The Last Ride

In the winter of 2018, I was a final-year student at a college in the outskirts of Pune, India. The exams had ended, and a two-week break loomed. My friends and I had planned to head home, but our train was in two days. With nothing else to do, we decided to take a long bike ride through the countryside, away from the city’s chaos.

We were four: Arjun, Rohan, Sana, and me, Vikram. Arjun and I shared one bike, Rohan and Sana the other. We set off around 6 PM, bundled in thick jackets against the biting cold. The road wound through dusty villages and fields, the air crisp with the smell of dry earth. We rode aimlessly, enjoying the freedom, the sun dipping low behind the hills.

As darkness fell, an unsettling quiet enveloped the road. The usual sounds of crickets and distant dogs were absent. Arjun slowed down, ‘This feels creepy,’ he said, his voice barely audible over the wind. I shrugged it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. We passed a sign that read ‘Varandh’ – a village that wasn’t on our map.

We decided to turn back, but the road seemed unfamiliar. We retraced our path, yet we kept passing the same crooked tree with a rope swing. Sana pointed it out, her voice trembling, ‘That’s the third time.’ Rohan insisted we were going in circles, but the GPS on his phone showed a straight line. Panic began to set in.

Suddenly, the engines of both bikes sputtered and died. The headlights flickered and went out, plunging us into the pitch-black night. Our phones had no signal. We were stranded, shivering not just from cold but from fear. Then, we heard a sound – a low, rhythmic creaking, like a swing moving in the wind. It came from the tree.

Out of the darkness, a figure emerged. An old woman, bent and wrinkled, wrapped in a shawl that seemed to blend with the shadows. She stood at the edge of the field, motionless, her eyes reflecting the faint moonshine. ‘Lost, are you?’ she croaked. Her voice was dry as leaves. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you the way.’

We had no choice. She pointed to a narrow path that veered off into the barren fields. ‘Follow that path, it will lead you to the main road.’ Desperate, we pushed our bikes, walking with her in tow. She spoke in riddles, ‘The road you seek is not the one you think. You have been driving on the path of the departed.’

After what felt like an eternity, we reached a broken-down gate. Beyond it, a road stretched, but it was lined with dilapidated houses, their windows like empty sockets. The woman stopped, ‘This is where I leave you. But remember, when you reach the main road, do not look back.’ We mounted our bikes, and they miraculously started. We drove with a singular purpose, hearts pounding.

As we saw the lights of a highway ahead, I couldn’t resist a glance in the rearview mirror. The road behind was empty, but for a moment, I saw a faint figure, still standing under the crooked tree, its arm raised in a wave. But what chilled me to my bones was that the tree was now on the other side of the road, and it seemed to have moved closer.

We reached the hostel at 2 AM, our minds reeling. The next morning, we tried to find ‘Varandh’ on the map, but there was no such village. The area where we got lost was a barren stretch, known locally as ‘Bhoola’ – ‘the forgotten place.’ The locals said that area was cursed, that the souls of those who got lost there never truly found their way home.

To this day, I don’t know what happened that night. But every time I ride past that area, I see the crooked tree in the distance, and I swear the old woman is still there, waiting for more lost travelers. And I remember the last thing she said to us, just before we drove off: ‘You see, the road always takes back what’s its own.’