Returning from an unsuccessful wildfowl shoot in a tea estate near Munnar in 1965, my friend Ivan and I were caught in an unexpected thunderstorm. Soaked to the skin, we sprinted to take shelter in an abandoned hunting lodge en route—a relic from the Raj—and wait out the downpour. We gingerly picked our way up the slippery path heavily overgrown with weeds. I turned the rusted handle and the front door creaked open, protesting. Inside it was dank, semi-dark and windy as most of the window panes were broken or missing. Keeping the shotgun in a corner, I flopped down, exhausted, on a dry patch of floor with my back to the wall and was soon joined by Ivan.
As we glumly waited, I became aware of what appeared to be a deep-throated moan over the pitter-patter of raindrops on the tin roof, emanating periodically from the dilapidated kitchen at the rear. Ivan had heard it too. To him, it seem-ed more like an anguished cry of pain. It did sound spooky—eerily so. Soon a distinct shuffling sound followed—something was moving around there. Was the place haunted, I wondered, by the spirit of some British hunter who had camped here? Folklore had it that the lodge had been popular with British hunters who often stayed overnight to set out at dawn in quest of a stag or gaur with a record-sized ‘head’.
Oddly enough, we noticed that during brief lulls in the drumming of raindrops on the roof or the whistling of the wind, the sounds from the kitchen became far more pronounced and audible. Was the spook trying to warn us away from possible peril? I was young and brashly adventurous. Emboldened by Ivan’s presence, I decided to investigate before dusk gave way to total darkness.
I quietly loaded the shotgun and tiptoed forward warily, with Ivan in tow. The floor was littered with broken glass and other debris. Reaching the doorway, I could just make out a vague form shifting about on the windowsill in the semi-darkness. Then, momentarily, I froze as the ghostly figure rose, suddenly and silently, to flap its way out of the window like a prehistoric pterodactyl. Stifling a scream, I was greatly relieved to see that it was a huge owl—sheltering from the downpour like we were!
George N Netto
Email: gnettomunnar@rediffmail.com