The Hollow at the Bend

The summer I turned fourteen, my family moved to the outskirts of Vellore, to a dusty town called Pallikonda. Our house, a crumbling colonial relic, sat at the edge of a dry, sprawling field we called the Maidan. Beyond it, the Palar River had shrunk to a string of stagnant pools, and at one bend, the water curved around the field like a half-closed eye. On the far side of that bend, a narrow, weed-choked path ran between the river’s edge and a collapsed stone wall, a shortcut to the old railway station that no one used anymore. I remember the day I discovered it: the air smelled of fried fish and diesel from the trucks on the highway, and the sun beat down on the cracked earth.

I was the new boy, and cricket was my only currency. The local kids, led by a wiry fast bowler named Ravi, allowed me to field at fine leg. One afternoon, chasing a ball scuffed past the makeshift pitch, I vaulted the low wall and found myself on that path. The reeds were taller than me, and the water was a dark, oily bronze. A chill ran through me despite the heat. I saw the ball, lying just at the water’s edge, and as I bent to pick it up, I noticed something odd: a small, carved stone figure, no bigger than my thumb, half-buried in the mud. It was a woman with a serene face, but her eyes were missing, just smooth pits. I pocketed it, feeling a strange flush of ownership.

That night, I dreamt of a procession of women in white, walking along the riverbank, their feet silent, their faces blank. They stopped at the bend and waded into the water, one by one, until only their heads remained, bobbing like corks. I woke with a gasp, my throat dry. I tried to ignore it, but the next day, I felt compelled to return to the path. I found more stones, arranged in a half-circle around a dark, oily patch of ground. I didn’t touch them, but I brought the first stone back and placed it among them. From that moment, the field felt different. The boys’ laughter seemed farther away, and the ball often went out of bounds, as if something was pulling it toward the water.

A week later, Ravi hit a towering six that disappeared into the reeds. He shrugged and said, ‘Let the fish keep it.’ But I felt a pull, a compulsion stronger than curiosity. I slipped away and made my way to the path. It was dusk, and the water had gone black. I pushed through the reeds and saw, floating in the water, a half-submerged cricket ball, perfectly round and white, like a severed head. I reached for it, and my fingers touched something cold and smooth beneath the surface—not the ball, but a hand. I yanked back, heart hammering, and stumbled away.

The dreams intensified. I saw the women again, but now they were holding cricket balls, and they were pressing them into the water, one by one, as if planting seeds. One of them turned her head, and her missing eyes seemed to look straight at me. I woke with a scream, and my mother found me shaking. She said I had a fever, but I knew it was something else. I decided to go to the station and wait for the afternoon train, just to feel normal. On the way, I passed a group of old men who spoke in low voices about the river. One said, ‘It used to be a holy place, but now it’s cursed. They say a woman drowned there for love, and her soul gathers the children’s games as trophies.’ I felt a chill colder than the river.

I didn’t go back for three days. But the dreams didn’t stop. And at school, I saw the stone I had taken, sitting on my desk as if it had followed me. That evening, driven by a force I couldn’t name, I returned to the bend. The reeds seemed to part for me. The air grew thick and still. At the water’s edge, I saw the cricket ball, still floating, but closer now. I knelt, and the water was so clear I could see the bottom. There, lying in the silt, were dozens of cricket balls, arranged in a spiral, like a serpent. In the center lay a stone figure, larger than the others, a woman with her arms outstretched, her hands open as if to receive.

The water rippled, and I felt a tug on my wrist. I looked down, and my reflection in the water was not my own. It was a woman with dark hair, and she was smiling. I tried to pull back, but I couldn’t move. The dream-women appeared around me, their hands on my shoulders, and their mouths opened, but no sound came out. The last thing I saw, as the water rose to meet me, was the cricket ball, pressing against my lips, cold and heavy.

I woke on the field, hours later, with no memory of how I got there. The boys said I had fainted from heatstroke. But I knew the truth. I felt the ghost of the river in my breath, and every time I looked at water, I saw her face. I tried to leave Pallikonda, but my family stayed for two more years. During that time, I never went near the bend again. But I would sometimes find small, wet stones in my pockets, and at night, I would hear the sound of a bat hitting a ball, and then a splash. I never played cricket again. The hollow at the bend, I learned, is never satisfied. And it always calls back what it has claimed.