The Last Cart of Jowar

It was the summer of 1953, and the earth had cracked like old leather. In the village of Malkhed, where my grandfather, Devraj, lived, the wells had sunk to mud, and the cattle were skeletal ghosts. The fields, once green with jowar and millet, were now a pale, brittle wasteland. Each week, a family member would make the long trek to the neighboring village of Biranpur to buy grain. This week, it was Devraj’s turn.

Devraj was a skeptic. He laughed at the old women who tied strings around their wrists and muttered charms. He saw no need for gods or spirits; the world was made of soil, sweat, and the surety of his own two hands. He set off at dawn, the sun already a white-hot coin in the sky. The road to Biranpur was a ribbon of dust, winding through fields that had once been lush. He walked for two and a half hours, his feet blistering in his worn leather sandals, but he didn’t mind. He would meet his friends, share a meal, and forget, for a few hours, the hunger gnawing at his belly.

Biranpur was not much better off, but it had a well that still gave water, and a small grain merchant who kept his stores under lock and key. Devraj bought a sack of jowar and a smaller bag of lentils, enough to feed his family for a week. He slung the heavy sack over his shoulder and made his way to his friend Arjun’s house. Arjun’s family had a small vegetable patch that was struggling, but they still boiled a pot of thin, watery stew for him. They talked of the drought, of the government’s empty promises, and of the old stories Arjun’s grandmother used to tell. Devraj listened with half an ear, more interested in the stew.

It was late afternoon when Devraj started back. The sun was lower, but the heat radiated off the baked earth like a furnace. He took a shortcut through a rocky, scrub-filled area that he knew from his childhood, a path that cut off almost an hour of walking. The area was called the ‘Bhoot Pahari’ – Ghost Hill – but Devraj had never believed in ghosts. He walked briskly, the sack cutting into his shoulder, but he was strong and determined.

As he reached the crest of the hill, he saw a cart overturned at the side of the path. It was an old wooden cart, painted blue with faded yellow wheels, the kind used to carry hay or grain. The axle was broken, and the cart lay on its side like a wounded animal. A single wheel had come off and rolled a few feet away. Devraj stopped. He had never seen this cart before, and in a drought-stricken area, any object was a curiosity. He walked closer. The cart was empty, but there was a small wooden crate beneath it, half-buried in the dirt.

He knelt down and pulled the crate out. It was heavy, and he could hear a sloshing sound from inside. He pried the lid open with his knife. Inside, packed in straw, were four bottles of what looked like homemade liquor. The glass was dark, and the liquid inside was a deep amber. Devraj smiled. He didn’t drink much, but his friends did, and he figured he could trade the bottles for extra grain. He tucked the bottles into his sack, feeling a strange chill despite the heat.

He continued down the hill, but the path seemed different. The rocks were sharper, the scrub thicker, and the sky had turned a sickly yellow. The wind had died, and there was an unnatural stillness, as if the world was holding its breath. Devraj shook his head, blaming the heat and his fatigue. He walked faster, but the path seemed to stretch, and the landmarks he knew were missing. He saw a gnarled banyan tree that he had never noticed before, and the air around it felt thick, almost oily.

He stopped for a sip of water from his flask, and as he drank, he heard a sound – a low, rhythmic creaking, like a cart being pulled. He turned, but there was nothing on the road behind him. The creaking grew louder, and he realized it was coming from the direction he had just come from. He looked up the hill, and there, under the banyan tree, he saw a figure. A woman in a torn white sari, her face obscured by a veil of dark hair. She was holding a brass pot, and she seemed to be watching him.

Devraj’s heart hammered. He was not a believer, but the woman’s stillness was unnatural. He called out, ‘Oh, Mata, are you lost?’ The woman did not respond. She simply raised one hand and pointed at him. Her hand was bone-thin, and her fingers were too long. Devraj felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. He turned and walked away, his steps quickening.

The creaking followed him. It was not behind him; it was all around, as if the air itself was groaning. He broke into a run, the sack bouncing on his back, the bottles clinking. He stumbled on a rock and fell, scraping his knee. He scrambled up, not daring to look back. The sky had darkened, and a layer of clouds blotted out the sun. Thunder rumbled, but there was no rain, just a dry, crackling sound like distant fire.

He reached the bottom of the hill, and the path opened onto the flat, barren fields that led to his village. He saw the familiar outline of Malkhed in the distance, the temple spire and the cluster of houses. Relief flooded through him. He slowed to a walk, wiping his face. The creaking stopped. He looked back, but the hill was now just a dark silhouette against the gray sky. He felt a fool. He had let his imagination run wild, fueled by hunger and exhaustion.

He arrived at his village as the first drops of a false rain began to fall. The rain was a thin, dusty drizzle that barely wet the ground, but it brought a pause to the heat. His family was relieved to see him, and his mother hugged him as if he had returned from war. They opened the sack, and his father noticed the bottles. ‘Where did you get this?’ he asked. Devraj told him about the overturned cart. His father’s face turned pale. ‘That cart belonged to my friend, Gopal,’ he said. ‘He used to carry grain to the city. But he disappeared three years ago, during the last bad drought. They found his horse and cart, but he was never seen again.’

Devraj felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain. That night, he could not sleep. He lay in his cot, listening to the drip of water outside, and he heard the creaking again. It was not coming from outside; it was coming from inside his own head. He pressed his hands to his ears, but the sound was relentless. He got up and went to the corner where they had stored the bottles. He looked at them in the dim light of a hurricane lamp. The liquid inside seemed to swirl, as if alive. He took one bottle and uncorked it. The smell was sweet and cloying, like rotten apples mixed with jasmine.

He did not drink. He corked it and put it back, but as he turned, he saw the woman again, standing in the doorway. She was no longer pointing; her arms hung limp at her sides, and her hair had fallen away from her face. Devraj saw her eyes, and they were not eyes but hollow pits, deep and black. Her mouth opened, not to speak, but to emit a low, guttural sound, the same creaking that had followed him.

Devraj staggered backward, knocking over a chair. His family stirred, but the woman’s form seemed to flicker, and then she was gone. The creaking stopped. Devraj stood in the dark, trembling. He knew then that the cart had been a trap, a lure. The woman had been waiting for a living soul to claim. The bottles were not liquor; they were offerings, or perhaps a curse. He had taken them, and now he was tethered to that hill, to that ghost.

The next morning, though the rain had passed, the drought continued. Devraj’s personality changed. He became quiet, sullen, always looking over his shoulder. He refused to leave the village, even when his father sent him to Biranpur for more grain. He said he would never go near that hill again. At night, his family would hear him talking in his sleep, but the words were not his own. He spoke in a woman’s voice, whimpering about a child lost in a well, about a cart that would never reach its destination.

The village elders, who had always dismissed Devraj as a non-believer, now nodded knowingly. They performed rituals, burned camphor, and hung black threads around his neck. But the haunting did not stop. One evening, Devraj walked out of the house and headed toward the hill, his eyes glazed, his steps mechanical. His brother followed, calling his name, but Devraj did not respond. At the base of the hill, Devraj turned and looked at his brother with a look that was not his own. ‘Tell my family I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but the cart must be returned.’

He climbed the hill and disappeared into the twilight. They never found his body. The cart was still there, overturned, and the crate was empty. The bottles were gone. Devraj’s family never spoke of it again, but every year, on the anniversary of his disappearance, the women of the village swear they can hear a creaking sound coming from the hill, faint and rhythmic, like a cart being pulled by a ghost.

I never met my grandfather, but his story is the reason I have never walked that path. And I have never tasted matka liquor without feeling a cold hand on the back of my neck. The drought ended, but the hill remained a place of fear. And somewhere, in the parched earth of that hill, the last cart of jowar, and the man who carried it, are still waiting.