House on a Haunted Hill

‘‘A bhoot bangla in this age?’’ he bellowed, looking at us disbelieving. But Sharma did not disappoint us. ‘‘The haunted house in Sanjauli,’’ he pointed up, ‘‘People say they hear weird sounds from the house. Local lore has it that it is haunted by the ghost of a mad woman who was locked up there and you can hear her cries at night.’’

It did not take us long to reach the crowded hillside. And to our surprise, even the policeman knew about the place. ‘‘Just take the trail,’’ he said, pointing nonchalantly at what looked like a ravine, ‘‘and you’ll reach the bungalow.’’ Nestled way down the hill, it sat desolate and eerie, daring us to come closer.

We ventured down, trying hard not to break a leg on a hill lined with junk and heaps of broken rocks that seemed ready to turn into a landslide. It was a good half-hour later that we reached the house, only to be greeted by a man with a bottle. A ghost? No. He was Ghanshyam, one of the several labourers who lived there. ‘‘I haven’t noticed anything usual in the past two months that I have been here,’’ said Ghanshyam rubbished the ghost theory, inviting us to take a look inside. We, the bravehearts, however, lost our nerve, psyched out by the inky darkness.

Finally, it was with some relief that we made the back-breaking trek to the top where Anuj Dogra, the previous owner of the house, also pooh-poohed the talk of spirits. ‘‘My grandparents bought this house from a well-known Muslim industrialist in 1958 and lived there till 1971.’’ The ghostly rumours, he said, were spread by a chowkidar who wanted to keep curious visitors at bay.

Suitably chastened, we headed back to our car where the driver, an ardent believer in witches, had made enquiries of his own and come up with a collection — a white man’s ghost at Jakhu, churail bawli (Witches’ Well) on Cemetery Road, plus a nightly horse-rider on the road from Sanjauli to Indira Gandhi Medical College and, a phantom rickshaw-puller near the skating rink. The Witches’ Well, our first stop, turned out to be a trickle in the middle of hauntingly beautiful deodar-covered hills. Just right for a mushy tete-a-tete, but too close to the graves for comfort. We just fled.

The rider was a more inviting proposition, especially after a colleague confessed to having bumped into him. ‘‘I was walking home past midnight when I heard the faint sound of bells. I thought it was someone playing the radio, but there was no one around. Then suddenly, there was this thundering clipitty-clop of hooves and I just ran for my life.’’ Sreenivas Joshi, a retired IAS officer, recounted how his friend Prof Madan Sharma, had encountered the ghostly rickshaw-puller near the skating rink, again at night.

In broad daylight, however, there was nothing remotely spooky about these roads. So we just walked a while before deciding to check out Rothney Castle at Jakhu, a mansion reportedly frequented by a white ghost. Once upon a time, it was the home of A O Hume, father of the Indian National Congress (INC), making many imaginative souls conclude that the white apparition was probably his spirit. Also called the Glasshouse by locals, it has now been bought by a Delhi-based business family. A paint job was in progress when we sneaked into the house for a look. Cheri Ram, the gardener who has been working here for the past 20-odd years, dismissed the spirit sighting. ‘‘I’ve never seen the ghost though people talk about it,’’ he said before getting back to his rhododendrons. Om Prakash, an accountant who lives in the outhouse, also denied any ghostly encounters. Maybe the white apparition didn’t like the presence of former Chief Minister Virbhadra Singh’s security guards who had shacked up here, and vanished.

The hawker selling walking sticks across the road floated another theory. ‘‘People and colonisers have shooed away the ghosts, now they live only in remote hamlets.’’ (And you thought it is ghosts who scare people.)

The old-fashioned bhoots, it seems, have been replaced with unseen forces who seem particularly attached to VVIP fortunes and houses. It is thanks to this that no state chief minister who stayed at Oakover — the official residence on Mall Road — has ever completed the term. The present incumbent Prem Kumar Dhumal has, however, broken the jinx. Insiders reveal the god-fearing CM did the trick with a stream of yagnas and Vastu-inspired modifications.

A mischievous force is at work even in Barnes Court, the Governor house, which has seen nine incumbents in seven years. Perhaps, it has got something to do with its original occupant, Sir Edward Barnes, the commander-in-chief of India, who lived her e till 1832.

However, we encountered the real thing only when some spirit-struck Simlaites guided us to Salogra and Solan. ‘‘Ask anyone about the haunted house at Salogra and they will tell you,’’ said a kindred soul, sending us panting back to the plains. Finding the Salogra bhoot bangla was a cakewalk compared to the others. Every fruit-seller on the way — the hillside is dotted with them — knew about it. But the building itself proved to be an anti-climax. Nicely tiled, with shutters (for shops), it looked anything but eerie. Or so we thought until we bumped into Vimla Devi and her daughter. The house, they told us, has had its share of strange happenings. ‘‘Many years ago, there used to be a theka upstairs, and the men would often complain of ghosts. Then, at least three persons who lived here died mysteriously and people started calling it a bhoot bangla.’’ Vimla Devi, who rented the ground floor, said the spirits spared her and her family. ‘‘Only my late husband once saw what he thought was a ghost.’’

So does Anees Villa at Solan, the house which Salman Rushdie has staked his claim. But the charming lodge (it makes you climb a flight of 50-odd stairs) had its first rush with the unknown only after the dispute. Its caretaker Govind Ram, who has been living here since 1997, recalled how scared he was when he first heard strange noises at night. ‘‘At times, it would sound like a rock falling on the roof, but there would be nothing.’’ Perhaps, the spirits were testing Govind’s grit, for they left him alone after a few months. ‘‘I wore them out,’’ he grinned.

In our case, the spooks wore us out.