The Lantern’s Plea

In the autumn of 1954, in the dust-choked village of Kala Pani, my grandfather Hassan and his two cousins, Imran and Yusuf, set out on a moonless night to reach the next town for a wedding. The roads were barely more than dirt tracks, and the only transport was a rickety tonga pulled by a tired mare named Gulabi. The driver, an old man named Karim, sat hunched on the box, his whip occasionally cracking the silence. The air was thick with the smell of dry earth and the distant cry of jackals.

As the tonga rattled along, the darkness pressed in like a velvet shroud. The only light came from a swaying lantern that hung from the tonga’s frame, casting long, dancing shadows across the faces of the three young men. They spoke little, each lost in his own thoughts about the festivities ahead. Then, from the depths of the night, a sound arose that made Gulabi’s ears twitch and her pace falter.

A voice, thin and reedy, called out from the blackness, ‘Hassan… Imran… Yusuf… wait for me. Take me with you.’ The three men froze, their blood turning to ice. The voice was unmistakably that of their old neighbor, Bari Maa, who had been bedridden for years and was, according to their knowledge, on the verge of death. They exchanged fearful glances, but Karim, without a word, lashed the horse, urging her to go faster.

The voice grew more desperate, now sounding behind them, now ahead, now from the sides. ‘Why do you leave me? I only want to see the stars once more. The stars that I saw when I was young.’ The three men looked at the sky; the stars were out, but they seemed wrong—they flickered as if laughing at their terror.

Karim, who had been silent, finally spoke, his voice raspy. ‘Do not look back. It is not Bari Maa. Bari Maa died three days ago. I saw her burial. This is something that takes the shape of our memories to lure us.’ The tonga began to shake, and the lantern swung violently, its light dimming. The voice now took on a mocking tone, chanting a rhyme that they had heard as children: ‘The lantern glows, the river flows, but the dead know where the shadow goes.’

Then, from the edge of the lantern’s light, a figure emerged. It was dressed in a white shroud, its face obscured. It walked alongside the galloping horse, keeping pace with an unnatural ease. ‘I have a message,’ it said. ‘Your grandmother’s locket—the one she lost in the canal—it is not lost. It is with me. Come take it.’

Imran, the youngest, was trembling. ‘We have no grandmother who lost a locket,’ he whispered. The figure laughed, a sound like dry leaves scraping, and then it vanished. But the voice continued, now sounding like all three of their mothers, their sisters, their childhood sweethearts, calling them with promises of home and comfort.

Karim pulled the tonga to a halt at the edge of a narrow bridge. The river below was dark and silent. ‘We must cross on foot,’ he said, ‘the horse refuses to go. She can sense the evil.’ The three men clambered down, their legs weak. The voice now seemed to emanate from the water itself, a gurgling plea: ‘Come, join me, I am cold and lonely.’

As they hesitated on the bridge, the lantern, which had been left on the tonga, flared brightly and then went out. In the sudden darkness, they heard Karim’s voice, but from behind them: ‘Run! It is a trap!’ They spun around to see Karim standing by the tonga, but there was another Karim standing beside them, pointing to the tonga. Both were identical, both pleading.

The three cousins realized they had entered a realm where nothing was true. The only thing they could trust was the feel of the cold iron rail under their fingers. They joined hands and began to walk forward, reciting verses from the Quran, their only protection. The voices grew angrier, became a cacophony of whispers and screams, but they did not stop.

As they reached the far end of the bridge, the air warmed, and the sounds faded. They looked back; the tonga was gone, and the river was just water. They walked the remaining miles in silence, reaching the village at dawn. They never spoke of that night again, but my grandfather always kept a lantern burning in his room, even during the day. And when he told me this story, he would end it with a warning: ‘In the dark, the dead may call your name, but it is the lantern’s plea that you must never answer.’