A Traveller’s Tale

Gopalpur-by-the-Sea!

Watercolor illustration of Gopalpur beach at sunrise, bathed in soft, golden light. Fishermen, their faces weathered and lined, are sorting their catch on the sand, their movements deliberate and efficient. Children, full of energy, are playing in the shallow water, their laughter echoing in the air. Empty hotels and cafes line the background, their faded grandeur a testament to a bygone era. The paint should capture the textures of the sand, the water, and the crumbling facades of the buildings. Use a vibrant palette of oranges, yellows, blues, and greens to capture the beauty of the sunrise. The air smells of salt and fish. The overall tone is nostalgic and bittersweet, reflecting the town’s faded glory.

It’s a name that sounds magical! When I was a kid, my dad and his friends would talk about it. They said it was a cute little beach town with a small harbor on the coast of Orissa. Years went by, and I grew up, but I still only knew it as a place I’d heard about and dreamed of, but never visited.

Until last month! I was visiting KiiT International School in Bhubaneswar, and someone asked me where I wanted to go. I said, ‘Is Gopalpur very far?’

And off I went! We drove along a road lined with palm trees, through small, busy towns with funny names like Rhamba and Humma. We passed the huge Chilika Lake, which flows into the sea, and through fields of rice and keora trees. Finally, we arrived at the beach road in Gopalpur, with the sun shining like gold on the big ocean waves. Fishermen were counting their fish, and kids were running into the sea, splashing around in the shallow water.

But the beach area looked a little sad. The hotels were empty, and the cafes had no customers. A noisy crow squawked at me from an old, worn-out wall. Some of the buildings were new, but there were also old, broken-down buildings all around us. Nobody was going to fix them up. A small house called ‘Brighton Villa’ was still standing.

Watercolor illustration of the author standing in front of the ‘Brighton Villa’ house, located in Gopalpur. The scene should convey a sense of worn-out charm, with peeling paint, overgrown ivy, and cracked window panes. The sky is slightly overcast, a subtle grey wash hinting at the town’s melancholy atmosphere. The author’s expression is a mix of curiosity and apprehension, their posture slightly hesitant. The colors should be muted and desaturated, with hints of faded blues, greens, and yellows. The garden is overgrown with wildflowers and weeds. The gate is rusty and partially collapsed. The overall mood is one of quiet sadness and faded elegance.

Away from the beach, a road with trees on both sides led us past some nice houses, a school, an old graveyard, and finally, a rest house where we would sleep for the night.

Watercolor illustration of a vintage, slightly rundown rest house at dusk, bathed in the warm, orange glow of the setting sun. Shadows lengthen dramatically from the tall, old banyan tree that dominates the scene. The porch light casts a soft, inviting yellow glow on the surrounding oleander bushes, highlighting their textured leaves and delicate blooms. A large Atlas moth with intricate wing patterns rests on a bush, wings subtly illuminated. A figure in silhouette, shoulders slightly slumped, stands in the doorway, a subtle question mark in their posture, looking directly towards the viewer. The air hangs heavy with the smell of jasmine. Paint the scene with a palette of warm oranges, deep purples, and dusty greens. The wooden porch floor shows signs of age and wear, with chipped paint and weathered grooves. The overall tone is melancholic and evocative.

It was getting dark when we got there. In the dim light, I could see the shapes of the trees around the old house – a big, old banyan tree, a jackfruit tree, and lots of mango trees. The light from the house porch shined on some oleander bushes. A big moth landed on my shirt and didn’t want to leave! I gently picked it up and put it on the oleander bush.

It was almost midnight when I went to bed. The rest-house workers – the caretaker and the gardener – made me a nice dinner, but it took a long time. The gardener told me that the house used to belong to a British man who left India a long time ago. They had made some changes, but the house was still mostly the same – rooms with high ceilings and windows in the roof, a long porch, and huge bathrooms! The bathroom was so big, you could have a party in there! But there was only one toilet and a sink. You could sit on the toilet and think about things (or nothing at all!) while looking at the sink far away.

I closed all the doors and windows, turned off all the lights (I can’t sleep with a light on!), and went to bed.

The bed was comfy, and I fell asleep quickly. But then, I woke up because something was tapping lightly on the window near my bed.

‘It’s probably just a branch from the oleander bush,’ I thought, and went back to sleep. But then there was more tapping, louder this time, and I woke up completely.

I sat up in bed and pulled back the curtains.

Watercolor illustration of the author in bed at the rest house, jolted awake, eyes wide with fear. Moonlight streams through the window, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. A tall, dark man in a turban and crisp white uniform is visible outside the window, his face obscured by shadow, tapping lightly on the glass with long, slender fingers. His expression is unreadable. Use a cool color palette of blues, grays, and whites to convey a sense of unease. The rough texture of the cotton blanket on the bed is visible. The bedside table is made of dark wood, reflecting the moonlight. A creaking floorboard adds to the suspense. The overall tone is one of stark fear and confusion.

There was a face at the window!

In the dim light from the porch, I couldn’t see the face clearly, but it was definitely a person.

‘Someone must want to come in,’ I thought. ‘Maybe the caretaker or the watchman. But why didn’t they knock on the door?’ Maybe they did, but I didn’t hear it. The door was far away at the other end of the room.

I don’t usually open my door to strangers at night, but I didn’t feel scared or worried, so I got up, unlocked the door, and opened it for my midnight visitor.

A very impressive person was standing in the doorway!

A tall, dark man, wearing a turban and all white clothes. He looked like he was wearing a uniform – like the fancy doormen at expensive hotels. But you don’t usually see that in Gopalpur-by-the-Sea.

‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘Are you staying here?’

He didn’t answer, but looked past me, maybe even through me! Then he walked silently into the room. I stood there, surprised and amazed, as he walked over to my bed, smoothed out the sheets, and patted my pillow. Then he went to the next room and came back with a glass and a jug of water, which he put on the table next to my bed. And then, he picked up my clothes, folded them neatly, and put them on a chair! Then, just as quietly and without even looking at me, he left the room and walked out into the night.

Watercolor illustration of a tall, dark man wearing a turban and a pristine white uniform (resembling a doorman’s uniform), silently folding clothes on a chair in a simple, high-ceilinged bedroom. His movements are precise and graceful, his face serene. The room is sparsely furnished with a worn, wooden floor and whitewashed walls. Dust motes dance in the faint sunlight filtering through a tall, arched window. A glass of water and a chipped clay jug are on a bedside table, reflecting the light. The overall color palette is muted and calming, with soft greens, browns, and creams. The chair is antique, with intricate carvings. The mood is one of quiet domesticity tinged with an undercurrent of mystery.

Early the next morning, when the sun rose like a big explosion over the Bay of Bengal, I went down to the sea again. I had to step carefully over some puddles on the beach. Well, you can’t have everything! The world might be prettier without people, but then, who would enjoy it?

Back at the rest house for breakfast, I remembered my visitor from the night before.

‘Who was that tall man who came to my room last night?’ I asked. ‘He looked like a butler. Very well-dressed and polite.’

The caretaker and the gardener looked at each other in a knowing way.

‘You tell him,’ the caretaker said to the gardener.

Watercolor illustration of the rest house gardener, a kind-looking man with grey hair and wrinkles etched around his eyes, telling the author about Hazoor Ali. His hands are calloused and stained with earth. The caretaker stands behind him, nodding in agreement, his expression guarded and watchful. They are surrounded by lush greenery, including ferns, banana plants, and flowering vines. Sunlight filters through the leaves, creating dappled shadows on the ground. The color palette is rich and vibrant, with deep greens, browns, and yellows. The gardener’s voice is gentle and earnest. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and flowers. The overall tone is one of mystery and intrigue, with a hint of foreboding.

‘It must have been Hazoor Ali,’ said the gardener, nodding. ‘He was the helper, the personal servant of Mr. Robbins, the boss of the harbor – the British man who used to live here.’

‘But that was over sixty years ago!’ I said. ‘They must all be dead!’

‘Yes, they are all dead, sir. But sometimes Hazoor Ali’s ghost appears, especially if one of our guests reminds him of his old boss. He was very loyal to him, sir. In fact, he got this house as a present when Mr. Robbins left the country. But he couldn’t take care of it, so he sold it to the government and went back to his home in Cuttack. He died a long time ago, but he still visits this place sometimes. Don’t be scared, sir. He doesn’t mean any harm. And he doesn’t appear to everyone – you are the lucky one this year! I’ve only seen him twice. Once, when I started working here twenty years ago, and then last year, the night before the big storm. I think he came to warn us. He went to every door and window and made sure they were closed tight. He never said a word. He just disappeared into the night.’

‘And it’s time for me to disappear by day,’ I said, getting my things ready. I had to be in Bhubaneswar by late afternoon to catch my plane to Delhi. I was sad that my visit was so short. I would have liked to spend a few more days in Gopalpur, exploring its rivers, old roads, mango trees, fishing villages, and sandy beaches. Maybe another time! In this life, if I’m lucky. Or in the next, if I’m even luckier!

At the airport in Bhubaneswar, the security guard asked me for my ID. ‘Driver’s license, ID card, passport? Anything with your picture on it will work, since you have an online ticket,’ he explained.

I don’t have a driver’s license and I never carry my ID card with me. Luckily, I always take my passport when I travel. I looked for it in my small travel bag and then in my suitcase, but I couldn’t find it! I felt embarrassed as I searched through all my pockets, when another officer came to help. ‘It’s okay. Let him in. I know Mr. Ruskin Bond,’ he said, and waved me through. I thanked him and hurried to the check-in area.

During the whole flight, I was trying to remember where I might have put my passport. ‘Maybe it’s hidden somewhere inside my suitcase,’ I thought. Now that my bags were locked up at the airport, I decided to look for it when I got home.

A day later, I was back home in the hills, tired after a long road trip from Delhi. I like traveling by car because there’s so much to see, but there’s so much traffic that it feels like a race most of the time! And to make things worse, my passport was still missing! I looked everywhere – my suitcase, travel bag, all my pockets.

I gave up. Either I had dropped it somewhere, or I had left it in Gopalpur. I decided to call the rest house and ask the workers about it the next day.

It was a cold night, freezing cold, so I went to bed early, covered with a thick blanket. Just two nights before, I had been sleeping with a fan on!

It was a windy night. The windows were shaking, and the old tin roof was creaking. A loose piece of metal was flapping around and making a terrible noise.

I didn’t sleep well.

When the wind died down, I heard someone knocking on my front door.

‘Who’s there?’ I called, but nobody answered.

The knocking kept going, getting louder and louder.

‘Who’s there? Who is it?’ I called again.

Only knocking.

‘Someone must need help,’ I thought. ‘I should see who it is.’ I got up, shivering, and walked barefoot to the front door. I opened it slowly, opened it wider, and someone stepped out of the shadows.

Watercolor illustration of the author’s messy room in his home in the hills at night. The room is illuminated by the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting long shadows across the cluttered surfaces. Hazoor Ali, the tall, dark man in a turban and white uniform, stands in the doorway, bowing slightly, his expression unreadable in the dim light. A travel bag lies on the floor, half-unpacked, surrounded by scattered books and papers. The color palette is warm and inviting, with soft oranges, browns, and greens. The room feels lived-in and comfortable. The wind howls outside the window. The overall mood is one of unease and confusion.

Hazoor Ali bowed, entered the room, and just like in Gopalpur, he walked silently into the room. It was a mess because I had been frantically searching for my passport. He straightened up the room, took my clothes out of my travel bag, folded them, and put them neatly on the cupboard shelves. Then he bowed again and waited at the door.

‘That’s strange,’ I thought. ‘If he cleaned up the whole room, why didn’t he put the travel bag in its place? Why did he leave it on the floor?’ Maybe he didn’t know where to put it. He left the last bit of work for me. I picked up the bag to put it on the top shelf. And then, my passport fell out of the front pocket and onto the floor!

Watercolor illustration of the author finding his passport on the floor next to his travel bag. The room is simply furnished with a small wooden bed, a desk, and a chair. A window shows a dark, windy night outside, with trees swaying violently in the storm. Rain streaks across the glass. The passport lies on the floor, partially obscured by a shadow, its cover slightly worn. The author’s face expresses relief and wonder, their hand reaching down to grasp the passport. The color palette is muted and cool, with blues, grays, and whites dominating the scene. The overall tone is one of quiet triumph and lingering unease, hinting that the mystery of Hazoor Ali is far from resolved.

I turned to look at Hazoor Ali, but he had already walked out into the cold darkness.

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