angle.
“It's almost evening,” he smiled.
“Well?” I asked.
“Impatient aren't you?” Mr Edwards replied with a question and continued sombrely.
“There isn't anything much to tell ... ..Ronnie was an orphan. He lived in the orphanage next to the cemetery. Those days the town was not so densely populated. The community was tightly knit and everyone cared about the two dozen orphans living in the institution. Ronnie was the most popular amongst them and he liked helping the people by running errands and delivering messages.
“Delivering messages?” I asked, puzzled.
“There were no phones back then Nicky…so Ronnie cycled through town delivering messages.” Mr Edwards explained. “In fact if there were no messages, he would make up messages..like “Have a good day”...” Merry Christmas” so on and so forth especially to people who were old and lived alone.”
“What did he look like…Ronnie? I queried.
“Just like a boy…any other boy. Young, active, restless, filled with dreams and good at heart I would like to believe.”
“Physically I meant…What was his appearance like?”
“Thin, not very tall, fair complexion.”
Mr Edwards lapsed into a pensive silence.
”What happened to Ronnie?”
Mr Edwards appeared to snap out of his reverie.
“Ronnie…Such a headstrong youthful boy…. was rushing to deliver a message on his cycle when he tried to avoid a stray dog crossing his path…he fell down, his head hit a rock and he died instantly.”
I fell silent. I didn’t know what I had expected. A story more dramatic, not this sudden quiet tragedy.
“What happened to the orphanage?”
Mr Edwards shrugged. “Oh the orphanage continued to give shelter to many children through the decades…Ronnie was happy as long as there were children…But gradually there was no one to look after it …no one cared anymore …so it just fell into disuse. Ronnie was quite distressed about it…to see it deteriorate to such a wretched state…I've heard a builder has stepped in and bought the property from whoever owns it and will construct a matchbox apartment over it. Ronnie will hopefully be able to free himself from being attached to the ruins.”
I shivered in the heat.
“I thought you said Ronnie is dead?” I paused.
“Do you mean Ronnie’s ghost?” I questioned him and glanced around me for a boy on a cycle.
Mr Edwards smiled. A trifle sadly as if he knew what was on my mind.
“Did you know him?” I continued my line of questioning.
Mr Edwards looked at me quizzically.
“Maybe,” he said in a contemplative mood. “Now shoo…That’s enough. It's time to go home and your mum will be looking for you.”
It was like watching a slow burn thriller series on TV. Old people! Mr Edwards really took his time in telling a simple story. I spent the next day visualising Ronnie delivering messages. I hurried home after school, ate and hastened to leave for the Cemetery.
“Where are you off to?” My mum called out. “I don't see you playing with the boys around these days.”
I didn't reply.
“Awww…possibly Nicky has a girlfriend,” giggled Disha. I ignored her. Sisters can be a real pain.
I hurried to reach the Cemetery but to my disappointment, Mr Edwards was nowhere to be found. I looked down at Ronnie's grave and found a note folded with a white rose inside. I picked it and opened to read
“Sorry. I won't be able to make it today or tomorrow. Don't come tomorrow. We’ll meet the day after.” The handwriting was neatly written in black ink.
The ringing of a cycle bell made me start. It was that boy again. Was he Ronnie?
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked with a guffaw. “Seeing ghosts?”
He cycled away ringing his bell.
I moped around the next day. I was at a loss what to do after school. I sat to watch TV with Dad in the evening.
“At home today? You ok?” he asked. I nodded. Parents! Problem if I go out. Problem if I don't.
The local news flashed. The news anchor somberly announced that the orphanage next to the Green Street Cemetery had collapsed and some parts of the Cemetery had been damaged. I wanted to go and have a look but it was too late. I would have to wait till tomorrow.
I reached the Cemetery at the usual time. The area around the Cemetery was teeming with people. A crew was clearing the mess. An audience had gathered to watch the show. I went to the corner of the graveyard to check whether Ronnie’s grave was damaged. Fortunately, it wasn't. No point hanging around here I thought. I couldn't spot Mr Edwards anywhere. I turned to trudge back. I stepped out when I heard a familiar ringing of a cycle. It was that boy. He screeched to a stop beside me and handed me a note. It was the same kind. A piece of paper folded with a white rose inside. The same neat writing.
“Goodbye Nicky. Time to go. Have a good life,
Ronnie Edwards”
I stared at the note disbelievingly. “Mr Edwards is Ronnie? But Ronnie died at the age of fifteen.”
“So?” The boy seemed amused.
“Ghosts don't age,” I cried.
“Who said so ?” he asked, laughing. “ Your story books? How do you think he knew your name Nicky?”
Yes. I had never told Mr Edwards my name. I had never told this boy either. He started his cycle. I had a feeling I wouldn't be seeing him again.
“How did you know my name is Nicky?” I demanded to know.
He just grinned.
“What’s yours?” I asked as he pushed his right foot on the pedal.
“Connors. Michael Connors,” he replied and sped away.
Bio:
Sushma R Doshi completed her graduation in History from Loreto College, Kolkata. She went on to acquire a PhD in International Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Her short stories and poems have been published by Contemporary Literary Review India, Everyday Fiction, Panoplyzine, Muse India, Literally Stories, Borderless Journal, Fear of Monkeys and Kitaab International amongst others. Her short story "Magic" in the Syncopation Literary Journal has been nominated for the Pushcart prize. She currently resides in India.