http://www.team-bhp.com/forum/travelogues/154594-ghost-hotel-savoy-agatha-christie-mussoorie.html
nd suddenly the chandelier started swaying.” He paused for breath and then continued as soon as he could.
“The windows were all closed and it was pitch dark outside. The darkness had enveloped everything outside and the gentle movement of mists inside the corridor had made the setting quite romantic. The only problem shaabji was the chandelier. It swayed quite violently, as if propelled by some force unknown. Except for it all was calm and still. It was close to midnight and I was alone.”
I chuckled and thought to myself, “What an ideal location to shoot a suspense tele-film!”
“I was passing this room to fetch for Director Shaab a glass of water and was transfixed to the spot almost exactly where you now stand shaabji.”
I look around. It is afternoon of the next day. The room appeared as if it were inside of an oyster—a tiny paradise, painted all white with wooden colonnades and wooden floor bereft of any furniture—a mute witness to the fox-trots, fun and gaiety of a bygone era. A huge ballroom with a lone piano in one comer stands to its adjacent.
Another door opens to a corridor that leads down the wooden stairs to the kitchen and the cellar. On its outer wall a row of glass paned windows open to the outside from which occasional clouds waft in. It is drizzling and the pitter-patter sound of raindrops falling on the corrugated tin roof is pleasant to the ears. It is slanted for snow to slope down and supported by wooden beams, again painted white. The chandelier hung from it. It lay still.
“But weren't you afraid?” I ask Arjun with feigned seriousness. “No shaabji!” Pat came the reply.
I was amused the way he pronounced shaabji. He had come with us all the way from Delhi to Mussourie where we were shooting a suspense tele-film. All crewmembers and the cast were staying at Hotel Savoy, which was also the main location for the film.
According to the story, the husband who is a serial killer buys this property from his wife’s money and they come here to stay. The husband plots to kill his wife but by the twists and turns of the event is himself killed. It was an eerie resemblance.
The story of this hotel could as well have been the story of Mussourie—over 150 years old. Ever since the establishment of the Raj in India, the English had always cursed, fretted and fumed over its dust and the heat. After the Gurkha War of 1815 vast hill tracts fell into their hands. Captain Kennedy started the first settlement in Shimla. Captain Young pioneered Mussourie, so called after Mansur shrub that grows in abundance and is staple cattle feed. Shimla became the summer capital of the country and Mussourie became its pleasure capital.
It was in this scenario that one Mr. Lincoln acquired the estate of Mr. Maddock’s Mussourie School with the intention of constructing a large luxury hotel. The hotel was opened to the public in the summer of 1902. It was named after the Savoy in London. As Ruskin Bond quotes one resident of the hotel, “The Savoy Hotel has sprung, phoenix-like from the ashes of the Mussourie School. The estate was (and still is) the largest, acreage-wise, hill station hotel in India.”
And what a character to have in this cute historic place! The babble from this chatterbox was compelling. Simply watching him speak was a sheer delight. He was a spot boy, an all-purpose fellow, in his late teens, full of raw energy and with a very earthy sense of timing. He was never around when you shouted for him but would mysteriously appear, almost instantly, with glasses of water or tea for the Director or the Producer, when the work was done. In the midst of frenzied activity of shooting, he could still find time for his naps and yet manage to remain in the good books of the bosses.
It was some time before the next shot was to commence. I had nothing to do. So here I was whiling away my time. He reminded me of hawkers on railway stations and bus stands cajoling passenger to buy their ‘time-pass chiniyabadam’ (Groundnut). He wasn’t a chiniyabadam but he could as well be. He was a real time pass. He rattled on.
“I was taken aback for a while, then thumped my feet and said, hey you ghost, keep moving pal! And suddenly it was quiet all around. The chandelier stopped swaying as if it were waiting for my command.”
His face looked intent. He could not be lying.
Moments later he broke the silence and added with an air of confidence. “You see shaabji such incidents are very common back-home in Nepal.”
I almost chuckled to myself as if ghosts on hills have a similar pattern all through.
And then it struck me.
I ran as fast as I could. Past the ballroom, the smoking room and the billiards room. The twin wooden stairs in the hallway, common in the mansions of Bollywood films, creaked with a flurry of activities. I heard someone call my name. I ignored the voice. Shot passed the main entrance, its wooden Victorian facade partially enveloped in the mist. It was wet outside. A vast open space in the backdrop of majestic lower Himalayas spread in front of me. It had two lawn tennis grass courts with spectators’ gallery on one side, a perfect picture postcard look. It reminded me of Victorian England with all its pomp and show. But my mind was elsewhere.
The gravel filled pathway made it difficult for me to run. I ploughed through. It was flanked by two neat rows of double storied rooms. Mine was on the upper floor. As I negotiated the turn my shoes clattered against the wooden floor. Frantically I searched for the keys.
The room as usual was damp. The furnishings and the furniture were old and creaked under my weight. (In fact the hotel is a bit too much steeped in history, so much so that the room where I stayed could hardly be bolted from inside). I look around. And there it lay. In the far corner of the wide spring soggy bed.
It was a booklet on the history of Hotel Savoy by Ruskin Bond. I frenetically turn the pages. ‘The clientele it had catered to is virtual who’s who of its time - Her Highness the Princess of Wales (later Queen Mary), Motilal and Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, His Holiness Dalai Lama, Haile Selassie (the Emperor of Ethiopia), His majesty the King of Nepal, His Majesty the Crown Prince of Laos, Pearl S. Buck (the Nobel Prize Winning Author) and many others.’
But this was not what I was looking for. I go a little backwards. ‘When Jawaharlal came to Mussourie (and stayed in Hotel Savoy) in 1920, he had not yet entered politics. But as a result of an incident here he was soon to find himself in the thick of freedom struggle.’
No! Not even this! I almost cried to myself. My head was reeling with excitement. I found it difficult to read.
And then there it was. A paragraph above. I quote.
‘It is said that the halls and the corridors of the historic Savoy Hotel are haunted by the ghost of Lady Garnet Orme, who was found dead in mysterious circumstances many years ago. (But she is said to be harmless). Apparently strychnine had been placed in her medicine bottle. But how it got there, no one could tell. Agatha Christie used the circumstances of the crime in her first novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920).
The case was quite a sensation in its time as it involved crystal gazing and table-rapping séances. The victim having been the practitioner of occult.’
‘A famous mind reader claimed to have found the murderer but nothing could be proved. And Rudyard Kipling wrote to his friend Conan Doyle, urging him to use the case as a new adventure for Sherlock Holmes; but Holmes never did make the trip to India. The case remained unsolved. In fact, it came to a dead-end when Lady Garnet Orme’s doctor was also found dead (of strychnine poisoning) a few months later. But not at the Savoy!’
That night as I slept I fervently wished the ghost to pay me a visit. Very early next morning when it was still dark all around, and dense clouds covered the mountains and the vales, I woke up to a gentle knocking. As I opened the door a strong waft of mist swept past me.
“Chai shaabji!”
I had visited Savoy long time ago. It was in a much run down condition. Now it has been taken over by ITC’s Fortune.
“The windows were all closed and it was pitch dark outside. The darkness had enveloped everything outside and the gentle movement of mists inside the corridor had made the setting quite romantic. The only problem shaabji was the chandelier. It swayed quite violently, as if propelled by some force unknown. Except for it all was calm and still. It was close to midnight and I was alone.”
I chuckled and thought to myself, “What an ideal location to shoot a suspense tele-film!”
“I was passing this room to fetch for Director Shaab a glass of water and was transfixed to the spot almost exactly where you now stand shaabji.”
I look around. It is afternoon of the next day. The room appeared as if it were inside of an oyster—a tiny paradise, painted all white with wooden colonnades and wooden floor bereft of any furniture—a mute witness to the fox-trots, fun and gaiety of a bygone era. A huge ballroom with a lone piano in one comer stands to its adjacent.
Another door opens to a corridor that leads down the wooden stairs to the kitchen and the cellar. On its outer wall a row of glass paned windows open to the outside from which occasional clouds waft in. It is drizzling and the pitter-patter sound of raindrops falling on the corrugated tin roof is pleasant to the ears. It is slanted for snow to slope down and supported by wooden beams, again painted white. The chandelier hung from it. It lay still.
“But weren't you afraid?” I ask Arjun with feigned seriousness. “No shaabji!” Pat came the reply.
I was amused the way he pronounced shaabji. He had come with us all the way from Delhi to Mussourie where we were shooting a suspense tele-film. All crewmembers and the cast were staying at Hotel Savoy, which was also the main location for the film.
According to the story, the husband who is a serial killer buys this property from his wife’s money and they come here to stay. The husband plots to kill his wife but by the twists and turns of the event is himself killed. It was an eerie resemblance.
The story of this hotel could as well have been the story of Mussourie—over 150 years old. Ever since the establishment of the Raj in India, the English had always cursed, fretted and fumed over its dust and the heat. After the Gurkha War of 1815 vast hill tracts fell into their hands. Captain Kennedy started the first settlement in Shimla. Captain Young pioneered Mussourie, so called after Mansur shrub that grows in abundance and is staple cattle feed. Shimla became the summer capital of the country and Mussourie became its pleasure capital.
It was in this scenario that one Mr. Lincoln acquired the estate of Mr. Maddock’s Mussourie School with the intention of constructing a large luxury hotel. The hotel was opened to the public in the summer of 1902. It was named after the Savoy in London. As Ruskin Bond quotes one resident of the hotel, “The Savoy Hotel has sprung, phoenix-like from the ashes of the Mussourie School. The estate was (and still is) the largest, acreage-wise, hill station hotel in India.”
And what a character to have in this cute historic place! The babble from this chatterbox was compelling. Simply watching him speak was a sheer delight. He was a spot boy, an all-purpose fellow, in his late teens, full of raw energy and with a very earthy sense of timing. He was never around when you shouted for him but would mysteriously appear, almost instantly, with glasses of water or tea for the Director or the Producer, when the work was done. In the midst of frenzied activity of shooting, he could still find time for his naps and yet manage to remain in the good books of the bosses.
It was some time before the next shot was to commence. I had nothing to do. So here I was whiling away my time. He reminded me of hawkers on railway stations and bus stands cajoling passenger to buy their ‘time-pass chiniyabadam’ (Groundnut). He wasn’t a chiniyabadam but he could as well be. He was a real time pass. He rattled on.
“I was taken aback for a while, then thumped my feet and said, hey you ghost, keep moving pal! And suddenly it was quiet all around. The chandelier stopped swaying as if it were waiting for my command.”
His face looked intent. He could not be lying.
Moments later he broke the silence and added with an air of confidence. “You see shaabji such incidents are very common back-home in Nepal.”
I almost chuckled to myself as if ghosts on hills have a similar pattern all through.
And then it struck me.
I ran as fast as I could. Past the ballroom, the smoking room and the billiards room. The twin wooden stairs in the hallway, common in the mansions of Bollywood films, creaked with a flurry of activities. I heard someone call my name. I ignored the voice. Shot passed the main entrance, its wooden Victorian facade partially enveloped in the mist. It was wet outside. A vast open space in the backdrop of majestic lower Himalayas spread in front of me. It had two lawn tennis grass courts with spectators’ gallery on one side, a perfect picture postcard look. It reminded me of Victorian England with all its pomp and show. But my mind was elsewhere.
The gravel filled pathway made it difficult for me to run. I ploughed through. It was flanked by two neat rows of double storied rooms. Mine was on the upper floor. As I negotiated the turn my shoes clattered against the wooden floor. Frantically I searched for the keys.
The room as usual was damp. The furnishings and the furniture were old and creaked under my weight. (In fact the hotel is a bit too much steeped in history, so much so that the room where I stayed could hardly be bolted from inside). I look around. And there it lay. In the far corner of the wide spring soggy bed.
It was a booklet on the history of Hotel Savoy by Ruskin Bond. I frenetically turn the pages. ‘The clientele it had catered to is virtual who’s who of its time - Her Highness the Princess of Wales (later Queen Mary), Motilal and Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, His Holiness Dalai Lama, Haile Selassie (the Emperor of Ethiopia), His majesty the King of Nepal, His Majesty the Crown Prince of Laos, Pearl S. Buck (the Nobel Prize Winning Author) and many others.’
But this was not what I was looking for. I go a little backwards. ‘When Jawaharlal came to Mussourie (and stayed in Hotel Savoy) in 1920, he had not yet entered politics. But as a result of an incident here he was soon to find himself in the thick of freedom struggle.’
No! Not even this! I almost cried to myself. My head was reeling with excitement. I found it difficult to read.
And then there it was. A paragraph above. I quote.
‘It is said that the halls and the corridors of the historic Savoy Hotel are haunted by the ghost of Lady Garnet Orme, who was found dead in mysterious circumstances many years ago. (But she is said to be harmless). Apparently strychnine had been placed in her medicine bottle. But how it got there, no one could tell. Agatha Christie used the circumstances of the crime in her first novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920).
The case was quite a sensation in its time as it involved crystal gazing and table-rapping séances. The victim having been the practitioner of occult.’
‘A famous mind reader claimed to have found the murderer but nothing could be proved. And Rudyard Kipling wrote to his friend Conan Doyle, urging him to use the case as a new adventure for Sherlock Holmes; but Holmes never did make the trip to India. The case remained unsolved. In fact, it came to a dead-end when Lady Garnet Orme’s doctor was also found dead (of strychnine poisoning) a few months later. But not at the Savoy!’
That night as I slept I fervently wished the ghost to pay me a visit. Very early next morning when it was still dark all around, and dense clouds covered the mountains and the vales, I woke up to a gentle knocking. As I opened the door a strong waft of mist swept past me.
“Chai shaabji!”
I had visited Savoy long time ago. It was in a much run down condition. Now it has been taken over by ITC’s Fortune.
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