The Saree on the Banyan Road

Nestled in the heart of the Deccan Plateau, the village of Krishnapuram sat like a forgotten jewel, its dusty lanes and ancient banyan trees whispering tales of times long past. My grandfather, Ramanayya, was a man of routine, a schoolteacher who cycled daily to the neighboring town of Peddapuram. The road between was a serpentine stretch of gravel and dirt, flanked by thickets of neem and tamarind, their branches intertwining to form a dark canopy that swallowed the moon on the best of nights. It was a road that locals avoided after dark, for they swore it was shared by the restless dead. But Ramanayya, a rational man of science, dismissed such beliefs as peasant superstition.

One sweltering evening in mid-June, Ramanayya found himself late as the monsoon clouds began to gather. The school’s annual examinations had run longer than expected, and by the time he mounted his rusty Hero cycle, the sun had already surrendered to the horizon. He pedaled with practiced ease, the rhythmic creak of the chain his only companion. As the last sliver of daylight faded, he entered the dreaded banyan stretch, where the air grew still and thick, and the only sounds were the rustle of unseen creatures and his own heartbeat. It was then that he first saw her—a woman in a pristine white saree, standing at the roadside, her hand raised in a plea for help. Her face was obscured, but her posture bespoke of distress. Ramanayya’s heart clenched. ‘It’s not safe for a woman alone here,’ he thought, but a primal instinct urged him not to stop. He pedaled faster, praying she wouldn’t take offense.

A hundred meters ahead, the road curved sharply, and Ramanayya’s breath caught in his throat. There she stood again, directly in his path, her white saree catching an eerie glow as if it were faintly luminescent. This time, she did not raise her hand. Instead, she stepped forward, arms outstretched, and gave his handlebars a violent shove. The cycle veered wildly, and Ramanayya hit a hidden bed of thorny bushes, their spines tearing into his flesh. He screamed, the sound swallowed by the darkness, as the thorns bit deep into his arms, legs, and face. The woman watched silently from the road, her figure now impossibly still, her face a pale blur. Ramanayya scrambled to his feet, blood streaming down his face and limbs, and wrenched his cycle from the brambles. Without looking back, he mounted and rode with a fury born of pure terror, the pain of his wounds a dull counterpoint to the pounding of his heart.

He burst into his home, collapsing at the threshold, his white kurta stained crimson. His wife, Lakshmamma, rushed to him, her face a mask of horror. As she cleansed his wounds with warm water and turmeric paste, he recounted the encounter, his voice trembling. ‘A woman in white, Lakshmi. She appeared twice, and when I didn’t stop, she pushed me into the thorns.’ Lakshmamma’s hands paused mid-bandage. A cold dread gripped her heart, and she whispered, ‘Saree on the banyan road… it’s her.’ Ramanayya asked who, but she shook her head, refusing to explain. She simply placed a small iron nail and a sprig of neem under his pillow, and made him bathe in salt water before letting him rest. That night, neither slept, listening to the howl of the wind and the rustle of leaves, waiting for an intrusion that never came.

The next morning, Lakshmamma revealed the truth. ‘Twenty years ago,’ she began, her voice low, ‘a young woman named Parvati was engaged to a man from Peddapuram. On the night before her wedding, she was returning from the temple when she was waylaid near the great banyan tree. The men of the village—who are now elders—took her into the forest, and she was found days later, hanging from a branch, her white saree soiled with mud and tears. She was buried in an unmarked grave at the edge of the village, and since then, travelers have reported seeing her asking for a ride, and if refused, she drags them into the thorns. It is her way of marking the wicked, Ramanayya. She only appears to those who have a hidden sin.’ Ramanayya paled. ‘But I have no sin,’ he protested. Lakshmamma looked at him with sorrow. ‘It is not always about sin. Sometimes, it is simply about fear. She feeds on the fear of the road, on the loneliness of the traveler. You were easy prey because you believe in nothing.’

From that day, Ramanayya never rode that road alone after dark. He always arranged to travel with a companion, and if the hour grew late, he would wait at a nearby chai stall until dawn. The memory of the woman in white, however, never left him. Years later, when he told me the story, his eyes would grow distant, and he would finger the scars on his arms, faded but visible. ‘It was not a ghost,’ he insisted, ‘but something else, something that wears the shape of our fears.’ It was only much later, when I myself traveled that stretch at night, that I felt the cold pressure of a hand on the small of my back, and I heard a whisper, ‘Please, brother, give me a ride.’ I did not stop. But as I pedaled away, I saw in my mirror—a figure rising from the thorns, its white saree billowing like a flag of surrender, and I knew that the road had claimed another piece of my soul. Now, whenever I pass that banyan tree, I leave a small offering of jaggery and milk, and I never, ever look back.