It was the night before Diwali, and the five of us were sprawled across cushions in Mira's bedroom. We'd been trading ghost stories for an hour, tales of demons with backward feet, of the woman in white who haunted the old well, of things that whispered from banyan trees after dark. After every story, we'd laugh about how ridiculous they were, wondering how anyone in the modern world could indulge in such nonsense. "'You're all such liars,' Priya declared, tossing her long braid over her shoulder.
"'You're all scared of ghosts?' "'I am not,' said Angiely, the youngest among us.' Priya snorted. "'I'd prove it. I dare you to go to the Muslim cemetery on Mira's road, at midnight, alone.' The room fell silent. The cemetery Priya mentioned was old, pre-partition old, a forgotten patch of crumbling graves behind rusted iron gates that everyone in our neighborhood avoided after sunset.
Even the street dogs wouldn't go near it. "'That's too far,' Mira protested. "'And it's dangerous. It's not far away and just admit that you are a scaredy cat,' Priya scoffed.
"'I'll go,' I heard myself say. The word surprised me as much as anyone, but Priya's smirk had ignited something stubborn in my chest, and before I could think better of it, the challenge was accepted. To prove I'd actually done it, I would drive Mira's brothers' cricket stump into the ground at the center of the cemetery, right over the oldest grave, the one with the red-cracked marble headstone. "'At 11.47pm, I said my goodbyes and slipped out through Mira's back gate.
Everyone except Priya had a concerned look on their face. She was still wearing that stupid grin of hers, the one that screamed, "'I can't wait to see you fail at your task and run back screaming into our arms.'" The streets were emptier than I'd expected, most families already asleep before tomorrow's celebrations. A few stray dogs watched me pass with luminous eyes, but didn't follow. The air smelled of marigolds and gunpowder.
The cemetery gates were chained, but hung loose enough for me to squeeze through sideways. Inside the darkness was daunting, the street lights didn't reach here, and the moon was a thin sliver, useless behind clouds. I turned on my phone's flashlight, and the beam caught on broken headstones, jutting from the earth like teeth. The ground was uneven, treacherous with hidden holes and trailing vines.
I picked my way carefully between graves, some marked with crescent and stars, others with nothing but bare mounds of earth sunken with age. The cricket stump felt too light in my hand, almost childish. I should have brought something heavier, more substantial. The old red grave was exactly where we'd seen it during daylight.
Dead center, beneath the skeletal remains of a neem tree. The marble headstone had split down the middle, and whatever name had been carved there was long since weathered away. The grave itself was larger than the others, perhaps belonging to someone important once. Now it was just forgotten, like everything else here.
I knelt beside it, my cotton-departor pooling around me on the ground. The fabric was new, bought just for Diwali, deep red with gold embroidery, my mother's gift. I'd worn it to see braver, more grown up. Now it felt like a liability, too much cloth, too easy to trip on.
The earth was harder than I'd anticipated. I had to work the cricket stump back and forth, using both hands and all my weight. Around me, the cemetery was utterly silent. No crickets, no distant traffic, nothing.
Just my own breathing, and the soft scrape of wood against earth. Finally, the stump sank deep enough to stand upright. I released it and sat back on my heels, triumphant. I'd done it.
I pulled out my phone to take a photo as evidence. That's when I tried to stand and couldn't. Something held me fast to the ground. My heart lurched.
I pulled harder, but whatever gripped me wouldn't release. I twisted around, shining my phone's light downward, and saw it immediately. In my hurry, I'd driven the cricket stump directly through the edge of my dupatta. The fabric was pinned to the earth, holding me in place as surely as a hand.
I almost laughed at my own stupidity. But then I heard it. A sound like breathing, just behind me. I froze.
The air had changed, grown colder. That complete silence from before now felt deliberate, like the cemetery itself was holding its breath. Watching. I reached for the stump to pull it free, hoping to use it as a weapon.
But my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't get a grip. The breathing continued. Slow, wet, labored. As if someone was struggling to draw air through damaged lungs.
Hello? My voice came out small, childish. The breathing stopped. A hand touched my shoulder.
The fingers were cold enough that I felt them through my cummies, through my skin, down to the bone. I knew that if I turned around, I would see something that would break my mind. The hand on my shoulder tightened. Another joined it, both pressing down now, forcing me toward the ground, toward the grave, toward the earth that would swallow me.
I did the only thing I could think of. I tore at my dupatta with both hands, ripping the delicate fabric, hearing the embroidery separate with a sound like tearing flesh. I was free. I ran.
I don't remember navigating the graves. Don't remember how I didn't break an ankle or crash face first into a headstone. I remember only the gates, squeezing through sideways, the iron catching my clothes, scraping my arms. I remember running into my lungs burned until I was back on Merzer Road, under the streetlights, back where the world made sense.
No more dares for me for a lifetime, thanks very much.