Last Train to Simla

By Richard Meyers

Miss Farraway had always been fond of saying, "In one way I am grateful for the intense heat of India." She’d playfully await her listeners’ puzzled response, "Why is that?" and then she’d come forth with, "Had it not been for the insufferable heat of the plains, our British ancestors would have never built such lovely hill stations, our divine oasis, our Devon and Dorset away from home." Mrs. Moody, a thin, cautious widow, had lived much of her life in Ootacumund in the Nilgiri Hills of Madras, a less celebrated resort in the south. She rankled at the comparison of "Ooty" to the favored hill stations in the north of the lower Himalayas--Darjeeling and Mussoorie. Boarding the narrow gauge train at Kalka in the Punjab, the two elderly ladies had their porters place their luggage inside their compartment.

Miss Farraway arranged herself on the first-class leather seat. "It’s been years since I’ve been to Simla, definitely the Queen of them all."

Miss Moody smiled at her old friend and deflected her exuberance, "I hope they’ve improved the hotels. Many rooms were tattered and the beds had lice."

The train soon jerked and paused and then began creeping up through jungle mists and around the sides of mountains. The little train pulled with its audacity along ridges that revealed down below folded valleys and terraced fields of dark green. It burrowed through stone tunnels cut in the hillsides and over arched stone bridges eventually rising into the timberline of pine and cedar. Cows and water buffalo, lean with extended ribs, scurried away from the movement of the train. "Can’t keep the animals from starving, even up here," Mrs. Moody grimly observed. The train swung out over deep gorges, and at the summit called Summer Hill the air radically changed, becoming fragrantly cool.

Miss Farraway fidgeted with the little plaid shawl pinned neatly about her small shoulders. She was full of anticipation and queried, "I wonder who is going to actually show up for this reunion?"

To this Mrs. Moody reacted, "Reunion? My announcement read a gathering."

"Yes, a gathering of old acquaintances," Miss Farraway answered, "those of the old crowd still alive. I call that a reunion. For certain, that’s what it is." At this point Miss Farraway thought it proper time to have a little sip and reached in her carry-on bag, pulling out an unopened bottle of sherry.

"We’ve almost arrived," she added. " No better time for a little taste than now." Asking Mrs. Moody to join her, she offered her one of the thin plastic glasses she had brought along for the occasion. By the time the train came up out of the clouds to the series of ridges of bungalows and steepled structures, the outskirts of Simla, the two little ladies had finished their third glass and their conversation had taken on a livelier manner pertaining to former friends, remnant children of the British Raj. This was the strongest bond between them; neither of them had been back to England in over forty years. Mrs. Moody had married a retired officer of the British Army in Ooty and continued on, living on his pension in a meager little cottage near the Botanical Gardens. Miss Farraway had settled in Simla the same year, almost the same month, to marry a wealthy Indian merchant from Bombay who had broken off their engagement and fled the country when the government wanted to jail him for some nefarious business fraud. No one ever brought up the subject to her.

"Wasn’t your husband a tall man?" Miss Farraway asked.

"No," Mrs. Moody, who some old friends called Ida, answered. "He was rather stout, not exactly short." She was stretched out more comfortably now on the leather seat.

"I heard he had a thick blond mustache," Miss Farraway mentioned. She had the bottle of sherry tilted on her lap.

"No, it was actually gray."

"But blond at first."

"No, it was always gray."

"I heard it was a thick blonde mustache," Miss Farraway repeated, screwing the cap back onto her bottle of sherry. "What’s his name, Doddering, that was it, Major Doddering swore away that it was blond."

"Oh no, definitely not," Ida yawned. "Oh, that old feeble Doddering, I hope he isn’t coming."

"In all likelihood he’ll be there. Not completely."

"What do you mean?"

"I’m saying that he’s not all there. Hasn’t been right in the head for years. Loss of memory. Hallucinates I’ve heard. They have a name for it, the illness. They know about it back in England. Starts with an A-Alz-something."

"Well, never mind." Mrs. Moody said. " Never cared for him. Heavy drinker, as I recall."

"Well, he was a long-time member of the Gymkana Club in Delhi. Never married."

"Who would have him? He must have had some money put away somewhere. Never earned a day’s wages, I wouldn’t think."

"Yes, he owned a beautiful cottage on Tiger Hill up here," Miss Farraway said, clearly the more informed of the two. " He had a partner in tea, a Muslim man who always looked after him. A real gentleman, this Muslim, I heard. Devoted type. Be surprised if he’s still taking care of him. I met him once. Very proud, handsome, if I remember correctly, came from royal family, Mogul prince of sorts. Lost everything after independence."

The train pulled into the station, puffing away. From the platform was visible the steep connecting ridges of a precarious-looking broken mosaic of a town. Old, neglected buildings were set amid tall trees, and crumbling cottages sprawled out stumbling across the brittle Himalayan ribs. Miss Farraway had first come to Simla in the summer months as a child some years before independence when it had been a citadel of pride, the summer capital of the British Raj. It had been the recreation haven of the ruling class with their idle wives and arrogant children and hordes of doting and fawning servants.

At the station the two ladies were met by representatives from the Victoria Hotel who held up a placard bearing the names Farraway and Moody.

"That’s a trifle silly," remarked Mrs. Moody. "We’re obviously the only white women on the train."

The men carried the ladies’ luggage and placed them on the floor of a motor-driven rickshaw that spun out into traffic. They passed along Simla’s streets with its lingering emblems of Britain a faded Gothic church, a gazebo-like bandstand, a Tudor-style brick town hall. Mrs. Moody unimpressed, remarked, "In the old days we would be driven by horse and carriage." The rickshaw swerved through the muddy streets.

Miss Farraway leaned back and reached into her handbag again and handed her friend a glass. "Let’s have just a few more."

Mrs. Moody threw back her head, relaxing into drinking position. "So they call this the Esplanade, this part of town." Miss Farraway poured clumsily two glasses of sherry and asked her friend for her first name. Mrs. Moody, her head now beginning to swim, "My name’s Ida, more or less."

"More or less?"

"Never mind, call me Ida, and yours?"

"Margaret, sometimes Maggie, if you like. Well, Ida, this part of Simla is not the Esplanade. It’s known as the Mall."

Inside the Victoria Hotel an old elevator took them up to the main reception hall. A porter, huffing his way up the stairs, met the ladies, their bags in hand. The large room with a row of ceiling fans, walls with missing tiles upon which hung a few swords and shields and a stuffed tiger’s head was called the Holly Lodge Room. In the center of the room was a large billiard table and further down was a table where an Indian family was seated for tea. Aside from another table where some whites sat playing cards, the room itself seemed hollow, voices echoing in an air of abandonment. Simla remained a resort for Indian families and for the occasional gatherings for the English who had stayed on in India, no longer for the empire builders themselves.

Margaret and Ida stood awkwardly and slightly off balance, wondering whether they should retire to their rooms, when an elderly man in a pressed white suit came walking towards them with a drink in each hand, extending them to the ladies as he introduced himself.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Swanson, that is, Professor Swanson, retired these days from teaching but not from indulging. Some of us, those who received invitations as yourselves, are seated over here spying on one another wondering what to call this coming together. The idea for this strange happening, I’m to understand, came from a Dr. Hazra, a lifetime friend, it seems, of old Major Doddering. Well, come join us, here’s a drink for each of you, gin fizz, I hope you like it. Come sit with us as we try to get to the bottom of this social mystery. Please, this way."

The two ladies, drinks in hand, approached a table of people, unfamiliar at first glance. Some of the group were standing; most were seated in wicker chairs.

Mr. Swanson inquired as to the ladies’ names and introduced them to the others. "Apparently you are the last guests to arrive. You came on the last train, so now our party’s complete. Over here we have Mrs. Jane Strathers from Delhi-side, a very gracious old friend of Lady Danforth."

"Oh, I’m Miss Farraway. I know Lady Danforth. My father was so fond of her. Is she here?"

"No," a dark-skinned, distinguished-looking gentleman said. "Unfortunately, Lady Danforth died some years ago on a journey back to England. My name is Dr. Hazra and I am the one who sent the invitations. Each one of the guests is connected in some way to the late Lady Danforth. We all know her acts of humanity, her benevolent projects. In short, we all loved her, and so I gathered names from her diary while visiting her home in Jaipur. I thought it would be a tribute to gather in her name."

"And to get to know what the hell has become of us old ones," added a rotund man in a wrinkled suit. "I’m Hastings, an old army administrator. I’m not much of anything. A little bit of a historian, you know. The jewel in the crown nostalgia and all of that."

Dr. Hazra interrupted gracefully. "Excuse me, but may I borrow these ladies, the latest arrivals, and show them to their quarters?"

"Certainly," responded Hastings, "let them get settled. Only a handful of us here anyway. We are the last of this living history." Everyone laughed courteously and Dr. Hazra, impeccably dressed in white silk and a finely woven Nehru jacket, began walking the ladies to their rooms.

The two were led into a shadowy hallway with its distinct odor of disinfectant. There was the hollow ticking of an old clock. "That clock is a kind of metaphor," Dr. Hazra said amicably with a little humor. "Ticking out the precious moments of our remaining lives. Precious and gracious, we can hope. I hope I have not created too awkward a situation. I want so much for everyone to become closer, to know each other in a, shall we say, deeper way. As you can see, I am a Muslim, the only Indian among us. So it is a challenge, not a presumptuous one, I hope, to bring this reunion together. What’s that? Oh, you know Major Doddering? I see, yes, from years ago. Well, he’s a little slow these days. He’s become something like his name, but he has moments of clarity, beautiful moments. He’s a truly decent and compassionate soul. His illness, well, it’s being called Alzheimer's, but there are not many cases of it here in India that we know about. Yes, I am a medical doctor. Yes, but of course, it’s the mind that most interests me. It’s where most illnesses originate. But we haven’t come all this way to talk psychoses and all of that. Here, come through this door to the garden. Actually your quarters are here, this lovely cottage back here."

A white, gabled cottage stood behind a swinging gate, covered in the scents of roses and jasmine. "It resembles an English coastal cottage, wouldn’t you say?" Dr. Hazra continued. "There’s a cleaning person, you know, an ayah who cleans daily. I really don’t know how long we’ll want to be together here, but while you stay you’ll be most comfortable. I trust you know your way back and so can join us whenever you freshen up."

As Dr. Hazra bowed and walked away, Miss Farraway said generously, "What a lovely, gracious man. He’s a godsend, that man is."

"I thought you made that mistake once."

"What on earth do you mean, Ida?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me, Ida. Really."

"Well, you once almost married one of them, you know, an Indian, and you know what happened. They’re not to be trusted, especially fancy ones like him."

"Very offensive, what you said," Margaret replied. "We needn’t get so bold in our attitudes. Anyway, look at these beds! They’re not properly made at all. Here, where’s your glass? Ah yes, in my handbag. Let’s have the last of this sherry."

When they emerged from the cottage an hour later and walked, slightly wobbling, back to the table of their companions, they noticed how few of them there actually were. A very poorly attended party, they thought for the moment, forgetting that it wasn’t really a party, but a vague and uncertain gathering. Approaching the table they could see Major Doddering’s face, reddish, aglow. He looked enraptured, listening to Hastings talking on and on.

"Yes, sir, that’s how it was back then. All of us British, our parents and we their children, all our families were loaded onto horses, into carriages and made our way up here. We found paradise--cool breezes, roses and every kind of flower, streams rushing through forests. It was adventurous because these mountains tower into the clouds higher than anything in England. We faced monsoons and hill slides. We made these mountains passable in the name of Queen Victoria. It took about a century to accomplish it. Roads had to be built, tunnels. These sturdy bridges. They just didn’t appear like magic. Everything had to be cleared. The forests. Everything. These hill stations grew up, rising with timbered cottages, shops, and churches, even cemeteries. There’s still an old theater here. The British carved the miracle of old England out of this mountain remoteness."

There was a gleam in Hastings, a desperate kind of courage which language sparked in him, but this verbal rhapsody was not allowed to go unchallenged. His words, excessive and flamboyant, were open to ridicule from the others. Professor Swanson took the initiative. "What a fine sample of Hastings’ haughty and gushy rhetoric, don’t you think?"

Dr. Hazra intervened with some courtesy, "Ladies, Miss Farraway and Mrs. Moody, I don’t believe you have met Mrs. Windegass. Perhaps you remember the name. Mrs. Windegass was in charge of Nursing Services at the British Hospital near Bangalore."

"Oh yes," Mrs. Moody responded, "Mrs. Windegass, you are very highly spoken of. Don’t you agree Maggie, I mean Miss Farraway."

Dr. Hazra’s attempt to rescue Hastings from imminent rancor failed. Professor Swanson went on in a derisive way, badgering Hastings. "Very effective, your rhetoric, Hastings. You need look no farther than the beguiled eyes of the Major here to see what an impression your speech made."

Major Doddering continued smiling and still appeared pleased with Hastings’ words. His eyes looked beyond Hastings’ face into his own blankness, a private place where he often gazed with a look of fixed approval.

Swanson continued, "Yes, old man, you have a captive audience in the Major, by thunder, you do. The Major enjoys your nostalgia. He’s a solid listener, he is, and him the only Jew in the crown."

"See here," Hastings replied with some offense, "whatever are you getting at?"

"Well," the Professor went on to explain, "you know how the Major’s father, Doddering the Elder of Fleet Street, came out here as an engineer with his bride Dorothy Sassoon of the famous Sassoon family. All Jews, they were--bankers, merchants, writers. One was a poet, I believe. So you see, our darling Major was her only son, which in Jewish custom makes him pure-blooded Jewish."

Mrs. Windegass, who until that moment had not uttered a word, spoke up. "Not so. Dorothy was a friend of my mother’s, and she was only half Jewish on the father’s side."

"So then," retorted the Professor, "that would make the Major a quarter Jewish. I beg your pardon, my mistake, if we’re to quibble over fractions. The point is, Hastings, your kind of nostalgia does nobody any good because it makes us appear like displaced persons, homesick for a country most of us never knew. Underneath all this memory of cigars and fine booze and officers’ clubs and dances and the gossip lies a deep sense of homesickness."

Hastings, puffing on a long cheroot, stood up and spoke out in a conciliatory tone, "Well, Swanson, you do play rough. I mean you’re a faithless sort, but I will give you this. We Anglos have managed to make fools of ourselves out here."

"We’re an eccentric lot." Swanson added.

"Well, all this pining for the colonial ways, I mean, with all this silly imitating of English country manners and resorts," Hastings said.

"Yes, we’ve created our own stereotypes," said Swanson, "we’ve all been written about you know. We’re all caricatures in that man’s book."

"E.M. Forster, you mean."

"Yes, of course. He said it all in that book, of course. It was about the older generation, but it’s still the same farce, the same Bridge Party. We are no longer wanted here, not liked by the Indians, but we act as though we somehow belong here. We are homesick exiles. There’s nothing out here to belong to; there are no bridges to be built between the races. Yes, Hastings, you’re correct when you call me faithless. Forster in one of his essays called faith ‘a stiffening process, to be applied as sparingly as possible.’"

In a surprisingly swift motion, Dr. Hazra got excitedly to his feet. His words blurred to a nervous husky mumble. "Gentlemen, you are mistaken, Mr. Forster loved this country. He was not faithless when it came to relationships between British and Indians. Not at all."

For a few moments a silence persisted as Dr. Hazra waited for a response, struggling to remember his need for cordiality that was slipping farther and farther away. The clock could be heard ticking loudly down the corridor.

"No offense, good doctor," Hastings offered, "it’s only that we English have grown comfortable with Forster’s kind of cynicism. You might not understand our defiance of sentiment. You couldn’t."

Dr. Hazra swallowed nervously, took a breath and said, "I know something about Mr. Forster. I read all his letters. He was at one time a kind of member of my family. He was secretary to my grandfather, the Maharajah of Dewas."

Again a brief silence fell over the area of the Holly Lodge Room that the British occupied. Hastings, adept at covering up embarrassments, quickly tried to alter the mood. "Well, there’s nothing better to put the curl into an evening’s pleasure than a game of billiards. What do you say Professor, and you, Doctor? Ladies, will you forgive us our male entertainment? We’ll order a few more drinks, play a few rounds and meet here sometime later this afternoon. Let’s say five o'clock. That should do us fine. I know the Doctor wants to share with us memories of Lady Danforth. Well then, shall we?"

The ladies rose from their wicker chairs and began their slow walk towards their respective quarters. Mrs. Strathers, who was the only remaining resident of Simla in the group, rose from her chair with the use of a cane. She was wrapped in a Kashmiri shawl. She was so old that she looked like a wrinkled miniature. Although she couldn’t remember how old she was, she was certain that she had come to Simla as a girl of eight some ninety-two years ago. She moved, however, with more agility than Mrs. Windegass, who stared out from a dim face that registered total disinterest. These two antique ladies had to be escorted by the hotel servants down the corridor past the pictures of old India to their room.

Miss Farraway latched onto her friend's arm, and the two walked on uncertain legs into the garden and flopped down on their beds in the cottage.

"Well, Ida," Margaret began, "this is certainly turning out to be a most peculiar gathering."

"Indeed, it is," Ida agreed. "What conversations!"

"I don’t consider myself eccentric, do you, Ida? I didn’t care for the way that Professor described us. After all, that man doesn’t actually know us, does he?"

"Certainly not," Ida replied resentfully. "Those men seem wretched." She paused as her words were slurring and then continued, "They have monstrous manners. I didn’t know men like that. Never. My husband wasn’t a bit like that. He didn’t carry on like that. Wally never talked like that. He was gentle. God, he was nice."

"What was he like?" Margaret asked. "Did he have a sense of humor? Did he make you laugh? That’s what I enjoy."

"What?"

"Did he make you laugh?"

"Oh, for God’s sakes! It’s not easy to remember. Yes, I imagine so. He laughed at the jokes in the newspapers." Ida raised her head, looking for a drink and then fell back.

"Well," Margaret said. "That’s not always so important."

"What isn’t?"

"Oh.... you know. A sense of humor."

"He wasn’t at all like these men. He was a gentleman--always."

"Ida?" Margaret inquired, "I want to ask you something. Don’t get offended. I want to know."

"What?"

"Ida, how did your husband die? How did he die?"

"Is that important? I wish there was something to drink. This gathering makes one nervous."

"Can you tell me, please?"

"What?"

"How Wally died. I’m not a gossip. I just want to know. He wasn’t very old, was he?"

"No, he wasn’t," Ida answered, "but he kept himself fit. He was a man in good shape."

"What happened? I won’t talk about it."

"No."

"Please, I’ll never mention it. Never."

"It was when we were living in Calcutta. Wally was a lifetime member of the Gymkana Club. He enjoyed billiards and conversation."

"Drinking?"

"Not much," Ida proudly stated. "Very little. He rarely drank. He wasn’t used to it, sensitive to alcohol. His doctor had told him that at a young age.

"The men at the club were a rough bunch, men from the regiment, officers and administrators. They would tease him, my Wally. It was some kind of contest they put him up to, someone later told me. The men laughed at him for not being much of a drinker. This officer was challenging the men to drink a number of hard drinks and to follow by swallowing a whole chili, a red hot pepper, fiery hot. There was this laughing and teasing. One of the group did it, then another. Others coughed as well.

"When it came my Wally’s turn, he did his best, but the chili pepper got lodged in his throat. He gagged. Everyone, I’m told, laughed. He choked and fell to the floor gasping for air. Such laughing! But he recovered, got up from the floor. Poor man was humiliated.

"I could see the shame on poor Wally’s face that night when he came home. He just stared into space. I asked him to come to bed, and he said he would after another drink. I had never seen him drink like this. Even then he wasn’t rude. He was always a gentleman.

"Anyway, we had a bottle of Scotch whisky in the cabinet. It had been there for years, unopened. Well, the poor man had one drink after another, trying to drink away his humiliation. I heard him staggering around, so I went out to help him to bed.

"Well, he had gotten into the cabinet and opened a bottle of those hot pickles Indians eat with their curry. He didn’t know what he was doing. He took one spoonful of this hot pickle, mango and chili, all those hot spices. Then he swallowed down another. Took the bottle and threw his head back and swallowed half the jar at once. He coughed, again and again, and that turned into choking. He was sweating, fell to the ground coughing and spitting. The poor man choked himself to death."

Margaret slid off her bed and, on her knees, went over to Ida’s bed and began to stroke her head. "Don’t cry, Ida, don’t cry."

"I’m not crying. Leave me alone," Ida said. "The man gave me many good years."

There was a knock at the front door.

"Who is it?" Margaret asked.

"It’s Dr. Hazra," the voice answered. "It’s almost time, ladies, to gather in the Holly Lodge Room. Ten minutes, if you don’t mind."

Ida stood up, losing for a moment, then recovering her balance. The two of them left the room.

"What happens now?" Ida asked.

"I don’t know. There’s Lady Danforth. Memories to share, I guess."

"I don’t really have them. No memory of her. What can we say? I can’t go through with this, Margaret. I just don’t know what to say. Poor little Wally."

The lights had been turned on brighter for the evening, and now on the corridor walls, the two ladies could see portraits of viceroys and photographs of tiger hunts. In the brightness they could feel the faded glamour of military pomp and ornamental history. At the end of the corridor, Indian families gathered together in brisk, animate talk amidst the flow of saris and colored clothing.

Dr. Hazra stood at the table preparing to speak. Mrs. Danforth was, for certain, the subject.

"Long before Mother Teresa reached out her mercy to the most unfortunates of Calcutta, Mrs. Danforth had set up a mission in Andra Pradesh to give work and purpose to the lives of the untouchables, Harijans, as we Indians call them. We know of her work with the hospitals and opening up schools to educate the poorest and most disadvantaged. That is the story of a great soul, the history of her compassion. I wanted, I mean, I hoped, we could share with one another our experiences of this exceptional woman. How did she, who came like you, to this perplexing country and adapted and lived here like you with dignity--this woman who shared with you your unique origins, how did she touch your lives and consciousness?"

Dr. Hazra sat down. His opening words were followed by a complete silence. Nobody stirred. Faces turned down towards the table, and in the twilight glow of this cavernous room a solemn silence like that of a speechless congregation enveloped everything. In his wheelchair some feet from the table, Major Doddering wheeled himself closer, his eyes wet with tears and sparkling with warm sentiment. He moved forward to lift himself to a stand. Managing to rise momentarily from his chair, he glanced around at the faces around him, and in a weak voice choked with tears, he shouted out, "Mrs. Danforth!" Again raising his hand as if to offer a toast he called her name again, "Mrs. Danforth. To Mrs. Danforth." All eyes were on him, transfixed, and no one’s reflexes were quick enough to catch the old Major as he went crashing to the floor.

The doctor rushed toward him, lifted the old man’s head on his lap, and applied pressure to the bleeding wound on the side of his head. Everyone else was motionless. The oldest ladies did not stir, not their limbs, not even their eyes moved. Hastings and Professor Swanson looked embarrassed and hadn’t even a vague notion of how to act. Miss Farraway and Mrs. Moody were weaving out of balance, very intoxicated. Dr. Hazra was holding the Major’s helpless body against his own. "My bag," he shouted, "at the main desk. Somebody, quick, go fetch my medical bag." The group watched as Dr. Hazra worked and, in time, disbanded and everyone went off to sleep.

In the morning Miss Farraway and Mrs. Moody sat in the garden near their cottage under an oak tree by a sundial and watched the gardener at work. It was out of character, but something prodded Margaret to ask the gardener, a very old Sikh, what flowers he intended to plant. The old Sikh, turbaned and white-bearded, gently replied, "Some dahlias, Madame, and zinnias and jasmine and some purple and yellows."

"They’ll be very beautiful. My father," Margaret said, "had a garden like this when I was a young girl in Sussex."

"I’m sure it was very beautiful. This was a magnificent hotel once. Still there are beauties here. May I show you around?" The ladies were shown into a hall of carved teak where paintings of lakeside castles hung. The Sikh gentleman showed them an enormous painted Mogul vase and then took them into a room with a marble hearth surrounded by painted miniatures. "I’m so sorry to hear the bad news, Madames. Truly I am."

"What news?" both ladies inquired.

"The old gentleman, the Major," the Sikh said sadly, "passed away in the night. The doctor was trying to save him. All night he was with him, alone. I am truly sorry. May his spirit find its home!"

At the railway station the train was late in leaving. It was the night train Ida and Margaret had decided upon. They watched the dusk descend and lights begin to flicker across the hills of Simla. They noticed that Hastings and the Professor had arrived on the platform, apparently catching the same train going south. The two ladies sat on the bench hoping to avoid the men. Busy talking to each other, the men failed to notice the ladies, or perhaps they were deliberate in their aversion. In any case, the ladies could hear their loud grumbling voices.

"I’m sure the doctor can manage with the funeral arrangements. Not much for us to do. Didn’t really know the Major very well. Hazra said he will bury him next to his father at the old Maharajah’s place. He was happy there, I’m told. Nothing we could do." The ladies recognized Hasting's voice.

Then Professor Swanson spoke, "We did the best we could. Why couldn’t he be buried up here at St. Anthony’s, a finely built cemetery? We did all right by this country considering that we were an alien culture and had to do some disagreeable things to control things. Ghandi was no help. The life up here in Simla was something. Race horses and polo regularly, hunting, pheasant shooting. I was quite a shot in my day.”

The ladies’ journey home was uneventful. The men sat happily in another compartment and got off at Kodi Kanal, a lower hill station. The two women talked only slightly to one another. They neglected to bring a bottle of sherry. They wrapped themselves tightly in their shawls, shared a light lunch but no longer addressed each other by their first names.

The End

Last Train To Simla; © 2004 by Richard Meyers

Richard Meyers was active in the Berkeley civil rights and free speech movements of the early 1960s. He went to India to serve in the Peace Corps for two years after which he continued in India, Central and South east Asia for another four years as a teacher of English. Later in Europe and the United States he helped develop alternative and cooperative communities. His short stories have been published in Moondance: Song and Story, Kenagain, Web del Sol, InPosse Review, Spinnings and SFSalvo. He has published two volumes of his collected poetry: The Journey's Loom and Striptease of the Soul(Gondarva Press). His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. His other works include the novels The Journey That Never Was Made, Alms for Oblivion, Under Indian Skies and A Maze for Infidels. Prolific in all genres, his short stories (Stories of India), essays and plays include "Rivers of Babylon," "Dark Rituals," and "Last Train to Simla." He currently teaches English at City College of San Francisco.

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