The Road Through Palashbari

It was the last Sunday of May, and the Ghats were slowly swallowing the sun. We were driving back from a weekend trip to the Sal forests of Palashbari, a place my uncle swore was untouched by time. The air had that thick, pre-monsoon heaviness, and the road, barely two lanes, wound through dense teak woods. I was in the backseat with my cousin, Aniruddha, while our driver, an old man named Gopalda, hummed a tuneless song. He knew these roads like the back of his hand, he’d said, and that was the only reason my mother had let us go.

As dusk fell, the forest seemed to press closer. The gaps between the trees were black, and the only light was the weak yellow of our headlights. Aniruddha and I were chatting about nothing, but Gopalda had gone silent. He was driving slower than usual, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Just as I was about to ask if something was wrong, he spoke, his voice low and flat. ‘Roll up the windows. All of them.’

We did as he said, exchanging a confused glance. The air inside grew stuffy, smelling of old upholstery and dust. Gopalda pressed the accelerator, and the engine whined as we surged forward. ‘Don’t speak,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the road. ‘Whatever you see, don’t speak. Don’t react. Just keep your eyes on the road ahead.’

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Aniruddha’s face was pale in the dashboard light. We drove in silence for what felt like an eternity, the forest rushing past, when I saw it. A figure standing at the edge of the road, half-hidden in the shadows of a huge banyan tree. It was an old woman, draped in a white sari that seemed to glow faintly. Her hair was loose and gray, falling over her face. She didn’t move as we approached. She just stood there, and as we passed, I saw her face turn toward us. But it wasn’t a face. It was a smooth, featureless expanse of skin, like a blank canvas.

Aniruddha gasped, and I felt my own throat tighten. Gopalda’s hands were trembling on the wheel, but he kept driving. The woman was gone, but then I saw another one. And another. They were lining the road now, all facing us, all with those blank, white faces. They stood still as statues, but something about them felt hungry. I wanted to scream, to tell Gopalda to go faster, but no sound came out.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they were gone. The road opened up, and we saw the distant lights of the town. Gopalda let out a long breath, and his shoulders slumped. He pulled over to the side and turned to us. His face was ashen. ‘You saw them?’ he asked. I nodded, my mouth dry. ‘That’s the first time I saw them too,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘I’ve heard stories, but I never believed.’

We didn’t speak again until we reached the hotel. Gopalda refused to take the road back. He said he’d find another way, even if it added hours. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing those blank faces in my mind. The next day, we asked a local shopkeeper about the road. He grew quiet and said, ‘Ah, you took the old road. There have been sightings, but mostly in the last month. They say a widowed woman died on that stretch years ago, waiting for her husband who never returned. Now she wanders, and those who see her are marked.’ He looked at us with something like pity. ‘But you’re fine, I suppose. She only takes those who speak to her.’

We left Palashbari that afternoon, taking the long way around. I haven’t told anyone the full story, but I can’t get those faces out of my head. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see the road, and I wonder if she’s still there, waiting for someone to break the silence.