The Lamp on the Ghat

In the late 1970s, in a village straddling the muddy banks of the Ganges, there was a small shrine to a local river saint, barely more than a stone hut with a rusted tin roof. The villagers, regardless of faith, would touch their foreheads to its threshold before crossing the narrow wooden bridge that led to their homes. It was said that the saint’s spirit kept the river’s wrath at bay, and anyone who ignored the custom risked bringing misfortune upon themselves and their family.

My paternal grandfather, Harpal, was a milkman. He traveled by a creaking bicycle, his metal milk cans clanking against the frame. On a sweltering summer night, he had to return from a distant farm, and the sun had long dipped below the horizon. He was late. His wife, Gurmeet, and their three children were alone in their mud-brick house, and the village had been troubled by cattle thieves lately. He pedaled hard, the dry road kicking up dust, but as he neared the bridge, the old habit pulled at him. He braked, dismounted, and walked his cycle up the slight incline to the shrine.

He placed a small coin on the stone platform and bowed, murmuring a prayer for safe passage. As he straightened, he noticed a strange thing. The oil lamp inside the shrine, which was always kept lit by the village elders, was extinguished. The wick was cold, the oil cup dry. A chill ran down his spine, but he shrugged it off, thinking the priest must have forgotten. He mounted his cycle and crossed the bridge, the wood groaning under his weight.

On the other side, the road curved along the riverbank. The night was thick, and the only light came from a sliver of moon behind clouds. Harpal’s lamp on his handlebars cast a weak, flickering glow. He heard the river lapping against the bank, and then another sound: a rhythmic splash, like something heavy being dragged through water. He pedaled faster, but the sound seemed to keep pace. He looked over his shoulder and saw, in the faint light, a figure emerging from the river. It was a man, dripping wet, with long, matted hair, and he was dragging a sack. The figure stopped and stared at Harpal.

Harpal’s heart hammered. He thought it might be a fisherman, but the sack moved, and a low moan escaped from it. The figure began to walk toward him, not fast, but with an unnerving steadiness. Harpal’s legs pumped, but his cycle felt heavy, as if the wheels were caught in mud. He glanced ahead and saw the village’s first light—a lantern on a pole near the entry gate. He pushed harder, and the light grew closer. But the sound of dragging water was right behind him.

He reached the gate and shouted for help, but the watchman was asleep in his hut. He dismounted and ran to the gate, shaking the iron bars. The figure stopped at the edge of the light’s radius, just beyond the glow. Harpal could see the sack clearly now. It was a burlap sack, tied at the neck, and inside it, he heard a muffled sobbing. The figure’s face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were empty holes. ‘You did not light the lamp,’ the figure said, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves. ‘You crossed without a blessing.’

Harpal stumbled back, tripping over his bicycle. The figure knelt and began to untie the sack. From within, a child’s small hand emerged, grasping at the air. Harpal recognized the embroidered sleeve—it was his youngest daughter’s. But she was home, asleep. He screamed, ‘No!’, and ran toward the sack, but the figure vanished, leaving the sack on the ground. It stopped moving. Harpal tore at the burlap and found inside a pile of river stones, cold and wet.

He rushed home, his mind reeling. When he burst through his door, he found his wife and children unharmed, sleeping peacefully. His daughter stirred and murmured, ‘Baba, there was a man at the window. He had stones in his eyes.’ Harpal froze. He looked at the windowsill and saw a small, wet pebble resting on it.

From that night, Harpal never passed the shrine without lighting the lamp himself, even during the day. But he would often sit on his verandah, staring at the river, and he swore he could see a figure dragging a sack along the bank, waiting for the lamp to go out again. And in my family, we never let the flame die.