The Last Supper at Koyna

It was late June, and the rain had turned the Western Ghats into a dripping, green labyrinth. Arjun and his four friends—Vikram, Sneha, Rohan, and Meera—had decided to escape Pune’s relentless chaos with a road trip to the Koyna Wildlife Sanctuary. They had no reservations, no fixed itinerary, just a borrowed SUV and a craving for misty hills and quiet roads. They set off at 4 PM, the sky already bruised with clouds.

By 10 PM, they were somewhere past Karad, the road curving dangerously close to the forest’s edge. Hunger gnawed at them, and the few villages they passed had shuttered windows and dead GPS signals. Rohan, who claimed to have driven this route years ago, pointed to a dim light flickering through the trees. ‘There’s a family there,’ he said, ‘they served us thali for next to nothing. Old couple, very kind.’

The SUV crawled along a narrow mud path until they reached a crumbling two-story house with a tin roof. An old man with milky eyes stood at the door, as if expecting them. ‘Come in, come in,’ he croaked, his voice like dry leaves. ‘You must be famished.’ His wife, a wisp of a woman with a face like cracked earth, gestured them to a long wooden table set for five—even though there were five of them.

The meal was rich: spicy mutton, steaming rice, and a curry that smelled of burnt cardamom and something else—something metallic. They ate ravenously. The old couple watched with patient smiles, never sitting down. ‘We don’t get visitors often,’ the old man said, his eyes not quite focusing. ‘The forest takes them first.’

Sneha, ever the skeptic, noticed the plate she was served had a hairline crack running through it, like a dried riverbed. Meera pointed out that the windows were boarded up from the outside, and the only light was from a single oil lamp that cast monstrous shadows. But hunger overruled caution, and they finished every last bite.

As they prepared to leave, the old woman grabbed Arjun’s wrist with a grip like cold wire. ‘You must stay the night,’ she pleaded. ‘The road after midnight is not for the living.’ Arjun laughed it off, but Vikram—who had been silent—whispered, ‘My stomach hurts.’ Then Rohan coughed, and a dark droplet fell onto the table. It wasn’t rain.

The SUV wouldn’t start. The engine turned over with a sickening grind, then died. Outside, the mist had thickened into something solid, pressing against the windows. The old man stood at the door, still smiling, now revealing teeth that were too sharp, too many. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘the Koyna provides.’

That’s when they noticed the other plates—stacked in the corner, caked with dried red stains. And the photograph on the wall: a family portrait of the old couple, but with five younger faces, all with hollow eyes, all identical to the friends. Sneha screamed, but sound didn’t carry—it stayed in the room like a trapped fly.

They didn’t leave that night. Morning came with the sun burning off the mist, and the house was still there, but empty, cobwebs in the corners, dust on the table. The SUV started fine. But as they drove away, Arjun checked the rearview mirror. The old couple stood at the door, waving. And in the backseat, a sixth shadow sat between them—one that smelled of burnt cardamom.

None of them spoke of it. But every year, on the same date, Arjun finds himself driving toward Koyna, the hunger gnawing, the metallic taste rising in his throat. And the last thing he remembers before blacking out is the old man’s voice: ‘The Koyna provides.’