The Blue Saree

I was twelve when my family attended my uncle’s housewarming in a dusty, half-built colony on the outskirts of town. The house was small, with rooms so cramped you could touch both walls if you stretched your arms. But my aunt was proud of it—her first home after years of renting. The ceremony ended by evening, and the guests left one by one, leaving only close relatives. My mother, being her sister, was persuaded to stay the night. We agreed, though we knew there were no beds, no sofas—nothing but bare cement floors and the smell of fresh paint.

We laid out old cotton bedsheets in the living room, the only space big enough for all of us. The room was lit by a single bulb that flickered occasionally, and the windows were bare, gaping like black mouths. My cousin, a year younger, clung to my arm. ‘I don’t like this house,’ she whispered. I shushed her, but I felt it too—a heaviness in the air, as if the walls were holding their breath.

At midnight, the lights went out. The sudden darkness was total, and our flashlight beam seemed weak against it. We huddled together, and my uncle cursed the faulty wiring. Then we heard it: a soft rustling, like fabric being dragged across the floor. It came from the hallway leading to the empty bedrooms. My father called out, ‘Who’s there?’ The rustling stopped. Then it started again, closer.

A figure emerged from the darkness. It was a woman—or what looked like a woman—wearing a blue saree that hung loosely, as if drenched. Her face was obscured by her hair, which fell in wet strands. She moved without sound, gliding over the cement. My mother screamed, and we all scrambled to the far corner. The figure stopped in the center of the room, tilted her head, and whispered, ‘This was my home.’ My uncle shone the flashlight on her, but the beam passed through her as if she were fog. She pointed a finger at the wall, where a faint stain of dampness spread. ‘They sealed me here,’ she said. ‘In the wall.’

We fled then—grabbing whatever we could, stumbling into the night. We spent the rest of the night in our car, trembling, watching the house from outside. The lights flickered on and off. At dawn, we drove back to town, never speaking of it. But I saw the stain on that wall. It wasn’t dampness. It was the shape of a woman, arms outstretched, as if trying to climb out.

Years later, I returned to that colony, out of morbid curiosity. The house was abandoned, its paint peeling. Locals avoided it. I asked an old man about it, and he crossed himself. ‘A woman died there,’ he said. ‘Her husband buried her in the wall to hide the murder. They say she still wears the blue saree she was buried in.’ I never asked further. I know what I saw. And whenever I see a blue saree in a shop window, a cold shiver runs through me, and I hear that whisper: ‘This was my home.’