That Frederick Gomes! That Frederick Gomes! Poem by Hindukush Ojha

'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.'