The Weeping Fig

In the arid outskirts of Jabalpur, where the Vindhya hills cast long, crooked shadows at dusk, stood a house that the locals called ‘the hollow one.’ It had been empty for twenty years, its windows like vacant eyes staring into the dusty lane. Across from it, I lived with my family in a modest two-story home, my study window facing that forsaken structure. I was seventeen, preparing for my board exams, and it was customary for me to study until the early hours, fueled by strong chai and the fear of my father’s disappointment.

One sweltering night in June, as the cicadas screeched in a frantic chorus, a scream tore through the silence. It was not a mere shout but a guttural, desperate howl that seemed to rip the very fabric of the night. I rushed to the window and saw a man, perhaps twenty-five, standing beneath the massive banyan tree in the hollow house’s compound. He was clawing at his own face, pointing at something only he could see. My neighbors, roused from sleep, gathered in a wary half-circle, some holding lanterns, others with sticks. The man’s breath reeked of cheap country liquor, and his eyes were wild, darting between the twisted roots of the tree and the house’s darkened porch. ‘It’s there! In the roots! She’s calling me!’ he cried, his voice cracking. Most people shuffled back, muttering about drunkenness, and soon the crowd dispersed, leaving him to stumble away into the night.

I, however, couldn’t shake the image. The banyan tree, with its aerial roots that hung like tangled hair, had always unsettled me. My grandmother had told me stories of a woman who had thrown herself from the hollow house’s terrace after her lover abandoned her, and that her spirit had taken refuge in the tree, feeding on the grief of passersby. I never believed her, but that night, I saw something in the dim glow of the streetlight: a faint, shimmering outline near the trunk, like heat rising from scorched earth. It was there for a moment, then gone. I told myself it was my imagination.

The next morning, my friend Akash, who lived two streets away, came to meet me. He was the sort who laughed at ghosts but had a nervous habit of checking behind him. ‘Did you hear about the drunkard?’ he asked, popping a piece of raw mango into his mouth. ‘He was a laborer from the mill, new to town. They say he’s now in the hospital, foaming at the mouth, screaming about a woman with no eyes.’ I felt a chill despite the heat. My other friend, Meera, joined us later. She was more perceptive, knowledgeable in local lore. ‘That banyan is a ‘pitru vriksha,’ she said, her voice low. ‘It’s where souls get trapped if they die a violent death. My grandmother told me a woman was buried under it, not just thrown from the roof.’ She pointed to a small, moss-covered stone that half-sunk into the ground near the roots. ‘That’s her grave marker.’

Akash laughed, but I saw his hand tremble. ‘Let’s go see it tonight,’ he proposed, a bravado in his voice that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘We’ll prove it’s nonsense.’ Meera shook her head, but I felt a pull—a morbid curiosity, perhaps. That night, armed with a flashlight and a camera, we climbed over the low wall, our footsteps crunching on dry leaves. The air was still, heavy with the scent of rotting flowers. As we approached the tree, the flashlight beam caught the stone. It was indeed a small, crumbling slab, half-covered in moss, with an inscription worn away by years. But as I knelt, I noticed a faint carving: a pair of eyes, etched in the stone, now covered by a thin film of dirt. I brushed it away, and the eyes seemed to blink.

Then, Meera screamed. We both turned to see her pointing at the tree’s trunk. There, carved into the bark, were symbols—circles within circles, like the ones I had seen in an old book on tantra. And hanging from the lowest branch was a strand of hair, black and long, unwinding gently in a breeze that didn’t exist. Akash stepped forward to touch it, but Meera grabbed his arm. ‘We must leave,’ she said, her face pale. But it was too late. The flashlight flickered, and from the roots, a sound emerged—a low, guttural hum, like a woman humming a lullaby. The hair began to sway rhythmically, as if alive. I felt a tug at my ankle, as if someone had wrapped a cold hand around it. I looked down, but there was nothing.

We ran without looking back, our feet pounding on the dry earth, and vaulted over the wall. Only when we were safe in my house’s living room, panting, did we exchange glances. Akash was shaking, his usual bravado gone. Meera was murmuring a prayer under her breath. I looked at my ankle and saw a faint, purple bruise forming, like the imprint of five thin fingers. The next day, we heard that the laborer had died, his face frozen in utter terror. The authorities dismissed it as alcohol poisoning, but we knew better. I tried to return to my studies, but every night, I felt a presence watching me from across the lane. I would close my curtains, but the image of that banyan tree, with its hair-like roots, haunted me.

A week later, I was alone, studying for my final paper, when I heard a faint tapping on my window. I drew the curtain aside and saw nothing, but the tapping continued, insistent. I opened the window to a gust of warm air, and a single strand of long black hair floated in, settling on my open notebook. It was the same hair from the tree. I looked out, and for a moment, I saw her—a woman with skin like pale bark, and eyes that were not there, only deep, dark hollows. She stood at the edge of the compound, under the banyan, and she was pointing at me, then at the ground beneath the tree. She was mouthing something, and I read her lips: ‘Come.’ I slammed the window shut, my heart racing.

I didn’t sleep that night, and by dawn, I had made a decision. I gathered Meera and Akash, and we went to the priest at the old temple, who specialized in such things. He listened, his face grave, then said, ‘The tree is a vessel. She was not a victim but a practitioner—a woman who had bound her soul to that tree to escape a cruel fate. Now, she seeks companions to share her eternity. The drunkard was a message. You must cut down the tree and destroy the stone, or she will claim you one by one.’

That night, we returned with an axe, a crowbar, and a jar of holy water. We approached the tree with trembling hands. The moon was veiled, and the air was thick with silence. As Akash raised the axe, a wind rose from nowhere, and the hair swung violently, wrapping around his arm. He cried out, trying to pull free, but it was like a rope of steel. Meera threw the holy water, and the hair sizzled, loosening its grip. I struck the trunk with the crowbar, and a sound like a woman’s wail escaped from the wood. We worked frantically, hacking at the banyan, and after what felt like hours, the trunk groaned and fell, pulling down a tangle of roots. The stone marker cracked under our blows, and from it, a black liquid oozed, like old blood.

As the tree crashed to the ground, the wailing ceased. A profound silence fell. We stood there, exhausted, the scent of fresh wood and damp earth filling the air. I looked at the fallen trunk, and in the wood, I saw a faint pattern, a pair of hollow eyes, which slowly faded. We buried the stone shards in the ground and left. That was a year ago. The hollow house is now being renovated, and a new family will move in soon. But sometimes, at night, when the wind blows from that direction, I hear a faint hum, and I see a strand of hair drifting across my window. I’ve learned to keep my curtains closed, and I never walk past that spot alone. The tree is gone, but I wonder if I’ve truly escaped, or if she’s just waiting for the right moment.