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DOWN MEMORY LANE
The mystery house on the hill
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R.V. SMITH tries to unravel the mystery of the house on the hill, once believed to be an enchanted castle
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The now depleted mound at the Panchkuin Road roundabout was perhaps once a part of the nearby cremation ground, for there are a whole lot of samadhis ringing it. On the side is a little hut where a sadhu sits armed with a trishul, braving the loo in
summer and the cold blasts in winter. Of late the hut has acquired mud walls to afford the much needed protection to the sadhu who sits the whole night with the dhuni (sacred fire), lost in meditation.
He must be a lonely man despite the traffic that rushes by around the mound and, as if to cheer him, people sit with him at odd hours. At night bullock-cart drivers carrying huge iron pieces to New Motia Khan share the warmth of the fire with him. Even the policemen out on patrol find the mound a good observation post. But the sadhu sits unconcerned, stripped to the waist and wrapped in things unworldly, lending his company to all those who seek it and allowing his hut to be used by all those in need of shelter. People from the villages especially find his little abode a sanctuary of sorts. Belated travellers hope to stop in it for the night until it’s time for them to resume their journey.
Talking of unusual places, many years ago there was a house atop a hill. It had a thatched roof and mud walls which made it look very romantic. Nearby was a pond, at the side of which grew weeping willows that gently swayed in the breeze and sometimes swept the waters of the pond as though stroking them to life. Children often cycled around the hill wondering what mysteries the house contained, for it looked like a fairy castle to them. Whenever they felt out of sorts they went for a ride around the hill and came back full of pep, as though someone had waved a magic wand.
The fairy
And then one hot afternoon a ‘brave’ boy decided to go up and see things for himself. Leaning his bicycle against a tree, he climbed the stairs slowly — one at a time, his heart pounding louder with each step. The progress uphill was slow, very slow, and it seemed as though he was climbing up to eternity.
Finally he was on top and standing before the stout door which contained all the mysteries. Terror gripped him but he mustered enough courage to knock and waited with a lump in his throat for the door to open. It opened at last and he saw a frail old woman standing with a smile on her face. Was she the fairy gone old with waiting, he wondered.
“What brings you here my boy” she asked in a sweet voice. The lump in the boy’s throat was still there and he couldn’t answer. Just then he saw a monstrous shadow behind the venerable figure and with a scream bounded down three stairs at a time, until he reached his bicycle and was soon tearing down the road.
Now, after 50 years, a chance reference has finally cleared the mystery of the house on the hill. It used to be the property of the Church Mission Society in Agra inhabited by a person of uncommon physique who had married a pretty Englishwoman. That accounts for the “monstrous shadow” one saw while trying to be a brave boy. But it doesn’t matter any more, for the couple are long dead and the thatched hut is gone, and so also the hill.
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