There is a bungalow behind my house. It may have been built around 100 years ago.
No one lives there anymore. I always imagine what its residents would have been like. The man of the house may have been an Imperial Civil Service officer (Popularly called the British Indian Civil Services).
He would have come all the way from his cold and wet island, schooled at Eton and Cambridge, poor chap. At first he may have lived alone but subsequently his wife and children may have joined him. She wouldn’t have liked this place too much. Always complained of the heat, the dust, and the mosquitoes!
Sometimes at night I hear the Memsahib call for the Ayah to take the “Baba” for a stroll. Sometimes jazz music floats out from the empty hall.
There is a cemetery down the hill that I often pass on my way back home. I sometimes stop and read the names on the tombstones; maybe my neighbours live there now!
Sometimes at night I hear the Memsahib call for the Ayah to take the “Baba” for a stroll. Sometimes jazz music floats out from the empty hall.
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