The Old Hospital

The Legend Of The Old Hospital

“The whispered story

  One last glance at the chameleon dance

  And into the dark across the park"

Venus of the Hardsell - Mucous Membrane

I)                    

Himalayan small towns sleep early.

Uneasy but early.

In the long rainy season, the thick mountain mist envelops everything around; creating ghouls out of old deodars, and a long-familiar dread seeps among the townsfolk. Perhaps it is the moss-covered pavements and the all-pervasive smell of mould which induce misery, but even the most cheerful hillman will tell you- the rains dampen the fiercest of wills.

 Hilltowns are often dotted with old colonial buildings made by mad Englishmen who tried to carve a bit of the motherland into the only places cold and damp enough to remind them of home. The rainy season in the Himalayas resembles London in March when the air turns grey. The buildings they left behind have largely survived the onslaught of time, and most of them serve some administrative purpose. It is hard to imagine a small town in the hills without old, gothic-style buildings made from the finest teak. They are a part of the landscape as much as the ageless oaks and deodars surrounding them.

Those who claim that the mountains call them have never felt the unease of a Himalayan monsoon. The air is laden with moisture which permeates into everything, like apathy in a hospital ward. The smell of mould reminds one of death; of old colonial graveyards with giant stone arches over heavy iron gates, of decay and entropy.

Not the feelings most tourists want to associate with a relaxing vacation.

This town was no exception.

The colonial mementoes left behind had retained their original aesthetics, save an oddly coloured shingle or two. True to their cause, they had not just survived the onslaught of time but thrived despite it. The local government hospital had been serving its intended purpose since the late 1800s and will seemingly continue forever. 

The hospital was a mansion with giant Victorian windows, winding staircases with polished wood railings and long, echoey halls with the distinctive, sanitised smell anyone familiar with hospitals would recognize.

For S, this was home.

He had been living in the residential complex for all eleven years of his existence and knew the various rickety staircases and corridors of the hospital like the back of his hand.

He had no particular interest in British-made buildings- having spent all his time living in one and reading in another; the old town library. Unlike most children his age, S liked to spend his evenings exploring fictional worlds in the quiet comfort of the old library down by the lake. His mother approved of this; she often thought of him as a gentle, quiet child, incapable of deceit, and very vulnerable to it.

What his mother wasn’t aware of, or incapable of acknowledging, was the fact that S was a spry boy, athletic like all mountain lads are, and though he seemed vaguely detached from his surroundings occasionally, he was a bright child and did well enough at school.

S enjoyed his walks from the library. He got his membership card in the summer months and made it a point to leave before 7PM. He would punctually watch the sunset over the Himalayas at dusk; a red ember hurtling down the infinite expanse beyond the mighty mountains, turning the horizon scarlet.

The monsoons, however, took him by surprise.

 The entire town wore a permanent shroud of fog; thick clouds rose from the lake and settled all over. The pleasant blue lights of nearby hotel signs and billboards took on an ethereal quality and would seem unearthly in the dense fog. 

The townsfolk had a tired demeanour; they seemed to be waiting for bad news to come to them; perhaps a landslide near some part of the highway, or a river overflowing.

 Any bit of news that would suggest the collective premonition had been passed on to some other, misfortunate souls.

The season of fog would bring some terrible news, and every year, the townspeople heaved a sigh of relief when it was not of their town.

They were not always this fortunate.

S was warned by his mother to return early that evening because the fog always got thicker in the evenings and he tended to lose track of time while reading. 

Like the rest of the townsfolk, she seemed distant. He attributed it to adulthood. 

“Be back home soon, it gets dark earlier these days.”, his mother instructed.

“Don’t worry ma, I can walk back from the library in ten minutes. I’m fast”, S said reassuringly.

There is something quite reassuring about a child’s naivete and his mother couldn’t help but smile.

S waved at her and grabbed his bag; he had to return some books to avoid paying a fine and started the walk downhill to the library.

He walked down the residential complex through the long colonnade with the tin roof that culminated at the hospital gate which was the final destination of the road that coiled uphill like a great serpent.

He went downhill at speeds only possible for eleven-year-old children and was at the library in record time.

The hospital stood at the edges of the dense forest which carpeted the rest of the hill. 

 The forest had several narrow cattle paths used by the locals, and the occasional leopard had also been spotted there.

It was also a regular hunting ground for S. 

However, the children in the neighbourhood instinctively avoided the forest at night.

Like all hill children, they were brought up on a steady diet of folktales of ghouls and banshees, trolls and demons, with an affinity for the jungles and an insatiable appetite for children.

 Stories surrounding the old hospital added conviction to their fears, stories about mad English doctors who killed themselves after poisoning their patients, old nurses who died while working the graveyard shift and the many dead patients, who seemed to have taken permanent residence in the long, lonely corridors. 

They were not the only ones.

The guards and the workers would often spend their days working and nights drinking on the hospital premises.

Perhaps they found some comfort with the ghosts of yesteryears.

In the hauntingly long corridors of the hospital, lit by old yellow tungsten bulbs hung on flimsy wires, which cast dark, wavering shadows every time the cold mountain wind whispered through the tall windows, the stories stopped being merely stories.

Especially for an eleven-year-old boy with a penchant for reading. 

It was about a three km uphill walk from the town library to the old hospital. The road was intercepted by overflowing seasonal nallahs or gadheras as they are known locally. Crossing them was a seasonal hazard, but S had mastered the art quite early. At his age, tip-toeing across stones or leaping from one parapet to another did not require forethought.

These paved nallahs ran through miles of hills clad in virgin oak forests and emerged from dark, moss-covered coves, feeding the lake with water from distant underground springs. S was fascinated with them. The frothy water roared as it gushed through the nallahs; a miniature waterfall at every twist of the road. 

The monsoon fog tends to play tricks on the mind.

Shrouded in the mist, everyday things appear sinister, and for a young boy habitual to feeding his imagination, the possibilities of finding monsters in the fog are endless. However, S wasn’t too keen on conjuring any monsters. The credulity of children is quite pliable; the thought of something unnatural lurking in the shadows would be terrifying, but not impossible.

Children do not have the acquired adult need to seek order and structure; they thrive in chaos. 

The long, winding road to the hospital compound crossed three of these watery sinews that fed the lake; one of them opened right next to the library and the adjacent beach was a hotspot for young local smokers; kids who have just picked up the habit and practise it with religious fervour in the discretion provided by the library and the lake.

However, this was only possible in the summers, since it remained inundated during the rainy season. S knew every bit of this road and like most children his age, had designated safe spots and danger zones, especially after sunset. The safe areas were generally lit with awkwardly placed street lights that flooded them with an unearthly yellow glow. That glow was favourable to the dark spots, which generally harboured the nallahs that appeared briefly, with the steady but unsettling sound of gushing water announcing their arrival. S stayed clear of these nallahs at night; the old legends often spoke of evil entities that stayed close to water.

Although he understood that these tales were meant to scare and tame children into obedience, he found it difficult to doubt their veracity, especially in the thick monsoon fog.

On his route to the library, he navigated the paths subconsciously while ruminating over the latest narrative he was perusing. 

To the small business owners along his path, the diminutive boy trudging along the steep incline, lost in thought, was a common sight and most paid no heed to it. 

This suited S just fine because he did not enjoy getting interrupted while exploring dreamscapes. 

The quiet cedars and old streetlamps were company enough for him.

As expected, S lost track of time in the quiet corner of the library he preferred, and it was only when John, the library attendant, called out to him that he realised it was way past his usual time, and his mother would be furious.

Full of trepidation, he hurried along the meandering road to the hospital, and to his dismay, all the shops along the way had closed for the night. This was not a cause for concern; he knew the path well, and the only thing he worried about was his mother’s wrath. However, in his haste, he had forgotten to inquire about the exact time when leaving the library and hoped to gain that knowledge along the way at one of the shops scattered along the road. 

As he went further uphill, S noticed that the road was completely devoid of people, even more so than usual. In the imaginative mind, especially at night, when courage is at its lowest ebb, every flickering light, every jumping shadow is a ghoul or monster, waiting for an ambush. Although S was unnerved, he kept his eyes on the safe spots and avoided the shadows and pretty soon (seemed an eternity to him), he could see the comforting glow of the old hospital lights and he hurried towards them. 

To the horror movie aficionado, the old hospital, nestled in a thick deodar forest would be the perfect breeding spot for several outwardly monstrosities, but for S, it was home, and home means safety.

Once he was at the hospital gates, he let out a long-withheld sigh and a small but fervent prayer, thanking the gods for a safe passage. 

Like most boys his age, S had a tumultuous relationship with god. He wanted to defy the authority of god, perhaps even usurp him/her, but in times of crisis, he could not help but ask god for help and forgiveness in equal measures. A lot of folks maintain this relationship with god all their lives.

As he reached the final leg of his journey, S was downright chirpy, although he knew his mother’s anger waited for him at the end; but it was familiar and he might even get some extra pocket money the next day if his mother felt guilty enough. He knew she wouldn’t be too worried, since the town was quite safe for children. 

When he started walking up the path where the colonnade began, S started whistling a tune he had picked up from the TV. His mother would be aghast if she found out, but he risked it; he was a big boy now, after all.

As he merrily made his way home along the tin-covered colonnade, he noticed it was much darker than usual- the yellow light emanating from tungsten bulbs could barely penetrate the dark fog.

 However, home was just a couple of hundred metres uphill, and the fog would not stop him from getting to his cup of hot tea.

In the dim pathway, S noticed the silhouette of a man slumped on the bench that sat midway from where the path took a sharp left turn uphill to the residential complex.

 Like a true mountain kid, S was used to drunks, and he presumed it was one of the workers from the hospital, taking a break from the steep walk uphill, after an evening of drunken debauchery.

 He could usually see the tell-tale signs- drooped head, dishevelled clothes and the malodorous whiff of cheap alcohol around them.

In the dense fog, S could only see a silhouette of the figure. From the sitting position and posture, it was evident that he was one of the regulars of the bench and was likely to spend the night under the tin roof.

 S presumed it would be uncomfortable but had no intention of waking up the man and inquiring about the comfort offered by the bench.  

He was very discreet as he crossed that section of the pathway since he did not want to arouse the man from what seemed like a fitful drunk slumber.

 He cautiously approached the part, giving the figure a wide berth. When he was about 5 feet from the silhouette, it suddenly jerked upright and lumbered drunkenly downhill towards S.

It was then S realised that the lurching figure did not have a head.

The silhouette ended at his neck.

Its arms flailed around, groping almost rhythmically.

S, guided by some atavistic force, leapt backwards and managed to stay on his feet and avoid those arms which inched closer to him.

He ran downhill without looking back, with speeds only a terrified young boy could muster.

He only stopped when he reached the bright lights of the hospital gate, drenched in preternatural sweat, with his heart ready to burst out of his ribcage. 

His harrowed expression must have caught the night guard’s attention because he came up to S, a lit beedi between his lips and inquired if S was okay.

S merely squeaked a line about it being too dark. 

The night guard took pity on the whimpering little boy and decided to escort him uphill to the residential area. 

The night guard’s powerful flashlight beam pierced the fog easily, unlike the pale-yellow light of the old tungsten bulbs meant to light up the colonnade. 

This second walk revealed nothing suspicious around the lonesome bench, and S reached home without further excitement.

Despite his agitated state, he thanked the night guard profusely and only then knocked on the door.

As anticipated, his mother was furious.

However, her attitude reversed almost immediately when she saw the terrified expression on his face.

“What happened?”, she asked, taking the boy in.

“Ma, near the bench close to the morgue…”, he stammered.

“Oh, did you come across the 'sarkata'(headless one)?”, she inquired nonchalantly.

S was at a loss for words and stared at his mother incredulously.

“He frequents these parts, sometimes people will see him, but he’s mostly harmless, you needn’t worry”, she explained, handing him a warm cup of tea.

Perhaps there is a reason why Himalayan small towns sleep early.

Uneasy, but early.