Ghost stories from India

The Morning Paper

It’s been three years since I last wrote here. The events of last week forced me to break my silence. I’m Maya, a data analyst, and my husband, Arjun, is...

The Lamp on Mango Road

In the autumn of 1998, the monsoon had carved its signature into the red earth of our village, leaving shallow lakes that mirrored the gray sky. I was fourteen, living...

The Pomegranate Ward

I’d always thought of my grandmother’s house as a place outside time, a sprawling single-story structure with thick walls that kept the summer heat at bay and the winter chill...

The Grimoire of Mirela

In the autumn of my fifteenth year, my family moved to a remote village nestled in the Carpathian Mountains. Our home, a two-story wooden house with a sagging roof, sat...

The Chalked Circle

The hostel at Nilgiri Hills Engineering College was a squat grey block, its windows like tired eyes staring out over the tea plantations that rolled down to the valley. My...

The Hollow Under the Ferns

I was scraping by as a freelance translator, my nights a blur of glowing screens and caffeine. That particular evening, the deadline for a dense legal document loomed, and my...

The Muddy Footholds

Ravi knew the Aravalli road like the back of his hand. Every pothole, every leaning tree, every eerily silent patch where even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. It...

The Wet Photograph

The rains came to Kodaikanal that year like a patient mourner, arriving in late July and refusing to leave. I worked the front desk at the Lakeview Hotel, a sprawling...

The Curator of Hollow Halos

The summer of 2011 found me in the labyrinthine lanes of old Varanasi, a thousand kilometers from the ordered chaos of Mumbai. I’d traded the antiseptic corridors of my college...

The Loom of Absence

The first time I noticed the absence was during my third week at the Meridian Institute of Culinary Arts, a squat, sand-colored complex squatting on the edge of the Nevada...

The Chasing Bells

It was past midnight when Arjun left the temple grounds, the last strains of the damaru and the smell of burning camphor still clinging to his clothes. The villagers had...

The Last Call on NH-44

In the summer of 2004, my cousin Rohan lived in the sprawling city of Chennai. His parents, my aunt and uncle, had retired to their ancestral village, a small hamlet...

The Last Lantern

I had always been the one in the family who felt things others couldn’t. Not ghosts, not spirits, but the weight of unspoken fears, the texture of a room’s mood....

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