The Lantern at the Edge of the Paddy

I was twelve that summer, and the memory is as crisp as the winter air of the Himalayan foothills. We lived in a small town in Sikkim, where the mountains swallowed the sky and the clouds often brushed the rooftops. But that June, we were in the Terai region of West Bengal for my cousin’s wedding. My maternal uncle, a man of simple habits, had recently moved to a cluster of four crumbling houses on the far side of the village, surrounded by endless paddy fields. The only neighbor was an elderly aunt and her taciturn husband, who rarely left their verandah.

The day before the wedding was a blur of marigold garlands, the clang of brass pots, and the frantic laughter of relatives. I, being the youngest, was given the task of staying out of the way. My cousin Rita, two years older than me, was my constant companion. We explored the verandah, counted the cracks in the mud walls, and played hide-and-seek among the stacks of firewood. By eight in the evening, my parents and the other adults were deep in preparations for the next day, and Rita and I were packed off to her house, a thirty-meter stroll down a narrow dirt path through the tall grass.

Rita’s house was a three-room structure with a tin roof, lit by a single kerosene lantern that cast dancing shadows. We were told to sleep early. Rita fell asleep within minutes, her breath slow and even. But I lay on the thin cotton mattress, the unfamiliar sounds of the night keeping me awake. Insects buzzed, a dog barked somewhere far away, and the wind rustled the palm fronds outside the only window. The window, a square cut into the wall, had no glass, only a wooden shutter hooked back. Through it, I could see a slice of the paddy field, silver under the moon.

It was then that I saw the light. A small, wavering flame, like a lantern, bobbing at the far edge of the field, maybe a hundred meters away. I sat up, my heart thumping. There was no path there, just the dense, green crop. I watched it for a long time. It moved in a straight line, parallel to the house, then stopped. I felt a peculiar chill, as if the air had thickened. The light began to move again, this time toward the house. It didn’t move like a person walking. It glided, not bobbing with steps, but smooth and deliberate, like a boat on a still lake.

I pinched myself, sure I was dreaming. But the light persisted, and it was getting closer. Now I could make out its shape: it wasn’t a lantern but a glowing sphere, about the size of a human head, floating at waist height. It crossed the boundary of the field and entered the narrow strip of bare earth that surrounded the house. I wanted to wake Rita, but my voice was gone. The sphere reached the wall below the window, and then it rose, slowly, until it was level with the sill. Inside its glow, I saw something that has never left me: a face, not human, but not entirely otherwise. It was a shifting, translucent specter, with hollow eye sockets that seemed to look right through me. Its mouth moved, as if speaking, but no sound came out. Instead, I heard a whisper, not in my ears, but directly in my mind: ‘I have seen you. Come.’

I screamed then, a raw, guttural sound that finally tore from my throat. Rita woke with a start, and the sphere vanished. I was crying, pointing at the window, but she saw nothing. She scolded me for being a scaredy-cat, then went back to sleep. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay with my eyes fixed on the window, but the light did not return. At dawn, I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a firefly or a reflection. My uncle, overhearing, grew quiet. He insisted I stay inside the house for the rest of the wedding, and I saw him exchange a look with the old aunt across the yard.

The wedding came and went. We returned home to Sikkim, and I tried to forget. But for years, I felt a presence in dark rooms, a gaze on the back of my neck. I researched later, reading old folktales. I learned about the ‘langion’—a possessive spirit said to inhabit the paddy fields, drawn to the energy of celebrations, and to children who stayed up late. Some believed it was a guardian of the crops that turned malevolent when disturbed. I don’t know if that’s what I saw, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that it saw me, and that it knows my face. Now, whenever I see a lone light in a field at night, I turn away. I do not look. And if you ever find yourself staring at the edge of a paddy under the moon, and you notice a light that moves without a walker, do not watch it. Because it may start watching you back.