The Tollkeeper’s Ledger

It was the last week of July, and the heat had baked the city into a concrete oven. I was at my desk, fanning myself with a magazine, when my phone buzzed. It was my old friend Sanjay.

‘Hey, Rohan! Let’s get out of this furnace. Long drive, some roadside food, maybe watch the stars on the way back. What do you say?’

I was game. Anything to escape the stifling air. I called another friend, Arjun, who lived a few streets away. He was in within seconds. ‘I’ll bring my bike,’ he said. ‘We can take the highway to the old fort town, maybe hit that dhaba we used to go to in college.’

Fifteen minutes later, Sanjay and Arjun were outside my gate, their bikes idling. I grabbed my helmet and joined them. We rode out of the city, leaving the skyline behind, the wind hitting our faces. The roads were clear, and for a while, it was bliss. We crossed the state border and took a detour towards a lesser-known village, past a derelict toll plaza that had been abandoned years ago. The structure loomed, its windows like empty eye sockets, but we didn’t stop. We found a small dhaba off the main road, with a thatched roof and kerosene lamps. We ordered dal, roti, and a fiery curry. The owner, an old man with a wheeze, served us with shaky hands. ‘You boys should be back by midnight,’ he muttered. ‘The roads are not safe after the toll.’

We laughed it off. By the time we finished, it was nearly 11:45 PM. The sky was clear, the stars were out, but as we saddled up, a cold dread settled in my stomach. I felt a presence, as if something was watching from the shadows of the dhaba. I shook it off, thinking it was just the spice. We started back the way we came, the bikes’ headlights carving tunnels through the darkness. The air grew colder, and the buzzing of cicadas stopped abruptly. We passed a fallen tree that I didn’t remember from before. Then we saw the toll plaza again, but it was not abandoned anymore. A dim, amber light glowed from the single booth, and a figure in a grimy uniform stepped out, holding a lantern. He raised a hand, signaling us to stop. ‘Toll,’ he croaked.

There was no gate, just a striped pole that hadn’t moved in years. We stopped, confused. ‘We already paid on the way out,’ Sanjay said, trying to sound firm. The toll keeper ignored him, his eyes fixed on an old leather ledger on the booth’s counter. He flipped through its pages. ‘Your names are not in the ledger,’ he said, his voice like dry leaves. ‘No one passes without signing.’ I leaned in to see the ledger. The pages were yellowed, and the names were written in a faded ink that seemed to shift. I saw dates from decades ago, and then, at the bottom of the list, I saw our names, neatly written, as if in anticipation. ‘That’s not possible,’ Arjun whispered.

The toll keeper smiled, revealing teeth that were too white. ‘You signed when you crossed the first time,’ he said. ‘You just didn’t know it.’ He pointed to a line below our names. It read: ‘Return by dawn, or be collected.’ Then he slammed the ledger shut. ‘You may pass,’ he said, and the pole lifted on its own. We tore out of there, but the horizon began to lighten. Dawn was coming faster than it should. We rode faster, but the road seemed to loop. Every time we passed a landmark, we would find ourselves back at the toll plaza. The figure was always there, watching, his lantern swinging.

Finally, we saw the city lights in the distance. We pushed the bikes to their limits. As we crossed into the city limits, we heard a tremendous crash behind us. We looked back. The toll plaza was gone, replaced by an empty field. We stopped, panting, drenched in sweat. We checked the time. It was 3:00 AM, but the sky was brightening as if it were 6. We never spoke of it, but we all knew. When I got home, I looked at my phone. There was a missed call from Sanjay, timestamped 1:13 AM. I ignored it. I haven’t ridden a bike at night since. But sometimes, when I pass a toll booth, I see that ledger in the keeper’s hand, and I wonder if my name is still there, waiting for me to cross one more time.