"The wheels rolled past forgotten lands,
Beneath the sky so wide, so still—
They laughed, unaware the road ahead
Would bend not to their will.
A whisper sought a drop of grace,
They mocked it with their breath.
But those who jeer at thirsting ghosts
May dine alone with death."
The highway stretched endlessly ahead, a long ribbon of cracked grey carving through vast emptiness. Kabir sat near the front of the tempo traveler, legs relaxed, sunglasses glinting even though clouds had begun to gather. The engine hummed beneath them, tires spitting dust like whispers into the wind.
The city had long faded into memory. Now there were only dried fields, thorny bushes, and the occasional torn billboard rusted into silence.
Inside, the air buzzed with forced excitement. Rohit and Yashpal argued over Bluetooth speakers—Rohit wanted old Bollywood horror songs for "vibes," Yashpal wanted silence.
Saanvi threw a packet of chips at both.
"Idiots," she groaned. "It's too early for drama. At least wait till we see a haunted well or something."
Kabir chuckled. "That's the spirit."
Priya, ever Instagram-ready, pointed her phone at her reflection in the window, trying to capture the 'travel aesthetic' before the windshield grime ruined it. Meghna was reading quietly, as if trying to ignore the fact that the vehicle's shocks were practically nonexistent.
Abhay sat near the back, beside the luggage. He hadn't said much, only murmuring something earlier about water levels and the weather patterns around this part of the state. No one really listened.
But Kabir noticed something else—Abhay was staring outside. Not at the fields. Not at the road.
At nothing.
Just staring.
The vehicle slowed as they reached a dusty toll booth, half-consumed by creeping weeds and time. One side of the gate was open, the other barely lifted. A sleepy attendant leaned outside the window, waving them to a stop.
The driver grunted and rolled the tempo to a halt.
They waited.
Time dragged.
The buzz of a fly circled inside. Someone cursed about the heat.
Then, without warning, a soft knock came on the side of the van.
A man stood there.
Old. Skinny like a bundle of wires tied in human shape. His beard was long, knotted, and yellowing. His skin, cracked like dried leather. He wore a faded saffron cloth and walked barefoot over the scorching tarmac. In another life, he might have been a priest, a baba, a man of rituals. Now he looked more like a relic that time forgot.
He held out a palm and said softly:
"Beta… ek bottle paani mil jaaye to kripa ho jaayegi."
(Son… if I could get a bottle of water, it would be a blessing.)
Kabir turned back and gestured toward the group with a smirk. "Yo, we got any spare water bottles for the prophecy guy?"
"Prophecy guy?" Priya chuckled.
"Yeah," Kabir said. "You haven't seen this cliché before? Saffron baba, begs on haunted road, curses you when denied. Classic setup."
Rohit snorted and lowered the window. "Sorry, Baba-ji. Budget tight. Inflation's scary. No extra water."
The old man didn't flinch. He just stared at Kabir now—his eyes cloudy but focused. Ancient, but aware.
"You are eight," he said suddenly.
"But you are not eight."
The laughter inside the tempo died slowly.
Yashpal tilted his head. "What did he just say?"
The man took a slow step back. His expression, still calm, twisted ever so slightly into something heavier… something darker.
"You laugh now," he murmured, almost gently.
"But the road remembers.
And those who mock the thirsty… will drown in thirst unseen."
With that, he turned away, barefoot steps vanishing into the fog rising near the roadside.
"Okay, that was spooky as hell," Priya said, hugging herself.
"Old men say creepy stuff all the time," Kabir dismissed. But something about that stare…
No, nonsense. He wasn't going to let some roadside drifter mess with the mood.
Still, when the tempo finally passed the toll, and the shadows of the trees grew longer, no one spoke for a while.
Some beggars seek coins.
Some seek compassion.
And some... only appear to warn.
For they are not asking for kindness.
They are checking for it.
A few kilometers later, Rohit tried to lighten the mood by joking about how they should've brought garlic or a cross. No one really laughed.
Abhay finally spoke again. His voice was low.
"What he said… about not being eight. That's not a curse. It's a recognition."
Kabir turned, eyebrow raised. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Abhay looked away. "Nothing. Just… strange words. That's all."
As the sun dipped lower, the road narrowed into a stretch where branches hung like arms reaching from both sides. The driver cursed quietly. The GPS had stopped working five kilometers ago.
"Still no signal?" Kabir asked.
"Nothing," Yashpal muttered, tapping at his phone. "It's like we passed some invisible wall."
"Cliché number two," Priya said. "Signal vanishes, everyone panics. What's next? Flat tire?"
The tire burst two minutes later.
A silence swallowed the van like a cave. Even Rohit didn't speak.
Kabir clenched his jaw.
"This doesn't mean anything," he said, stepping out. "We fix it. Move on. Chill."
The driver groaned as he pulled out the rusted spare from the back.
Meanwhile, Kabir walked a few steps ahead. The sun had dipped behind the hills. There was an unnatural stillness to the air now—as if the trees themselves had paused to listen.
From behind him, he heard Abhay softly say:
"It's already started."
Kabir turned. "What?"
Abhay shook his head. "Never mind."
Kabir stared at him for a long second. Then walked back.
They reached the outer path of Bhairavpur just after twilight.
The forest cleared slowly, revealing a single cracked stone sign half-sunken in mud. The words were barely visible:
[ भैरवपुर ]
Bhairavpur
"Home sweet haunted home," Rohit said, snapping a picture.
But no one smiled.
Kabir stood still. The wind blew once, soft and chill.
From deep within the darkened village, it almost sounded like... chanting.
A bottle denied.
A whisper unheard.
Now every step they take
is on ground that never forgot.