The Ghat Courier

Arjun, a 17-year-old from Varanasi, was in his final year of high school, facing the relentless pressure of engineering entrance exams. His father, a retired government clerk, had enrolled him in a prestigious coaching center run by an old friend, Mr. Verma. The institute, housed in a crumbling colonial building near the ghats, was a maze of dim corridors and echoing classrooms. Because of the city’s notorious safety issues after dark, the institute provided vans to drop off the female students, while the male students were allowed to sit in the front seat beside the driver, or make their own way home. Arjun’s parents, paranoid about his safety, insisted he always use the institute’s van.

One humid September evening, as the clock struck nine, the coaching center’s bell echoed through the halls. Students spilled out, chattering, into the oppressive darkness. Arjun, as usual, climbed into the front seat of the battered white van, next to the driver, an old man everyone called ‘Baba’. Baba was a gaunt figure with a perpetually mournful expression, and he had a peculiar habit of muttering to himself. The van was filled with a dozen girls, including a quiet, intense girl named Meera, who always sat in the back, staring out the window. Arjun had noticed her before, but tonight something was different. As the van lurched forward, Arjun glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Meera’s reflection. She wasn’t looking at the street; she was looking directly at him, with an unsettling, knowing smile.

The van’s route was always the same: down the narrow, winding lanes past the burning ghats, through the fish market, and then to the residential colony where most of the students lived. But tonight, Baba took a wrong turn at the intersection near the old cremation ground. Arjun pointed it out, but Baba just grunted, ‘Road closed.’ The van bumped over cobblestones, deeper into a part of the city Arjun had never seen. The streetlights were sparse, and the only light came from the headlights, cutting through a thick, unnatural fog that seemed to rise from the river. The air grew colder, and the smell of incense and damp earth filled the van. The girls, who were usually giggling, had fallen silent. Arjun turned to look at them; they were all staring ahead, their faces blank, as if in a trance. Meera was the only one who caught his eye, and she nodded slowly, as if to say, ‘It’s happening.’

Baba brought the van to a stop in front of a derelict mansion that loomed over the riverbank, its veranda lined with rotting wooden pillars. The headlights illuminated a rusted iron gate, behind which stood a hunched figure holding a lantern. ‘Everyone out,’ Baba said, his voice flat. Arjun’s heart pounded. ‘This isn’t the route, Baba. We’re supposed to go to Shastri Nagar.’ But the girls were already opening the doors, stepping out silently onto the wet stone. Arjun had no choice but to follow. The figure at the gate was an old woman, her face hidden by a shawl. She said nothing, only turned and led them into the mansion. The interior was a maze of dust-covered rooms, lit by flickering oil lamps. Baba stayed behind, closing the heavy wooden door, sealing them inside.

The old woman led them to a large hall with a high, cracked ceiling. In the center was a long table, on which lay a single, ancient ledger. She gestured for them to sit. ‘You are the new batch,’ she croaked. ‘We have not had fresh souls in years.’ Arjun’s blood ran cold. ‘What do you mean? We’re students. We have to go home.’ Meera, now seated at the far end of the table, spoke for the first time. ‘Arjun, this is the Ghat Courier service. They have been ferrying souls to the other side for centuries. But this old world is fading. They need new blood to continue the journey.’ The old woman opened the ledger, revealing columns of names, some dating back to the 1800s. ‘Your names, please,’ she said. The girls began to recite their names in unison, their voices monotone. Arjun tried to shout, but his voice was gone. He felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and turned to see Meera standing beside him. ‘Don’t resist. It’s the only way out,’ she whispered. ‘We pass the ledger to the next driver, and we are freed.’

Arjun’s mind raced. He thought of his parents, his dreams of engineering, the world beyond this hellish place. He realized the ledger was the anchor. Without thinking, he lunged forward, grabbed the ledger from the table, and ran towards the door. The old woman shrieked, and the girls’ heads snapped towards him, their eyes now black, empty voids. He burst through the door into the darkness, but the mansion’s corridors twisted and shifted, leading him nowhere. He saw a window, shattered it, and jumped out, landing in the shallow, muddy riverbank. The water was icy. He stumbled through the reeds, clutching the ledger to his chest. Behind him, the mansion was gone, replaced by a thick fog. He ran until he reached a familiar street, collapsing on the steps of a temple, panting.

When he looked at the ledger, the names of the girls had vanished, and in their place was a single, handwritten line: ‘Arjun, next departure: midnight, at the Assi Ghat.’ He never used the institute’s van again, but every night at midnight, his phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, containing a single name. Last night, it was his father’s name. And at the end of the message, a date: tomorrow. He knows the ledger is calling him, and he has no idea how to escape its grip. But he keeps the ledger hidden under his bed, afraid to open it, because every time he does, he sees his own name fading in and out, as if it’s waiting to be written.