Cantonment Mysteries
Army life is not just about parades, mess nights and picture perfect lawns. Behind the symmetry of the cantonments lie those vast colonial bungalows, their high ceilings, sprawling gardens and shadowy corners carrying stories that are whispered long after the lights go out.
I was lucky to have lived in a few of these bungalows during different postings - lucky, because they were charming, spacious and full of character. But also because each of them left me with memories that even today raise the hair on the back of my neck.
Let me share just a few of the many incidents that remain etched in my mind. And in every one of them, the one constant was our unseen protector.. our Gorkha Buddy. We always addressed our Gorkha Buddy as ‘Daju’, which in Nepali means elder brother - a bond that goes far beyond duty. Torch in one hand, khukhri in the other, he stood between us and the unknown.
The Cry of the Peepal Tree 🌳
It was past midnight, my husband away on TD when I first heard it - a faint, mournful wail drifting from the peepal tree by the gate. It rose and fell like a woman sobbing in despair. I froze.
I told myself it was the wind. But the second time it came - longer, sharper - fear gripped me like never before. My fingers trembled as I called for Daju.
He hesitated at first, clearly unnerved. But seeing me pale with fright, he squared his shoulders, brandished his khukhri and marched forward shouting
“Jai Ma Kali! Ayo Gorkhali!”
I held my breath as he disappeared into the shadows of the tree. For a few moments there was silence - and then the metallic screech of tin. He returned to report a loose roof sheet rattling in the wind.
That should have ended it. But I didn’t sleep the whole night. I sat upright, whispering the Hanuman Chalisa again and again till dawn.
By morning it had already spread through our cantonment as “the peepal woman cried again last night.”
The Lantern in the Backyard 💡
At dusk one evening, I spotted it - a dim, flickering light swaying in the backyard. A lantern… but we hadn’t lit anything there.
I called two neighbour ladies at once. Soon we were all three in our verandas, children huddled close, hearts racing, eyes fixed on that eerie glow.
The sahayaks formed a search party. Daju in the lead, torch and khukhri ready. Their footsteps thudded against the ground as the lantern swayed closer and closer as though carried by invisible hands.
I still remember clutching the veranda railing so tightly my knuckles turned white.
And then…..the reveal. A cow, wild eyed and snorting, dragging a rope entangled with an old kerosene lantern.
We laughed in relief but our voices shook. The next morning, thanks to our ever efficient CNN (Cantonment News Network), it had already become “a ghostly lantern roamed the backyard.”
The Haunted Store Room 🚪
One night, as my husband stepped out, he froze. From the second garage we used as a storeroom came loud thuds …..trunks dragged, boxes thrown.
Before he could move, Daju came running, khukhri gleaming. Without hesitation he flung the door open. The air inside was thick and heavy, the shadows shifting strangely under the beam of his torch.
And then we saw it - two glowing eyes staring back. A huge monkey leapt out, scattering boxes as it went.
The mystery was solved but not before that moment had etched itself into my memory. For days children whispered of “the ghost who rattled trunks in the garage.”
The Phantom Telephone ☎️
This one rattled me the most. It began innocuously - the landline ringing at 2 AM. I answered …. silence. The next night, again. The third night too.
By then I was convinced something was terribly wrong. My husband brushed it off as a technical fault. But Daju, with utter seriousness muttered -
“Madam, when no one speaks, it is a call from the other world.”
I cannot describe the chill that ran down my spine. Each ring that followed felt heavier as though someone or something insisted on being heard.
It turned out later to be nothing but loose wires sparking at the junction box. But those three nights, I sat staring at the red telephone, dreading the shrill of its bell. Even today the memory of that ring makes me uneasy.
The Footsteps That Never Stopped 👣
There was one mystery, however that never found an answer.
It always began the same way - well past midnight, when the house was wrapped in silence. A soft creak, then another as though someone had stepped onto the old corridor floor. At first faint then deliberate. A steady rhythm of footsteps echoing up and down the long passage outside our bedroom.
I remember lying frozen, every nerve on edge, my heart thudding so loud it almost drowned the sound. But the footsteps continued …. slow, measured, as if someone walked with purpose, turning at the end of the corridor and pacing back again.
Each time Daju rushed out, torch beam slicing through the shadows, khukhri drawn. Yet the moment he appeared, the sound stopped. The corridor would stretch empty before us, doors shut, windows bolted, dogs asleep. Not a leaf stirred in the garden.
And then, when we had just begun to breathe again, the sound would resume - this time louder, closer, pausing right outside our bedroom door. We would sit upright, staring at the wood, half expecting the handle to turn. But it never did. Just a silence so thick it pressed against the chest.
We tried to reason it out. Wooden floors, shifting beams, rodents in the ceiling. But none of those could explain the weight, the measured rhythm, the undeniable sense that someone unseen yet real was pacing that corridor, night after night.
Of all the stories, this is the one that stayed with me the longest. Because unlike the monkey, the lantern or the telephone wires , these footsteps were never explained.
Where Darkness Meets Duty 🪖
Stories like these spread faster than wildfire in cantonments. By morning, everyone knew. Our very own CNN - the Cantonment News Network - was always at work, adding spice, making each tale larger than life.
Looking back now, I laugh at the explanations. But in those moments I remember the cold fear, the thudding heartbeat, the endless prayers whispered under my breath.
And always, in the thick of the unknown, was our Gorkha Daju - torchlight cutting through shadows, khukhri glinting in the dark, walking straight into mysteries while we waited on verandas, frozen with fear.
Life in those old bungalows was never ordinary. It was a strange dance of beauty, suspense and courage - with unseen heroes ensuring we lived to tell the tale.
And yet, sometimes in the dead of night, I still find myself pausing at the memory of those footsteps. The corridor long empty, the bungalow left behind… but the echo remains. A reminder that some mysteries never leave you they simply wait, quietly, in the dark.