'Dad Larry Holmes, your friend from Sem,
Like a bulldozer who cleared the road,
Off Woodian's brigand rival horde,
After football matches, at the flats.
Do tell us, about him more.'
'Ha ha! Are you talking of Frederick Gomes,
That guy from Sem,
Who, in our many tale's
Been mentioned? '
'Yeah dad yeah, the same guy,
Born with a web to his eye…
Didn't you say once
He had died...much too early,
God bless his soul.
Did he not, once, see a woman's ghost
On that wall
By the teachers' bungalows?
That low wall, on which
He saw, her wail, that night
And the sound carried up to the Medleys!
Where a small forged iron gate
Opened up from the pine and scrub,
At the cliffs where the misty whiffs
From the valley below,
Would gently crane their necks to kiss
The giant dahlias, that had grown
Upon a rocky black granite ledge-
Wild, crowded and promiscuous
That class one boys, could sometimes pluck
For Mrs. Medley on her birthday.'
'Yeah, boys, the Medleys! '
'Dad ….
Didn't you mention once- Mark,
With a balding pate,
And a black moustache
Who on days, when he had planned ahead,
Wore, that infamous red jacket
To show his students, they had crossed
All limits of his vast patience.
You said, he never cussed or caned
But impulsively could chuck at your face
Clean drinking water- a whole glassful...
And at evenings, with a fraternal smile
When one could catch a whiff
Too faint…
Like something of a whiskey breath
That reminded you of your old man at home
When in a jovial mood, he would tuck
You, into your dormitory, for the night.'
'Hey, you forgot to use the Mister
And I insist you be polite,
You are not US citizens yet,
(Even, if you are so inclined)
And he was my class teacher, all right
So address him properly, with respect
As, the late Mr. Mark Medley,
He was a friendly guy, yes he was
Unless of course, perchance, he wore
That infernal jacket, with hybrid sleeves
Detachable at the shoulder seams.'
'I was studying in class six then,
And around your age, when this happened.
Strange bubbles had grown on my skin
All over from head to toes!
Like squishing grapes, you felt their juice
Between your thumb and finger pads
Such fun to squeeze, every now and then
Like bursting bubbled blister packs!
But the fun had gone...
When a fever began to take toll
So to the hospital downhill,
Against my wish, I had to go
Under the wings of a dedicated nurse,
Equipped well, to bring back her brood
To the normalcy of pristine health
With a chicken pox, I was diagnosed...
By our Reverend Sister Justina.
A professionally qualified, nurse was she
Tall and graceful, like a coconut tree
From the warm coasts of the Malabar sea
A beautiful heart with a motherly grace,
Her teeth gently protruded out
In a sunny smile, that put you at ease
Like a white toy- shovel upon her face...
That even a small boy would find,
Appealing, functional within his reach,
To build sandcastles in his lonely beach.
In her early thirties, her black hair
Were combed tight and swept under a veil
Sometimes white and sometimes grey
Like the changing plumage, of migratory birds...
And, another mystery... loomed on a tiny cross
That on her neck, she always wore.
Diligent at her work for God
She was punctual for her evening prayers,
Reminded always at 5: 30 pm,
By that clanging bell at the belfry tower.
A bellman swung there industriously
Orangutan-like, with whole body weight,
On a rope-chain pulley blackened with grease,
Causing... the heavy bell to oscillate.
And Sis would then climb, up the hillside
On a stone and mortar staircase maze
Secured from one side by a red iron railing,
Like a frigid harpsichord, that sometimes played
On our, off and on, runs on that magical path
With our wedged-in rulers, 't would reverberate
KTRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…!
Behind the closed chapel doors,
Hummed serenely...the beautiful organ
Undisturbed by the racket, outside.
The unseen ripples of the holy water...
Cool and brimming in crystal stoups,
That to the walls were bound with grout
Encouraged, subtly, like only water can...
At the chapel shrine to experience God.
And some homesick boys, who felt alone,
Thought Virgin Mary to be their Mom!
In a blue sash and palms, raised at prayer
The mother of God, could love us all.
But, for us in the hospy, we had Sis,
Strangely fascinated by birds was she,
Painted them in colours vivid...
As...they pecked into, invisible stuff,
By those tall oaks and deodars trees...
On her terraced flower beds.
Perched to the walls, these looked at us
Encaged in their picture frames,
Nursing an itch...as we lay on our beds,
With scary stares, at our skin vesicles,
They could puncture these to give release,
If they surgically used their sharp beaks
In the little dorm, where we had our fun
Transformed into our homely quarantine.
The rectangular space was occupied
With four hospital beds on either side,
White, and shone under an electric light
Thoughtfully muffled with a white muslin,
That veiled its harshness from our eyes...
But, lit up the tiny cracks at night
Formed on the rafters,
Fom a century of ceaseless walking
By countless boys
Up to the old washrooms' doors...
On the eastern wall of the dormitory.
The large window panes reflected,
Like giant mirrors of a studio
The ghostly faces of us night- suit models
Owing, to the relative dark outside,
Eight kids about to fall off to sleep
Who thought perhaps a bit of home,
Of the tuck shop, or the Ramnee girls
Or of Virgin Mary or football. '
'But Dad, what about Frederick Gomes,
Did he too have the pox
And was stuck like you,
To hear that rap of nightly knocks
Upon your hospital's locked in doors? '
'Oh! I forgot to mention
That he lived with his folks
Down at the teachers' bungalows
Separated by a wall from the cliffs
A long roofed stairway, lead from here
And up the hill and the table top
With the main school and a football field…
At level with these cliffs
About four hundred yards around the hill
Below the school and other buildings
Was our beautiful school infirmary…
The most ancient of all Naini buildings
Known previously as the Stone Cross Church,
Though no more a church, but just as peaceful
This was where the incident occurred.
Freddy, had no chicken pox,
But a grown up Cobra, as his new pet.
He had learnt from a Franciscan priest
How to catch 'em, with just bare hands.
There were many on the hill side, then
I knew places, where to find them too
But had my own collection of slugs and snails,
For snakes, one had to be sixteen.'
'Did he then die of a snake bite?
Or fell off the cliff by the side of his house?
And whose ghost had he seen
At the place where he lived
Whose wail had carried to the Medleys? '
'No one would know that for sure
About his womanly apparition
That moaned that night on the wall
That through his webbed eyes
Only he could see.
However, he died many years later
When upon his chest he was shot
From the gun of a goon, held point blank
In a cold blood, that gave him not
A moments notice to hit back…
That happened in Lucknow, fellas
At the school of La Martiniere.
Built like a panther, yes he was
He dived across the football posts
Restrained alone by his solemn will,
And, chewed up...therefore, shortened nails
Would prevent the ball from bursting loud!
Once, he broke his ribs in a match
The crunching sound had carried far,
But believe, he would not have a substitute...
And many a time he won us a fight,
With the rivals fighting a devil alight.
Though older than most from his class
The entire town held him in awe
He ran up and down our lake hill town
For fun …it seems when he felt bored!
He brooked no nonsense from his books,
The world his teacher or so he thought.
So I caught him one afternoon,
When out on a run-
Our chicken-poxed infirmary's path..
He crossed, like a leopard on the prowl
And I could imagine him growl:
'That, thus stop my path
What temerity hath thou! '
But I had to ask him blunt,
If he was game for a ghostly hunt?
For our hospy was haunted and...
Strange knocks were heard
When the boys lay there in quiet
Just after the prayers were said!
At the aclove on the west wall...
Where Mother Mary eternally prayed,
With a painful and beseeching look,
Of a humility and resilience in motherhood,
Atop a pedestel, where her statue stood.
Of course, he listened me out
But did not bother to
Answer my question,
Of a subject, he knew all about,
They were famous those knocks
Registered far and wide
Right up to the white oaken door...
As far up, as Bro. Comber's annex,
At night, like an eclipse, in the mid dorm.
My bed had almost touched this door,
Under whose mattress,
Was my trove of comics...
Borrowed until never returned...
By when, you had the ownership!
My rogue was admonished by Rev Brother,
Who had flown once with the RAF
Or so they said, coz his silver white hair
Were gelled to a shell
That would not budge a strand...
On his bombing sorties to Nazi land!
I was caned by the elegant guy,
Whose favourite Old Spice and
And a blue of newly smoked Wills,
Like in a temple, where incense sticks...
In that room, wafted...
To initiate me, to the best of six!
While I wistfully stared
At the brimming swimming pool,
Four stories down, below...
Squirreling comics would invite,
I never thought,
Pestilence - the silver fish and rats
That got our Brother scared.
Swish like a hiss, the cane flew wild
A stubborn bottom, bruised and red!
My first lesson to the order of things:
An intricate pyramid of a food web.
'But dad, what about Frederick Gomes?
What happened when you crossed his path? '
'O! he just gave me his webbed eye
So to see spirits at night!
Of course, it was more complex than that
And quickly he ordained me his heir
With a warm handshake...
But, he made me swear
To never tell anyone
As to what I could see
Or what I had seen,
To do otherwise
He had me believe, would be,
The gravest insult to the dead.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem