The Lantern in the Mangroves

In the late ’90s, I was a boy of twelve living in a coastal town where the houses leaned into each other like weary old men. My name is Arun, and I had two scars that marked my childhood: one from a fall off a terrace onto a concrete courtyard, and another from a bicycle crash on a gravel road that left a furrow in my forehead, a pale river on my skin. They said I was lucky, but I always felt they were reminders of something else, something that had been waiting for me long before I was born.

My grandmother, Amma, was the only person who listened to my stories without laughing. She was a frail woman who smelled of turmeric and old silk, and she wore a crimson sari with a golden border, the color of dried blood. She died on a humid Monday in August, the same week the monsoon broke over our town. The night she passed, I swear I saw her sari flutter in the wind outside my window, even though the windows were shut. My mother said it was just the ghost of a dream, but I knew better.

After her funeral, I began to see things in the corners of my eyes. A flash of red between the palm trees, a whisper of silk in the mango grove. My father, a practical man who fixed fishing nets during the day, told me to stop being foolish. But the visions grew stronger whenever I traveled. We would drive along the coastal highway, and I would see her standing among the mangroves that lined the road, her sari a crimson slash against the green. I would point and shout, ‘Amma! Look, it’s Amma!’ But my parents would only sigh, and my mother would pull me away from the window, her hands trembling.

One evening, on the way back from a distant market, our car broke down near a stretch of mangrove forest that the locals called the Noisy Dark. It was said that the trees there swallowed sound, and that if you listened carefully, you could hear the mangroves breathing. My father, a man of few words, got out to look at the engine, and my mother stayed inside, praying. I couldn’t help but step out onto the muddy path, drawn by a light flickering between the roots. It was a lantern, hanging from a branch, and beneath it stood a figure in a red sari, her face hidden in the shadows.

My heart hammered. It wasn’t Amma, but the same shape, the same way she tilted her head. I called out again, but this time my voice was swallowed by the mangroves, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves. The figure raised a hand, and in it was a small object, a wooden comb, like the one Amma used to keep in her hair. I stepped forward, my feet sinking into the mud, and the lantern flickered. Then the figure turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving only the lantern swinging gently.

I ran back to the car, my clothes soaked with sweat and rain. My father had fixed the engine, and we drove away with the mangroves watching us through the windows. For weeks after, I couldn’t shake the image of the lantern. I began to look for it in my dreams, and I would wake up with mud between my toes. One night, I found myself standing at the edge of the Noisy Dark, the lantern glowing in the distance. I walked until the mud covered my knees, and then I saw her face under the light. It was Amma, but her skin was the color of wet bark, and her eyes were hollow. She held the comb out to me, and I reached for it, my fingers brushing against her cold, veined hand.

I screamed and woke up in my bed, my forehead aching with a pain that had not bothered me in years. When I touched my scar, it was warm, and I pulled my hand away to find a small, red thread stuck to my fingers. I recognized it as the golden border of Amma’s sari. From that night on, the scar on my forehead began to itch, and I would often find myself staring at the mangroves, even when I was miles away. One day, I took a boat into the swamp, determined to find the lantern. I paddled through the green tunnels, and after hours, I saw it, hanging from a dead tree, its light burning steady. Beneath it, floating in the water, was the wooden comb. I reached down, and as my fingers closed around it, the mangroves began to whisper, the sound growing until it became a chorus of voices, all of them calling my name.

I tried to drop the comb, but it stuck to my palm, and I felt a pull from the water below. Looking over the edge, I saw my own reflection, but the face was older, weathered, and wearing Amma’s smile. The reflection reached up, and its hands closed around my throat. I fought, but the mangroves held me still, and I felt myself being dragged into the water, the lantern’s light fading above me. I woke up on the shore, my clothes dry, the comb clutched in my hand, and the red scar on my forehead had turned a deep black, like the water in the swamp.

I never told my parents, but I knew the truth. Amma had not been waiting for me to say goodbye. She had been waiting for me to take her place. And now, whenever I look in a mirror, I see the red sari in the reflection, and I know that someday, the lantern will call me back. Until then, I keep the comb in my pocket, and I never venture near the mangroves, not even in my dreams, because the trees are always watching, and the lantern is always burning, waiting for its next keeper.