The Last Ride on the Ceramic Road

The summer I turned seven, I spent my days at my aunt’s farmhouse in the countryside, where the only sounds were crickets and the distant hum of a tractor. My cousins, Arjun and Mira, were my best friends, and we spent our afternoons chasing chickens and climbing the old mango tree. That year, my uncle had bought a gleaming red motorcycle, and it became our obsession. We begged him for a ride every day, our voices rising like a chorus of cicadas until he finally relented one sweltering afternoon.

We set off at around four, the sun still high and unforgiving. I sat at the back, clinging to Mira’s waist while Arjun perched on the fuel tank in front of Uncle. The bike roared down the dusty road, the wind whipping our hair, and for a few glorious minutes, we were kings of the world. The fields blurred into streaks of green and gold, and I remember laughing so hard I almost forgot to breathe. Then we reached the Ceramic Road.

The Ceramic Road was a local oddity—a stretch of pavement paved with glazed tiles in a mosaic of blues and greens, sunk into the earth like the floor of a forgotten temple. It was said to be older than the village itself, and the elders warned us never to ride over it after dusk. But at dusk, the sun was already leaning low, and Uncle, perhaps emboldened by our joy, did not turn back. He accelerated onto the smooth tiles, and the bike hummed a strange, hollow note.

At first, nothing happened. We continued laughing, but then I felt a chill run through me, as if the air had turned to ice. The bike began to slow, though Uncle’s hand on the throttle was steady. The engine coughed, sputtered, and then died. We rolled to a stop in the middle of the road, the tiles shimmering beneath us like a vision. Uncle tried to restart the engine, but it wouldn’t catch. Arjun joked that the road was tired, but his laughter was thin.

It was then that I noticed the tiles were not just decorative—they seemed to have a pattern, a spiral of darker blue that led from the road’s edge to its center. And in the center, there was a small, dark circle, like a plug in the world’s floor. Uncle got off to inspect, and we followed, our sandals slapping against the warm ceramic. As we drew closer, we saw that the circle was a hole, about the size of a coin, and from it seeped a faint, oily smell.

I knelt to look, and that’s when I heard it—a whisper, impossibly clear, calling my name. It came from the hole. My cousins heard it too, their faces paling. Uncle looked at us, his eyes wide, and he said, ‘We must go now.’ But the bike was dead. He tried to push it, and we tried to help, but the tires seemed glued to the tiles. Panic rose in my throat.

The sun dipped behind the hills, and the light turned from gold to a sickly orange. The whisper grew louder, a chorus of voices now, some crying, some laughing. The tiles began to move—imperceptibly, like a slow current—spinning toward the hole. I screamed, and in that moment, the hole expanded, yawning open like a mouth. A cold wind burst out, reeking of rot and old rain.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. The voices fell silent. The tiles stilled. My uncle let out a shaky breath and said, ‘It wants one of us.’ He looked at us, his children, his sister’s son, and I saw a terrible decision forming in his eyes. But before he could speak, Arjun stepped forward, a strange calm on his face. ‘It’s my name it called first,’ he said. And he walked toward the hole, now sealed, and pressed his hand to the center tile.

Nothing happened at first. Then the tile warmed under his hand, and I saw his finger sink into the ceramic as if it were mud. He pulled away, his fingertip scarred with a spiral pattern, the same as the road. ‘It’s in me now,’ he whispered. ‘It’s fine. Let’s go.’ And suddenly, the bike started with a roar. We climbed on, trembling, and sped away without looking back.

We never spoke of that evening. Arjun grew quiet, rarely laughing, and when we returned to the city, we lost touch. Years later, I learned that the hole had reappeared, wider, and that Arjun had gone back one night, alone. He was never found. But sometimes, when I hear a motorcycle engine sputter on a quiet road, I think I hear a whisper, calling out from the ceramic, asking for another name. And I am afraid it will one day be mine.