The Muddy Path

In the village of Kharagpur, nestled between the mustard fields and the dense mango groves, there was a pond called Chhath ka Talab. It was a small, murky pool, hidden behind the abandoned shrine of the village’s patron deity. The villagers had long stopped using it for their daily chores, for the water was bitter and the mud at the bottom was thick like quicksand. They said that the pond was cursed by a spiteful spirit, and its surface was always still, as if it were holding its breath.

Meera and her younger sister, Nisha, lived on the outskirts of the village, in a small hut made of mud and straw. Their father was a farmer, and their mother wove baskets to sell in the market. On the night of the Chhath festival, when the moon was full and the air was filled with the scent of marigolds, the sisters had to answer the call of nature. They had laughed and chattered as they walked along the narrow, winding path that led to the fields, their lantern swinging gently, casting long shadows on the cracked earth.

They had forgotten to bring water to wash themselves, so Meera, the elder, said, ‘Let’s go to the Talab. It’s just beyond the mango trees.’ Nisha, who was younger and more timid, hesitated. ‘But Amma always said not to go there at night. The water is bad.’ Meera, however, was bold. ‘We’ll just splash water on our hands and feet, then we’ll leave. It’s not like we’re going to swim.’ So they found their way to the pond, the moon reflecting off its oily surface.

Meera knelt at the edge and reached out to cup some water. The mud beneath her feet gave way. She let out a sharp gasp as she slid into the water. It was deeper than they thought, and the bottom was sucking her like a greedy mouth. Nisha screamed and grabbed Meera’s hand. ‘Don’t let go!’ Meera cried. But the pull was strong. The pond seemed to want them both. Nisha, her feet slipping on the wet grass, was dragged in. Their screams turned into gurgles as the murky water filled their lungs. The lantern fell and floated for a moment before sinking. And then, there was nothing but silence.

The next morning, a farmer going to his field found them floating face down, their hands still locked together as if they had never let go. The whole village gathered, and there was loud wailing. They were given a proper cremation, but the villagers knew that such a death was not the end. The spirits of the drowned are said to linger, especially if they die holding hands.

A week after the funeral, the first sightings began. A milkman saw them at dawn, standing at the edge of the pond, their forms translucent and smoky, like wisps of fog. They were not looking at him, but at each other, their hands clasped. He ran without his milk cans. Soon, others reported seeing them roaming the village at night, moving along the dusty lanes, slipping through broken fences, their feet not touching the ground. They seemed to be searching for something, perhaps another pair of hands to hold, or simply a place to rest.

My grandmother, Bhabhi, told me that she saw them one night when she was returning from a neighbor’s house. It was a moonless night, but she could see their pale, shimmering figures clearly. They walked side by side, their heads slightly tilted, as if listening to a sound only they could hear. She said that as they passed her, she felt a coldness sweep over her, and she heard a faint whisper, not words, but a soft sigh. She clutched her sari and walked faster, but they followed her to her doorstep, and then vanished.

From then on, the sisters became a legend. The villagers avoided the pond, and at night, no one dared to go out alone. They started calling the path that led to the pond ‘the Muddy Path’, because it was often wet even in the dry season, as if the pond water was seeping up to greet the dead. Some said that if you walked there at midnight, you would see the sisters, and if you looked into their eyes, you would feel an irresistible urge to follow them.

But the true horror came on the first anniversary of their death. A young girl, the daughter of the school teacher, named Ritu, was dared by her friends to walk along the Muddy Path at night. She was brave, but as she approached the pond, she saw two smoky figures standing at the water’s edge. She froze. They turned to look at her, and she saw their faces, pale and hollow, with dark water dripping from their hair. They let go of each other’s hands for a moment, and one of them, the one who was taller, extended her hand toward Ritu. Ritu found herself stepping forward, her feet moving of their own accord. But before she could touch the hand, a voice from behind called out, ‘Ritu! Run!’ It was her father, who had been worried and had followed her. He grabbed her and pulled her away. As they ran back, they heard the sound of childish laughter echoing from the pond.

After that, the sightings increased. The sisters no longer just roamed; they began to lure others. Children would feel a tug on their clothes, a whisper in their ear. The village became a place of fear. Many families moved away, and the village started to decline. The pond grew more stagnant, and the village became quiet, as if the silence itself was waiting for something.

My grandmother, who has passed away now, told me this story many times. She said that the last time she saw the sisters, they were standing at the edge of the pond, looking at their own reflections. Their hands were together, but they seemed sad, as if they were waiting for someone to join them in the murky depths. She said that as she watched, they slowly turned into mist and faded into the night. She never went near the pond again.

To this day, if you go to Kharagpur, you will see that the village is nearly empty. The fields are overgrown, and the houses are in ruin. But the pond is still there, and on certain nights, if you listen carefully, you might hear the faint splashing of water and the distant sound of two girls laughing. And if you’re unlucky, you’ll see two smoky figures walking along the Muddy Path, their hands locked together, forever searching for a way out.