The Man with the TV Antenna

I remember the summer I turned eight, the year my parents sent me to stay with my Aunt Meera and Uncle Ravi in the dusty town of Panipat. Their house was a sprawling bungalow with a wide verandah that creaked underfoot, two bedrooms that smelled of old wood, a kitchen that was always warm, and a storeroom that held mysteries I was forbidden to touch. The best part was the flat roof, where my cousin Arjun and I would fly kites until the sun dipped low and the crows came home.

One evening, while we were playing hide-and-seek near the boundary wall, I glanced up at the water tank perched on the corner of the roof. There, standing against the fading orange sky, was a man. He was thin, almost skeletal, and he clutched a rusted TV antenna like a staff. He wasn’t moving. He just stared down at me with hollow eyes that reflected the last light. I froze, my heart pounding against my ribs. Arjun called my name, but I couldn’t speak. I ran inside, dove under the quilt, and didn’t come out until morning.

The next day, I told myself it was just a scarecrow or a trick of light. But that night, as I lay awake listening to the ceiling fan whir, I saw him again. He was at the window, his face pressed against the glass, the antenna still in his hand. His mouth moved soundlessly, but I could read his lips: ‘Get off my roof.’ I buried my head under the pillow and prayed for dawn.

When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of the roof. In the dream, he was standing over me, and the antenna was not an antenna but a thin, black wire that he wrapped around my wrist. I woke with a start, my hand tingling. The window was empty, but I felt a presence in the room. I didn’t sleep for the rest of the trip.

Years passed. I grew up, moved to the city, and forgot about the man on the roof. But last month, my uncle died, and I returned to Panipat for the funeral. The bungalow was the same, though the paint had peeled and the roof felt lower. After the cremation, I stepped out onto the verandah and looked up. The water tank was still there, but now the man wasn’t alone. There were three of them, all holding antennas, all staring at me. My breath caught. I stumbled backward, but when I blinked, they were gone.

I never told anyone. Who would believe me? But now, every night, I hear a faint static sound, like an old TV turned to a dead channel. And when I look out my window, I see a silhouette on the rooftop across the street, holding a metal rod. It’s waiting. It knows I’m back. And it’s counting the days until I climb that roof again.