Rays of Sunshine...: 'Pahadi' Wilson and Gulabo....

I knocked at the giant, carved door of the guest house. The echo of my voice coupled with a chilly, gusty breeze pierced the darkness of the autumn night. The gurgling murmur of the flowing ganges subdued the noise of tapping feet on the wooden floor. The wooden door of Deodar made a creaking noise. A thin, pale man greeted me. The light of the lantern and the radiance of the moon fell on his face and his torn, green sweater, making him looking like the protagonist of a low budget horror film. He introduced himself as the khansama(cook) cum caretaker of the guest house-the famous Wilson’s cottage of Harsil, Uttarakhand.

Frederick E. Wilson deserted the British Army after the mutiny of 1857. Charged with sedition and treachery, he sought refuge in a tiny hamlet named Harsil on the banks of the river Bhagirathi in the hills of Garhwal. As time went by, he made a fortune by selling the timber of Deodar trees and the aromatic musk of the musk deer. Cupid struck and Wilson fell in love with a beautiful garhwali girl of an adjacent village named ‘Mukhba’. Her name was Gulabo. Their wedding was a grand affair and Frederick E. Wilson turned into ‘Pahadi’(a colloquial term meaning ‘of the hills’) Wilson - the revered son-in-law of Mukhba.

It had been a long, enervating drive from Uttarkashi to Harsil, the last pit stop before Gangotri and Gaumukh-the mouth of the river Ganga. The fatigue of the journey took its toll on me and I passed out in deep slumber in my sleeping bag.

I awoke early to the chirping of the Himalayan babblers and decided to take a walk to the village Mukhba. The astounding beauty of Garhwal mesmerized me. The sloped canopies of Deodar and spruced pines added to the majesty of the Himalayas. As I made my way up the hill towards Mukhba, I caught a glimpse of the snow clad ‘shivling’ peaks shining gloriously in the rays of sun. Mukhba was bustling with activity. Women dried pumpkins for the harsh winter, urchins played with marbles and laidback men played cards. I decided to visit Gulabo’s ancestral house. A group of men sat huddled together outside the house discussing their wedding night experiences. Their faces beamed with alacrity and excitement as I enquired them about ‘Pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo. As I probed further, I was informed that the spirits of ‘Pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo visit Harsil on the second full moon of autumn every year. Myth has it; at the stroke of midnight, the spirits of Wilson and Gulabo take a romantic ride on a horse across the Wilson’s bridge.

Many intriguing stories and legends have been woven around the hills of Garhwal. A number of them are attributed to the figments of imagination of intoxicated minds. After all, “sooraj hua ast,Garhwal hua mast(As soon as the sun sets, Garhwal turns joyful with liquor)” is a very common maxim in the hills of Uttarakhand. I heard the captivating story with utmost interest and the more I heard, the more I believed that it was nothing more than a recreation of a drunken mind.

I came back to the guest house by dusk and decided to have an early supper. As I ate stuffed parathas of kulath(Himalayan pulse) with gosth(red meat) ,chainsoo(black gram pulses)and bhang ki chutney(sauce made with the seeds of the cannabis plant), I entered into a conversation with the cook. I enquired him about the Wilson’s bridge. As fate and co-incidence would have it, I was lucky to be in Harsil tonight. It was the second full moon of autumn. Driven by my inquisitiveness and an obstinate urge to prove the non-existence of spirits around me, I decided to venture out at night. I cajoled the cook into it. Since midnight was a propitious time for romantic sprits to come riding on horses, we fixed a late night appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Wilson.

By the time the clock struck midnight, the cook was overcome by a drunken stupor, imagining himself to be the raja (king) of Tehri, ordering men in his durbar (courtroom) to get him more liquor. We took our lanterns and walked out slowly. It was dark but the light of the moon engulfed everything like a thin, white blanket. I could hear the rustling of leaves and pine needles against the winds. As we approached the Wilson’s bridge, the rippling sound of the river gained prominence. The entrance to the bridge looked desolate and mysterious. A mystical sea of mist covered the entire bridge. Suddenly, the cook grew silent, pointing towards the other end of the bridge. With eyes wide open, he broke down in a sweat of trepidation. He had seen the ghosts of ‘pahadi’ Wilson and Gulabo. A few moments later, I saw a wild mule walking towards us all by itself. I laughed uproariously. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson had decided to choose a cheaper option for a ride tonight, I thought.

We came back to the guest house and went off to sleep. I arose from my torpor somewhere before dawn. The thrust on my urinary bladders was impossible to ignore even in sleep. I rushed to the toilet to relieve myself. As I stood there discharging the dispensable fluids of my body, my ears picked up the sound of a galloping horse. The resonance it produced kept on increasing. I walked out with my lantern to see the silhouette of a rider on a horse…………. trotting away into a sea of hazy mist.