The Weeping Tamarind

My grandmother used to tell me stories that would make the hair on my arms stand up, but none terrified me as much as the one about her elder sister, Leela. This happened in our ancestral village, nestled deep within the mustard fields of Bengal, where the river Padma flowed like a dark, lazy serpent. The path to the river was a tunnel of ancient tamarind trees, their branches intertwining overhead to block out the sun, and at the end of that tunnel, hidden in a grove, was the burning ghat, where the dead were given to the flames.

Leela was barely seventeen then, with a wild spirit that chafed against the village’s quiet rules. One sultry afternoon, she decided to go for a bath, ignoring the warnings of the elders who said the river was ‘heavy’ during the afternoon hours. She walked the shaded path alone, her bare feet slapping against the packed earth, the only sounds being the buzzing of insects and the distant cawing of crows. The tamarind trees, heavy with sour pods, cast long, undulating shadows that seemed to writhe in the heat.

After a refreshing dip, she started back, her wet hair clinging to her neck. The sun was dipping lower, and the path was even darker now. As she approached a particular bend, a sudden chill ran down her spine. She looked up and saw, perched on a thick, low branch of the largest tamarind tree, a figure. It was a woman, draped in a white saree, her face obscured by the dim light. What struck Leela was the woman’s stillness; she sat perfectly upright, like a stone idol, and seemed to be weeping, a low, guttural sound that was not quite human.

Leela’s heart hammered. She tried to convince herself it was just a village woman resting, perhaps grief-stricken from a recent cremation at the ghat. She quickened her pace, keeping her eyes down. But as she passed beneath the tree, the weeping stopped. A voice, thin and dry like rustling leaves, called out her name: ‘Leela… Leela…’ The voice was familiar, yet entirely wrong, as if it was coming from a hollow log. Leela froze, her blood turning to ice. Slowly, she raised her eyes. The woman had turned her head, and under the shadow of the saree’s pallu, there was no face. Just a smooth, dark void.

Leela ran, her legs pumping, her breath ragged. She didn’t stop until she burst into the house, slamming the door behind her. For days, she was gripped by a fever, muttering about the faceless woman in the tamarind tree. My grandmother, who was young then, tended to her. Leela never fully recovered. She spoke little for weeks, and whenever someone mentioned the river, she would get a faraway, haunted look. Eventually, the family sent her to live with an aunt in the city, hoping a change of scene would heal her. It did, partially. She married, had children, and lived a normal life, but my grandmother said, ‘The tree took something from her that day. A piece of her spirit that never returned.’

Years later, after Leela had passed away, my grandmother took me to that village. The old tamarind tree was still there, its gnarled branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. She told me to listen. And as the wind rustled through the leaves, I heard it—a low, haunting wail, emanating from the hollow heart of the tree, calling out names. My grandmother clutched my hand and pulled me away, saying, ‘It’s the weeping tamarind. It waits for the ones who go to the river alone.’ To this day, no one in our family ever walks that path without a companion, and we always hurry past the tamarind tree, never looking back.