The Last Bus to Kuruthimalai

Twenty years have passed, but I still feel the chill of that night whenever I think about it. I was working in the cotton mills of Coimbatore back then, far from my family’s village. The news came by a crackling trunk call: my grandfather’s brother, whom I barely remembered, had died in a remote hamlet called Kuruthimalai, nestled in the dry, rocky hinterlands of Tamil Nadu. The family insisted I attend the rites. I had no car, so I took the state transport bus from Coimbatore to the district headquarters, a dusty town named Vettavalam. I arrived well after midnight, the summer air thick with the smell of dust and jasmine from a nearby temple.

The bus stand was nearly empty. A few bundled figures lay on wooden benches, their faces covered. I asked the lone ticket clerk about a bus to Kuruthimalai. He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. ‘That place? No bus goes there after sunset. Last one left at nine. You’ll have to wait till dawn.’ My heart sank. The funeral was at noon the next day, and I had to be there. I stepped outside, hoping to find a shared auto or a lorry heading in that direction. The road was a black ribbon under a sickle moon, lined with thorny acacia and the occasional glow of fireflies. A group of men lingered near a tea stall, their faces half-lit by a flickering kerosene lamp. I approached, asking if anyone knew a way to Kuruthimalai. They exchanged glances, then one old man, his teeth stained red from betel, said, ‘There is a short cut through the jungle, about ten miles. But it’s not safe at night. There are… things there.’ He fell silent, not meeting my eyes. Another man, younger, added, ‘You could try the village headman’s brother. He has a motorcycle. But he’s probably drunk by now.’

I was desperate. I spotted a lone auto-rickshaw idling at the far end of the lot, its driver a wiry man with a sharp face who seemed to be waiting for someone. I walked over. ‘Kuruthimalai?’ I asked. He looked at me, then at the dark road. ‘I can take you halfway, to the river crossing. After that, it’s a two-mile walk uphill. The path is clear, if you keep left at the split banyan.’ He quoted a price that was triple the normal fare, but I paid without haggling. As I climbed into the rickety vehicle, he added, ‘But I won’t wait for you. And I don’t go past the river, no matter what.’ I agreed, thinking only of reaching the village.

The ride was rough, the headlight slicing through the darkness. We passed mud-walled huts with thatched roofs, and then the road narrowed to a dirt track. The jungle closed in, dense and silent. After about half an hour, he stopped at a concrete culvert. ‘This is the river. Dry now. The path starts there.’ He pointed to a barely visible trail that veered off into the thicket. ‘Remember: left at the banyan. And if you see a light, do not follow it.’ Before I could ask what he meant, he turned the auto around and disappeared, leaving me alone in the deep night.

I stood there, the silence pressing in. The air was still, unnaturally so. No crickets, no owls. I started walking, my footsteps crunching on the dry leaves. After about ten minutes, I reached a massive banyan tree, its aerial roots like a curtain of darkness. I took the left path, as instructed. The trail was narrow, bordered by tall grass that brushed my arms. I felt a prickle on my neck, as if I were being watched. I quickened my pace. Then I saw it ahead: a faint, flickering glow, like a lantern, off to the right. It swung gently, as if someone were carrying it. The auto driver’s warning echoed in my head: ‘If you see a light, do not follow it.’ I forced myself to look away and kept to the path. The glow drifted alongside me for a while, then vanished.

I emerged from the jungle into a clearing where the ground was rocky and bare. Below, in a shallow valley, lay Kuruthimalai, a cluster of perhaps fifty huts with a single stone temple at its center. A few oil lamps burned in the windows. I half-ran down the slope, my heart pounding with relief. I found the house with the funeral canopy, its white cloth glowing in the moonlight. The mourners were still awake, sitting on the ground, their faces weary. They received me with quiet surprise. ‘We didn’t expect you till morning,’ said a middle-aged man who introduced himself as my cousin, Perumal. He led me to the courtyard where the body lay, covered with flowers. I paid my respects, then he brought me a cup of hot tea. As I drank, he asked, ‘How did you get here? The road is bad.’ I told him about the auto and the walk. At the mention of the light, his face changed. ‘You did well not to follow it,’ he said slowly. ‘That is the flame of a spirit who leads travelers astray. Many have been lost.’ I shuddered, remembering how close I had been.

Later, as the funeral rites began, I noticed an old woman sitting in the shadows, her eyes fixed on me. She wore a faded red sari, and her face was lined with age. When I looked at her, she smiled, revealing a single gold tooth. I felt a sudden chill. Perumal saw my gaze and whispered, ‘She is the last surviving elder of the village. She knew your great-uncle well. She says you have the mark of a seer.’ I dismissed it as superstition. But when the priest began the final prayers, the old woman rose and walked toward the pyre. She held a small clay lamp, its flame steady in the still air. She placed it at the head of the body and chanted something in a language I didn’t recognize. Then she turned to me and said, ‘You carry the burden now. Do not forget the light.’ I didn’t understand what she meant, but I nodded, eager to leave.

After the cremation, I stayed for the mourning period, but I was anxious to return to my job. On the third day, I asked Perumal about transport. He said a bus came from Vettavalam in the morning and returned in the evening. I would have to take it from the village square. I waited with my bag, the heat oppressive. The old woman appeared again, standing at the edge of the square, watching. The bus arrived, dusty and worn. As I climbed in, she called out, ‘Do not come back this way.’ I nodded, thinking she meant I should take a different route next time. The bus rumbled off, leaving her behind.

I arrived back at my boarding house in Coimbatore later that night. I washed off the travel dust and lay on my cot, but sleep did not come. I kept seeing the old woman’s face, her words echoing. I dismissed it all as exhaustion. The next day, I resumed work. But something had changed. I began to notice things: a flicker of light in the corner of my eye, always just out of sight; a whisper that seemed to come from the fan; the feeling that someone was standing behind me. At first, I thought it was stress. But then, during a night shift, I saw it clearly: a faint blue flame hovering near my shoulder, like the one in the jungle. I tried to touch it, and it vanished. My fellow workers teased me, saying I was seeing ghosts. But I knew it was connected to that night.

I could not shake the fear. I visited a village sorcerer, who performed a ritual to remove the ‘spirit’s mark’ he said I had received. He gave me a talisman and told me to wear it always. For a while, the occurrences stopped. But on the anniversary of my uncle’s death, I received a letter from Perumal. It said that the old woman had died, and in her will, she had left me something: a small brass lamp, the same one she had used in the funeral. She had bequeathed it to me with a note: ‘He who carries the lamp must light it every new moon, or the flame will find him.’ I sent the lamp back with a polite refusal, but the messenger returned the very next week with the lamp and a warning: ‘She said you would refuse, but the lamp must stay with you. Forgive me.’ The messenger left it on my doorstep and fled.

I was terrified. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to dispose of the lamp, but it always reappeared in my house, no matter how far I threw it. Eventually, I locked it in a steel box and buried it under a tree in my backyard. That night, I heard scratching at my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw a shape, a dark silhouette, standing at the edge of the yard, holding a light that flickered like a dying flame. It was the old woman’s spirit. She pointed at the spot where I had buried the lamp and then vanished. I knew I had failed to understand her message.

I dug up the box and took the lamp inside. I cleaned it, filled it with oil, and lit it that very night, as the new moon rose. As the flame burned, I felt a strange calm wash over me. The feeling of being watched faded. I have kept the lamp ever since, lighting it every new moon without fail. It sits on a small shelf in my room, its glow a constant reminder of that night in Kuruthimalai. And though I have never returned, I know that the light I saw in the jungle was not a warning but a summons. I am its keeper now, bound to a village I visited only once, carrying a flame that will outlast me. The last bus to Kuruthimalai may never run, but I still hear its engine in my dreams, and I know one day, it will come for me.