The Chasing Bells

It was past midnight when Arjun left the temple grounds, the last strains of the damaru and the smell of burning camphor still clinging to his clothes. The villagers had pleaded with him to stay, to wait for dawn, but Arjun was stubborn. His wife would be worried, and he knew the forest path like the back of his hand. He had walked it a hundred times, even in the dark.

The path wound through the dense, breathing forest, the canopy blocking out the stars. His torch cast a weak, yellow circle that barely pierced the gloom. The sounds of the night – crickets, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a nightjar – were familiar. He walked quickly, his chappals slapping softly against the packed earth.

Then, he heard it. A faint jingle, like the tiny bells on a dancer’s anklet. It was faint at first, perhaps a stray cow or a wandering spirit of the forest. He shrugged it off and continued. But the sound grew louder, closer. It wasn’t a constant jingle, but a rapid, frantic burst, as if someone was running towards him, their anklets clashing with each step.

Arjun’s heart began to pound. He stopped, turned around, and swept his torch into the darkness behind him. The beam revealed nothing but trees and shadows. The jingling stopped the moment he halted. He waited, listening, but only the forest’s normal murmurs answered. He chided himself for being foolish. It was probably just his imagination, the aftereffects of the trance-inducing rituals. He resumed walking, but faster this time.

The jingling started again, but now it was more distinct. It was the sound of many small bells, and it was coming closer, fast. He felt a rush of air on his back, as if something had just run past him and stopped right behind his shoulder. The breeze was cool, yet it sent a chill down his spine. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he turned again, the torch trembling in his hand. Still nothing.

He told himself it was an animal – a deer, a wild dog – but the sound was too rhythmic, too deliberate. It was the sound of anklets, the kind worn by the devadasi dancers, or the fierce goddess herself in the bhoota kola. The thought sent a wave of fear through him. He began to walk, nearly jogging, his sandals slapping against the dirt. The jingling mirrored his movement, growing more frantic, more urgent. It was as if whatever was chasing him was matching his pace, getting closer with each step.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his shirt. He stumbled, nearly falling. He spun around, his torch beam shaking wildly, but there was nothing there. The jingling stopped. A heavy silence descended, suffocating the forest sounds. Then, a whisper, so close to his ear that he felt the breath on his skin: ‘Why are you running?’ The voice was sweet, almost melodic, but with an undertone of menace.

Arjun swung his torch wildly, screaming, but the beam only illuminated the empty path. He broke into a run, his heart hammering against his ribs. The jingling exploded behind him, a frantic, whirling cacophony, accompanied by the sound of feet pounding the earth. He dared not look back. He just ran. The forest seemed to close in on him, the trees blurring into a black wall. His lungs burned, but he didn’t stop.

Then, up ahead, he saw the faint glow of his village lights. The path was ending. He burst through the undergrowth and onto the open field, collapsing to his knees, gasping for breath. He turned back to the forest, but it was just a dark, silent wall. The jingling was gone. The feeling of being watched had vanished. He staggered to his feet and made his way home, never looking back.

For weeks, Arjun could not shake the memory. He told no one what had happened, fearing the shame of being mocked for cowardice. But he never walked that path again, even in daylight. He took the long way around, through the paddy fields and the main road, no matter how far. And to the day he died, he kept a small bell at his bedside, a protective charm his grandmother had given him. But even that did not stop the sound from occasionally echoing in his ears, a phantom jingle reminding him of the night he almost met the goddess’s wrath.