The Cart in the Rain

I was sixteen the summer my grandmother went to her ancestral home in Rajasthan. We lived in a sprawling bungalow in Shimla, perched on a hillside, surrounded by deodar trees that swayed like dark sentinels. My grandmother, Amma, had left for her ‘maika’—a crumbling haveli in Jaisalmer—to attend her youngest brother’s wedding. I had been sulking that day, angry over a trivial argument about my messy room, and I hadn’t said goodbye. ‘I’ll see you when you get back,’ I had muttered, not looking up from my book. Now, three weeks later, the news came that she was gravely ill, and my father had flown to Jaisalmer to be with her and my grandfather. My mother, my little brother, and I were left alone in the vast house.

The night the call came about her condition, the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the windows, and the wind howled through the pine trees, making the old wooden beams groan. I couldn’t sleep. At one in the morning, the house was pitch dark except for the occasional flicker of lightning. My mother and brother were in their rooms, but I was restless, haunted by the memory of my unspoken farewell. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when a strange drowsiness overcame me, and I slipped into a dream.

In the dream, I was in a vast, dimly lit courtyard, the kind you’d find in a Rajasthani haveli—sandstone walls, carved pillars, and a central fountain long dried up. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old spices. Amma lay on a charpai under a frayed canopy, her face pale as chalk, her breathing shallow. I was running, pushing a heavy wooden cart, the wheels grinding against the stone floor. On the cart was a pile of white cloth—bandages, perhaps, or rags—but also something else: a small, ornate box, the kind she kept her jewelry in. I didn’t know where I was running to, only that I had to reach her before it was too late. The cart was impossibly heavy, and my arms ached, but I pushed on. As I got closer, I saw her eyes flutter open. She looked at me, and her lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. Then, suddenly, the dream shifted—I was no longer in the courtyard but in a narrow, winding corridor, the cart now empty, and a cold draft blowing from behind me. I heard a sound, like a low moan, and I turned to see a shadowy figure at the end of the hall. It began to walk toward me, and I woke with a jolt.

I sat up, drenched in sweat. The rain had intensified, hammering the roof like a drumbeat. My heart pounded. The dream had felt so real, so visceral. I tried to shake it off, but a deep unease settled in my stomach. I got out of bed and walked to the window. The garden below was a black expanse, the trees thrashing wildly. In the distance, I could see the faint glow of the town’s lights, but they seemed impossibly far away. I turned back to my room, and that’s when I saw it: the door to the attic, which was always locked, was slightly ajar.

I had never been in the attic. It was my grandmother’s domain, where she kept old trunks, family heirlooms, and forbidden relics. My mother had told me never to go up there, that it was Amma’s private space. But now, with the door open, a faint light flickered from within—like a candle. I felt a pull, an inexplicable compulsion to go up. I walked to the door, my bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and pushed it open. The stairs creaked as I climbed, each step groaning as if protesting my intrusion. At the top, the attic opened into a cluttered space: old furniture draped in white sheets, trunks stacked against the walls, and in the center, a small table with a single oil lamp burning. On the table lay a photograph of my grandmother, young and vibrant, and next to it, a wooden cart—the exact same cart from my dream, but miniature, like a toy. It was made of dark, polished wood, with tiny wheels and a flat bed. On it rested a small, ornate box, identical to the one in my dream.

I reached out to touch the box, but as my fingers grazed the wood, the lamp flickered and went out. I was plunged into darkness. A chill ran down my spine. I heard a whisper, soft but clear, like Amma’s voice: ‘Run, child.’ But it wasn’t coming from the attic. It was coming from below, from the ground floor. I stumbled back down the stairs, my heart racing. When I reached the hallway, I saw that the front door was wide open, rain blowing in, soaking the rug. The wind howled, and in the lightning flashes, I glimpsed a figure standing in the garden—a tall, gaunt shape, draped in white, its face hidden. It was holding something in its arms, something that looked like a bundle of cloth. It began to slowly walk toward the house.

I slammed the door shut and locked it, my hands trembling. My mother appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. I tried to speak, but no words came. Then, from the other side of the door, came a soft knocking—not urgent, but deliberate. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then a voice, muffled but unmistakably Amma’s: ‘Let me in. I’ve come to say goodbye.’

I stood frozen. My mother rushed down and put her hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t open it,’ she said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s not her.’ The knocking continued, growing more insistent. Then, the rain seemed to stop, and an eerie silence fell. The voice spoke again, this time in a sing-song tone: ‘Push the cart, child. Push the cart to me.’ I looked down, and there, at my feet, was the miniature cart from the attic. I hadn’t brought it down, but it lay there, its tiny wheels wet, as if it had been outside.

I stepped back, and the cart began to move on its own, rolling toward the door. It hit the base of the door and stopped. The voice whispered, ‘You didn’t say goodbye. Now you must.’ The door rattled violently, as if something was pushing against it from the other side. My mother grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the back of the house. ‘We need to go,’ she said. ‘Now.’ We ran to the kitchen, where the back door led to the servants’ quarters. As we fled, I glanced back and saw the front door burst open, a torrent of water flooding in, and the silhouette of the figure standing there, its head tilted, its empty eye sockets fixed on me.

We escaped through the back, into the cold, wet night, and hid in the woodshed until dawn. When we finally returned, the house was still standing, but the door was ajar, and the miniature cart was gone. My grandmother passed away that morning, at exactly 6:32 AM. My father called to tell us. I never learned what happened in the attic that night, but years later, when I inherited her belongings, I found the miniature cart in an old trunk. The box was still there, but inside it was a small, folded piece of paper. On it, in my grandmother’s shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘I am sorry I had to leave. The cart was always meant for you. Push it to me when you come.’

I have never gone back to Shimla. I still have the cart, and sometimes, on rainy nights, I hear the sound of wooden wheels rolling across my ceiling, and a faint voice whispering, ‘Push the cart.’