The Weeping Pipal

It was the summer after my final exams, and my family decided to spend a few weeks at my grandmother’s old farmhouse in the village of Nandgaon, nestled at the edge of the Thar Desert. The place was a relic of another era, with crumbling sandstone walls and a courtyard dominated by a massive, ancient pipal tree. Locals whispered that the tree was haunted, that it wept tears of blood at midnight, but I dismissed it as superstition.

My cousin Rohan and I, both restless teenagers, spent our days exploring the arid landscape on an old Royal Enfield motorcycle. The nearest town was Jalori, about thirty kilometers away, and between us lay miles of scrubland dotted with abandoned ruins. One afternoon, Rohan suggested we visit the ruins of Chhatrapura, an old fort that stood on a rocky outcrop, said to have been cursed by a betrayed queen. I was eager to go, craving something more exciting than the village’s sleepy routine.

We set off at dusk, the bike’s headlight carving a pale cone through the gathering gloom. The road was barely a dirt track, winding through fields of dry grass and clusters of withered acacia. As we approached the fort, the sky turned a bruised purple, and the wind picked up, carrying a faint, mournful sound like someone singing a lullaby in a language I didn’t recognize. I shrugged it off as the wind playing tricks.

The fort was more ruined than I expected, with crumbling battlements and a collapsed central tower. We climbed the uneven stone steps to the top, where a panoramic view of the desert stretched before us. In the distance, we could see the glint of a small reservoir, but it looked strange, almost black. Rohan pointed to it. ‘That’s the old stepwell, they say it has no bottom,’ he said. I laughed, but a chill ran down my spine.

As we turned to leave, I noticed something odd: a small, stone structure half-hidden behind a boulder, not visible from the path. It looked like a shrine, but the idol inside was not any deity I recognized. It was a woman, her face obscured by a crack running down the stone. Rohan stepped closer, and I followed. Suddenly, the wind died, and the air became thick and still. A faint, high-pitched humming began, seeming to come from the shrine itself.

We backed away, but the humming grew louder, and the ground beneath our feet seemed to vibrate. I saw a shadow move at the edge of my vision, a fluid shape that vanished when I turned. Rohan was pale. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said, his voice shaking. We scrambled back to the bike and kicked it to life, but the engine sputtered and died. Over and over, it refused to start.

Then I saw her. A woman in a white sari stood at the entrance to the fort, her face obscured by her hair. She raised one arm and pointed directly at us. The bike’s engine suddenly roared to life, and we sped away without looking back. We drove for miles without speaking, the silence broken only by the wind. When we finally reached the village, I felt a sense of relief wash over me, but it was short-lived.

That night, I lay in bed in my grandmother’s old room, the window facing the pipal tree. The branches scratched against the glass, and I could have sworn I heard whispering. I pulled the blanket over my head and tried to sleep, but images of the shrine and the woman haunted my mind. At some point, I must have drifted off, because I woke with a start to find the room bathed in an eerie red glow.

I sat up and looked out the window. The pipal tree was bathed in a crimson light, and its leaves seemed to be weeping droplets of a thick, dark liquid. I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. Then I heard it again, the lullaby, coming from the tree. I covered my ears, but the sound seeped through, a woman’s voice singing softly, but with a hint of menace.

The next morning, I told my grandmother about what had happened at the fort. She paled and clutched her hands together. ‘You must not go there again,’ she said. ‘That is the tomb of Rani Jhumki, a queen who was betrayed by her lover and buried alive. Her spirit roams, seeking those who disturb her rest.’ I dismissed it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed us home.

Over the next few days, strange things occurred. The bullocks in the stable broke free and ran into the fields, bellowing in terror. My grandmother’s prized marigolds wilted overnight despite watering. And at night, I would see the shadow of a woman pass by my window, even though I was on the second floor. Rohan refused to speak about the incident, and I could see the fear in his eyes.

One evening, I decided to confront my fear. I took the bike and rode back to the fort, alone, my heart pounding. The sun was setting, and the fort cast long, jagged shadows. I clambered to the shrine and knelt before it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. Please leave us alone.’

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the ground shook, and a crack split the stone floor. From the fissure, a miasma of black smoke rose and coalesced into the form of a woman. She was beautiful, but her eyes were hollow pits of darkness. She opened her mouth, and a sound like a thousand whispers emerged. ‘You have come to me. Now you are mine.’

I tried to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. A cold hand grabbed my ankle, and I felt myself being pulled toward the fissure. I screamed, and at that moment, the wind howled and the sky turned black. I heard Rohan’s voice shouting my name. I blinked, and I was lying on the ground outside the fort, Rohan shaking me awake. ‘You were gone for hours,’ he said, his face ashen. ‘I came looking for you.’

I never told him what I saw. We drove back in silence, and I refused to look back. When we reached the village, I saw my grandmother standing at the edge of the field, watching us. Her face was grim. She walked up to me and pressed a small, iron amulet into my palm. ‘Wear this,’ she said. ‘It will keep her away.’

I wore that amulet for the rest of my stay, and the strange occurrences ceased. But on the last night before we left, I woke to see the pipal tree bathed in red once more. This time, the woman was standing under it, her hair blowing in a wind that didn’t exist. She looked at me, and a single tear of blood rolled down her cheek. She mouthed the words, ‘I’ll be waiting.’

I left Nandgaon and never returned. To this day, I can still hear that lullaby in the silence of the night, and I still see the pipal tree weeping in my dreams. My grandmother passed away two years ago, and the amulet has been lost. But I know that the woman at the fort is not done with me. She is patient, and she is still waiting.