The Mogra’s Invitation

The scent of fresh paint and marigold garlands still clung to the walls of our new home in the outskirts of Pune. We had finally moved out of the cramped city apartment into a two-story house with a small garden, a dream my father had nurtured for years. The housewarming ceremony had been a grand affair, with relatives pouring in, blessings, and the sweet smell of modaks. But as the last guest left and the lights dimmed, a strange unease settled over me.

That night, my father, in a rare moment of decisive authority, declared that my younger sister, Anjali, and I would sleep in the new room on the first floor. We had always shared a room with our parents, a common practice in our culture, but he insisted it was time for us to have our own space. Anjali and I exchanged nervous glances but obeyed. The room was spacious, with two new beds, a wardrobe, and a window overlooking the garden. The faint, sickly-sweet fragrance of the mogra plant near the boundary wall drifted in, a smell I would come to dread.

We tried to make the best of it, chattering about the day’s events until exhaustion overtook us. I fell into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with fragments of the ceremony and unknown faces. Then, around 2 AM, a chill crept into the room, seeping through the blanket and into my bones. I woke with a start, my heart pounding. In the dim light from the streetlamp outside, I saw her—a woman in a white saree standing beneath the mogra tree, just beyond the boundary wall. Her face was pale, almost luminous, and her long black hair hung loose. She was beckoning to me with a slow, hypnotic wave of her hand.

A primal fear gripped me. I tried to scream, but only a strangled whimper escaped. I shook Anjali, who woke with a gasp, her eyes wide. She was staring at the same spot. Together, we watched the figure, her arm moving like a snake, coaxing us closer. The mogra scent grew overpowering, cloying, as if the air itself was thick with it. Anjali began to cry, and I finally found my voice, shrieking loud enough to rouse the entire house.

Our parents burst in, flicking on the light. The woman vanished instantly, leaving only the swaying branches of the mogra tree. Mother held us close, trying to soothe us, but I could see the tremor in her hands. Father dismissed it as a nightmare, a trick of the new environment. But the next morning, as the gardener trimmed the mogra, he found a small, fresh grave beneath the tree—a burial mound that hadn’t been there the day before. There was no marker, nothing to indicate who or what was buried. Father called the police, but they found nothing unusual, chalking it up to an animal.

We tried to move past it, but every night, the same vision returned. The woman under the mogra, her hand never ceasing its silent call. I started sleeping with the lights on, but she seemed to exist in the periphery, just beyond the glow. Anjali grew quieter, her face pale and drawn. On the fourth night, she confessed to me that the woman had whispered her name. ‘Anjali…’ she mimicked, her voice hollow. ‘She knows me.’ That was the night our parents finally agreed to perform a ritual to cleanse the house.

The local priest, an elderly man named Guruji, arrived with his brass vessels and incense. He walked around the house, chanting, sprinkling holy water. He paused at the mogra tree, his face turning grave. He told us that an unmarried woman had been buried there long ago, her soul restless because her wedding never took place. She was drawn to young girls, seeking companionship to pull into her world. The tree, he said, was her home. He advised us to leave the house immediately, for the spirit was old and strong.

We left that very afternoon, staying with relatives while the property was put up for sale. I never returned, but sometimes, in my dreams, I still see the mogra tree, its white flowers blooming in the moonlight. And I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, followed by a soft voice whispering, ‘Soon, you will come to me.’ I fear that one day, I won’t be able to resist the invitation.