Wilson’s bridge, Gulabi’s ghost

By Ruskin Bond

THE old wooden bridge has gone, and today an iron suspension bridge straddles the Bhagirathi as it rushes down the gorge below Gangotri. But villagers will tell you that you can still hear the hoofs of Wilson’s horse as he gallops across the bridge he’d built a hundred and fifty years ago. At the time people were sceptical of its safety, and so, to prove its sturdiness, he rode across it, again and again. Parts of the old bridge can still be seen, on the far bank of the river. And the legend of Wilson and his pretty hill bride, Gulabi, still prevails in this region.

I had joined some friends in the old forest rest-house near the river. There were the Rays, recently married, and the Duttas, married many years. The younger Rays quarrelled frequently; the older Duttas looked on with more amusement than concern. I was a part of their group and yet something of an outsider. As a bachelor, I was a person of no importance. And as a marriage counsellor I wouldn’t have been of any use to them.

I spent most of my time wandering along the river banks, or exploring the thick deodar and oak forests that covered the slopes: it was these trees that had made a fortune for Wilson and his patron, the Raja of Tehri. They had exploited the great forests to the full, floating huge logs downstream to the timber yards in the plains.

Returning to the rest-house late one evening, I was half-way across the bridge when I saw a figure at the other end, emerging from the mist. Presently I made out a woman, wearing the plain dhoti (tucked-in sari) of the hills; her hair fell loose over her shoulders. She appeared not to see me, but reclined against the railing of the bridge, looking down at the rushing waters far below. And then, to my amazement and horror, she climbed the railing and threw herself over it.

I ran forward, calling out, but I was in time only to see her fall into the foaming waters below, where she was carried swiftly downstream.

The watchman’s cabin stood a little way off. The door stood open. The watchman, Ram Singh, was reclining on his bed, smoking a hookah.

"Someone just jumped off the bridge," I said breathlessly. "She’s been swept down the river!"

The watchman was unperturbed. "Gulabi again," he said, almost to himself; and then to me; "Did you see her clearly?"

"Yes, a woman with long loose hair — but I didn’t see her face very clearly."

"It must have been Gulabi. Only a ghost, my dear sir. Nothing to be alarmed about. Every now and then someone sees her throw herself into the river. Sit down," he said, gesturing to a battered old arm-chair, "be comfortable and I’ll tell you all about it."

I was far from comfortable, but I listened to Ram Singh tell me the tale of Gulabi’s suicide. After making me a glass of hot sweet tea, he launched into a long, rambling account of how Wilson, a British adventurer seeking his fortune, had been hunting musk-deer when he encountered Gulabi on the path from her village. This girl with the grey-green eyes and peach-blossom complexion enchanted him, and he went out of his way to get to know her people.

Was he in love with her, or did he simply find her beautiful and desirable? We shall never really know. In the course of his travels and adventures he had known many women, but Gulabi was different, childlike,ingenuous, and he decided he would marry her. The humble family to which she belonged had no objection. Hunting had its limitations, and Wilson found it more profitable to tap the region’s great forest wealth. In a few years he had made a fortune. He built a large timbered house at Harsil, another in Dehra Dun, and a third at Mussoorie. Gulabi had all she could have wanted, including two robust little sons from Wilson. While he was away, she looked after their children and their large apple orchard at Harsil.

And then came the evil day when Wilson met the Englishwoman, Ruth, on the Mussoorie Mall, and decided that she should have a share of his affections and his wealth. A fine house was provided for her too. The time he spent at Harsil with Gulabi and his children dwindled. "Business affairs" (he was now part/owner of a Bank) kept him in the fashionable hill-resort. He was a popular host and took his friends and associates on shikar parties in the Doon. Gulabi brought up her children village-style.

She had heard stories of Wilson’s dalliance with the Mussoorie woman, and on one of his rare visits she confronted him and voiced her resentment, demanding that he leave the other woman. He brushed her aside, told her not to listen to idle gossip. When he turned away from her, she picked up the flintlock pistol that lay on the gun-table, and fired one shot at him. The bullet missed, shattering her looking-glass. Gulabi ran out of the house, through the orchard and into the forest, then down the steep path to the bridge built by Wilson only two or three years before. When he had recovered his composure he mounted his horse and came looking for her. It was too late. She had already thrown herself off the bridge, into the swirling waters far below. Her body was found a mile or two downstream, caught between some rocks.

This was the tale that Ram Singh, the watchman, told me, with various flourishes and interpretations of his own. I have given the gist of it. I thought it would make a good story to tell my friends that evening, before the fireside in the resthouse. They found the story fascinating but when I told them I had seen Gulabi’s ghost they thought I was doing a little embroidering of my own. Mrs Dutta thought it was a tragic tale. Young Mrs Ray thought Gulabi had been very silly. "She was a simple girl," opined Mr Dutta. "She responded in the only way she knew..." "Money can’t buy happiness," said Mr Ray. "No," said Mrs Dutta, "but it can buy you a great many comforts." Mrs Ray wanted to talk of other things and so I changed the subject. It can get a little confusing for a bachelor who must spend the evening with two married couples. There are undercurrents of which he is unaware.

The bridge was busy with traffic during the day, but after dusk there were only a few vehicles on the road and seldom any pedestrians. A mist rose from the gorge below and obscured the far end of the bridge. I walked across it quite often, half expecting, half hoping to see Gulabi’s ghost again. It was her face that I really wanted to see. Would her fabled beauty still be there?

It was on the evening before our departure that something happened that was to shake my composure for a long time afterwards.

The rays had apparently made up their differences, although they weren’t talking very much. Mr Dutta was anxious to get back to his office in Delhi, and Mrs Dutta’s rheumatism was playing up. I was restless too, wanting to get back to my writing desk in Mussoorie. That evening I decided to take one last stroll across the bridge, to enjoy the cool breeze of a summer’s night in the mountains. The moon hadn’t come up, and it was really quite dark, although there were lamps at either end of the bridge providing sufficient light for those who wished to cross over.

I was standing in the middle of the bridge, in the darkest part, listening to the river thundering down the gorge when I saw the sari-draped figure emerging from the lamplight and making towards the railings.

Instinctively I called out,"Gulabi!" and ran towards her.

She half-turned towards me, but I could not see her clearly. The wind had blown her hair across her face and all I saw was wildly staring eyes. She raised herself on the railing and threw herself off the bridge. I heard the splash as her body struck the water far below.

Once again I found myself running towards the watchman’s hut. And then someone was running towards me, from the direction of the rest-house. It was young Mr Ray.

"My wife! he cried out. "Did you see my wife?"

He rushed to the railing and stared down at the swirling waters of the river.

"Look! — there she is! — "pointing at a helpless figure bobbing about in the water.

We ran down the steep bank to the river, but the current had swept her on. Scrambling over rocks and bushes, we made frantic efforts to catch up with the drowning woman. But the river in that defile is a roaring torrent, and it was over an hour before we were able to retrieve poor Mrs Ray’s body, caught in driftwood about a mile downstream.

She was cremated not far from where we found her, and we returned to our various homes in gloom and grief, chastened but none the wiser for the experience.

If you happen to be in that area and decided to cross the bridge late in the evening, you might see Gulabi’s ghost, or hear the hoof-beats of Wilson’s horse as he canters across the old wooden bridge looking for her. Or you might see the ghost of Mrs Ray and hear her husband’s anguished cry. Or there might be others. Who knows?