An Eerie Clutch

He lay motionless on the worn carpet beside the massive wooden bed, the space between nightmare and new tea life stretching vast and quiet around him.

His fingers groped blindly for the bedside lamp switch. With a soft click, light flooded the large room, sharp and brash against the dark. His eyes fell on his left arm—purple and yellow bruises spreading like wildfire beneath the skin, vivid and alarming. A cold trickle of dread slid down his spine. He took in the strange surroundings but found some small comfort in the familiar wristwatch resting next to the lamp. The hands read 3:20. Rain pelted the window in relentless sheets, streaming into rivulets as if searching for a way inside, making his heart tremble with their restless rhythm.

Vijay was to reach Duncan's House in Calcutta on June 1, 1983. His appointment with Mr. Sugarto Basu (the corporate personnel of Duncans) was at 11 a.m. A day earlier, he had boarded the Howrah Express in First Class from Dehradun—his first time travelling that way. True to form, the train arrived five hours late at Howrah Station. Anxiety gnawed at him; it was his first job interview after college. Waiting at the Duncan's office, Mr. Mukherjee, the personal assistant to Mr. Sugarto Basu, looked surprised when Vijay finally appeared.

“Mr. Basu has been waiting for you, Vijay, but you’re six hours late,” he said. “Let me check if Mr. Basu is in his office.”

Minutes later, Vijay was led inside to meet the man himself. Mr. Basu met Vijay courteously but was visibly annoyed. Vijay’s cheeks flushed as he stammered, “Sir, the train was delayed.”

Mr. Basu’s stare cut sharper than words. “Don’t you know trains in India are often late? You should have come a day earlier!”

Taken aback but determined, Vijay apologized and promised to be punctual. After the formalities, he held an appointment letter and a plane ticket to Bagdogra for the next day. That night, at the Duncan's Guest House on Park Street, Vijay nibbled a chicken mayonnaise sandwich and sipped tea served by Abdul, the caretaker. Abdul’s warmth eased his nerves. Abdul added, “Malhotra Saab is strict but a good manager—you’ll enjoy working with him, saab.”

The following morning, a gentle knock announced tea on a teak trolley lined with lace doilies. The teapot sat snug beneath an embroidered tea cosy. Vijay found the elegance of the ‘tea way of life’ overwhelming and enchanting.

By afternoon, Vijay was at Dum Dum Airport; an hour later, he landed at Bagdogra. There, Mr. Alok Mani, Senior Assistant of Lankapara Tea Gardens, welcomed him warmly. Soon they arrived at the Mouni Bungalow, the first tea estate bungalow Vijay had ever seen, perched overlooking the airport runway. As Vijay watched an Indian Airlines flight take off towards Calcutta, he whispered in awe, “What a sight it is!”

The Dooars Tea Gardens

At 2:30 PM, their journey to Lankapara began. A quick stop at Saluja Restaurant in Siliguri broke the drive. Hours later, impatience gnawed at Vijay. “How much further?” he asked.

“Bas aane hi wala hai,” Mani replied, but the road stretched on, merciless and long.

Dusk cloaked the landscape as they passed Binnaguri. Outside, furious clouds rolled like a witch’s cauldron, unleashing a downpour that blurred the world beyond the jeep’s windshield. Raindrops hammered relentlessly, casting the road in a misty gloom. Tyres whispered cautiously on slick asphalt.

After what seemed like an eternity to Vijay, Mr. Mani broke the silence. “We’re at Burra Bungalow—let’s meet the Burra Saab.” Vijay took in the view of the sprawling, immaculately maintained bungalow. After the initial introduction, Mr. Mani dropped Vijay at his assigned Chota bungalow, also known as chaar number, which he was to share with Mr. Jitendra Rawat, who would be his immediate Senior.  

Mr. Vijendra Pratap Sahi

“A few large pegs of whiskey will calm your nerves,” Jitendra suggested with a knowing smile.

They settled into the gol kamra, the storm outside deepening the shadows inside. Candlelight flickered across the walls as the bungalow’s power cut off, plunging them into eerie gloom. Jitendra’s voice dropped low as he spun haunted tales of tea bungalows.

As whiskey warmed their veins and the storm raged outside, the night stretched on, thick with mystery and the promise of the days to come.

Vijay and Smita with their pets, Copper and Midnight

Vijay was now comforted back in the guest room and thankful that the electricity was restored. Though it was past midnight, sleep evaded him. He lay there gazing into the darkness, feeling the unfamiliar bed underneath him. His thoughts wandered as to what lay ahead. He dozed off gradually. The next thing he knew was an oppressive weight bearing down on his chest, like a shadowy figure pressing with silent force. It felt as if invisible hands clasped tightly around his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs. Desperately, he clawed at the crushing burden, pushing and struggling, but it clung to him, unmoving — a relentless grip refusing to loosen.

He was terrified. The haunted stories Jitendra had shared kept crawling into the corners of his mind, twisting his thoughts into a tangled web of fear. Was some supernatural force looming over him, pressing down with invisible hands? He pulled frantically at his arms, desperate to shake off the creeping dread—but it was all in vain.

Suddenly, he realised he had fallen, his body sprawled on the cold carpet beside the bed. Summoning every ounce of courage, he fumbled blindly for the bedside lamp. With a sharp snap, the room flooded with harsh, revealing light.

He reached out, trembling, for the water glass on the side table and swallowed greedily, the cool liquid grounding him. His eyes then fell on the dark bruises on his left arm. Relief washed over him in bitter waves—at least it was just his own hands, gripping and pulling in panic, mistaken for some ghostly presence.

Vijendra, Akshendra and Smita then (Left) & recent photo of Vijay and Smita (Right)

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Glossary:

Bas aane hi wala hai: We're almost there

Gol kamra: Drawing room

Chaar number: Bungalow no. 4