The Children of 2098

 

The year was 2098, but the seeds of the world’s collapse had been planted over a century before, in the early 1990s, when global fertility rates began their alarming dip below the replacement level of 2.1. For the first time in modern history, more people were dying than being born. At the time, economists and sociologists warned that humanity was marching toward a demographic cliff. Few listened.

The factors behind the decline were complex, shaped by technological, social, and cultural transformations. Women entered the workforce en masse, prioritizing careers over childbearing. The rising costs of living, particularly in urban centers, made raising children an unaffordable burden. People postponed marriage, choosing personal freedom over familial responsibility. Fertility technologies advanced, but rather than encouraging birth, they enabled people to control reproduction in ways that were unimaginable before. In time, having children became not a natural milestone but an option—one many opted out of.

By the early 21st century, governments had begun to panic. They introduced sweeping programs to reverse the trend: generous parental leave, free childcare, direct cash incentives for families, and tax breaks for each child born. In some countries, mothers were given life-long pensions just for having more than two children. However, the psychological shift was already too deep. People had come to view children not as blessings but as costly hindrances. No amount of money or government policy could change the way people felt about reproduction.

This reluctance to have children accelerated over the next few decades. In 2040, global fertility rates hit an all-time low of 1.2 children per woman. In many countries, it was far worse. Entire regions in Europe, East Asia, and North America reported fertility rates close to 0.8, meaning their populations would halve within two generations. The first real economic shocks hit: labor forces shrank, retirement ages were raised to unsustainable levels, and pension systems collapsed under the weight of elderly populations.

By 2060, the social order began to crumble. Countries began competing for young immigrants, offering citizenships in exchange for the promise of bolstering their declining workforces. But even immigration couldn’t save them. People simply weren’t reproducing at rates high enough to sustain society. Artificial Intelligence and automation were deployed to handle much of the labor shortage, but even machines couldn’t stave off the population crisis forever. By the 2070s, governments around the world started drafting policies that were once unthinkable.

The New Federation, the largest geopolitical bloc that emerged after the collapse of nation-states, became the first to adopt radical measures in 2080. Recognizing that voluntary incentives had failed, the government mandated compulsory sperm and egg donation for all citizens between the ages of 18 and 40. The eggs and sperm were harvested, fertilized in artificial wombs, and children were raised in state-run nurseries. The government framed it as an act of civic duty—For the Future, the propaganda said—but the truth was clear: reproduction had been seized by the state.

Now, in 2098, the world had fully adjusted to this new reality. Or so it seemed.

---

Laya stood in front of the genetic harvest center, her eyes scanning the towering metal structure that loomed against the gray sky. The building, with its cold steel exterior and biometric scanners, was just another cog in the massive machinery of the New Federation’s reproductive system. Inside, eggs were extracted from women, sperm from men, and children were grown in artificial wombs, their lives governed by algorithms long before they took their first breath.

Laya was twenty-nine and had delayed her compliance with the genetic mandate for as long as possible. Her assigned reproductive window was closing soon, and failure to submit meant she’d face severe consequences—prison, or worse. Everyone knew someone who had been 're-educated' after refusing to donate their genetic material. No one ever heard from them again.

"Time to comply," she muttered to herself, steeling her nerves as she entered the building.

The interior of the facility was as lifeless as the outside. White walls, white floors, bright fluorescent lights—it felt more like a hospital than a place where life was created. She checked in at the front desk, a hollow voice directing her toward cubicle 47-B.

As she sat waiting for her turn, her mind raced with the images she had seen in the underground networks. The resistance groups called the children born from these artificial processes The Engineered Generation. Raised by government-appointed caregivers in state-run nurseries, these children were designed for efficiency and obedience. There were no families, no mothers or fathers. The state was their parent, and they knew no other life.

"Laya O’Malley, your turn," a synthetic voice called out.

She took a deep breath, her hands clammy as she stood and followed the instructions into the cubicle. Inside, a nurse—a human one this time—greeted her with a sterile smile, her eyes glazed over with the boredom of routine. The procedure was quick, impersonal. Laya signed the necessary forms, laid down on the chair, and allowed the machines to extract what they needed.

"Thank you for your contribution," the nurse said, her voice monotone. "Your donation will help secure the future of our society."

Laya sat up, feeling a strange emptiness inside her as if something important had been taken from her, though she had no physical pain. She dressed quickly and left the facility, the world outside feeling just as cold and detached as the room she had just left.

---

The government had tried to make it easy—hand over your reproductive material, and you were free to live your life. But something about it had always felt wrong to Laya. She had grown up hearing stories from her grandparents about how things used to be. Back in the 1990s, people still had children out of love. They raised them in families, not in clinical government nurseries. Laya’s parents had her before the mandate was fully in place, but by the time she was old enough to understand the world, she had been indoctrinated into believing this was how it had to be.

Still, there were whispers of dissent. There were those who believed the system was wrong—that the state had no right to control the most intimate aspects of human life. Laya had never been brave enough to join the resistance outright, but she had secretly followed their movements. They had ways of intercepting genetic material before it entered the system, allowing those who wanted to have children naturally to do so, in secret.

But the risks were immense. If caught, the penalty was death.

---

The night after her procedure, Laya couldn’t sleep. She lay on her bed in her tiny apartment, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the city outside was dull and constant, a reminder of the world she was trapped in. She thought about the genetic material they had taken from her, the child that would be created without her involvement. The government would raise it, mold it into a perfect citizen. She would never see her child, never hold them, never be anything more than a distant biological contributor.

The thought gnawed at her, a deep unease settling in her chest.

There was a knock at the door.

Her heart leapt into her throat. No one ever visited unannounced. Carefully, she approached the door and checked the viewer. A woman stood there—Kayla, one of the underground’s most notorious leaders.

"May I come in?" Kayla’s voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp and alert.

Laya hesitated. Associating with the underground was dangerous, but curiosity and something deeper pushed her to open the door.

Kayla stepped inside, her presence filling the small room. She looked around briefly before turning her attention to Laya. "I know you just completed your donation," she said, her voice steady. "But you’re not like the others. You don’t want your child growing up in one of their nurseries."

Laya’s stomach churned. How could Kayla possibly know that? She had always kept her thoughts to herself, never spoken a word of dissent.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Laya said, her voice weak.

Kayla smiled faintly. "You don’t have to pretend with me. I know the look in your eyes. The system feels wrong, doesn’t it?"

Laya didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. Kayla’s words hit too close to the truth. It did feel wrong. It had always felt wrong.

"Listen," Kayla continued, "we’ve developed a way to intercept the genetic material before it enters their reproductive program. If you want, we can retrieve your egg before they use it and implant it back into you. You’ll be able to have your child naturally, to raise them yourself, outside of the government’s control."

The words sent a shock through Laya. The very idea felt impossible. The government controlled everything. They monitored every transaction, every procedure, every life.

"That’s… that’s illegal," Laya stammered. "If they catch us—"

Kayla nodded, her expression grave. "I won’t lie to you. It’s dangerous. But people like you—people who remember what it means to be human—are the only hope we have left. If we don’t resist now, the future will belong to machines, not humans."

Laya sank into the chair, her thoughts swirling. The temptation was overwhelming, but so was the fear. Could she really go through with something like this? The government’s surveillance was near total. They would know if she tampered with the system.

Kayla knelt beside her, her voice soft but insistent. "The choice is yours, Laya. But I believe you’re strong enough to fight. We need people like you. Your child needs you."

For the first time, Laya felt the weight of the decision pressing down on her. This wasn’t just about her. It was about the future—her future, her child’s future, and perhaps the future of all humanity.

---

The days that followed were a blur of planning and fear. Laya joined the underground network, meeting in secret locations, learning about their methods and the intricacies of the state’s surveillance systems. Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a vast, dark chasm. One wrong move, and everything could come crashing down.

Kayla explained the plan: they would hack into the genetic database, retrieve Laya’s egg before it was fertilized and implanted into an artificial womb. From there, a doctor working within the underground would implant the embryo back into Laya’s body, allowing her to carry and birth her own child—a radical act in a world where natural pregnancy had become almost unheard of.

The risks were immense. If caught, the punishment would be severe—imprisonment, re-education, or worse.

The night of the operation came swiftly. Laya and Kayla crept into Facility 46A under the cover of darkness, aided by resistance hackers who had temporarily disabled the perimeter security. They moved quickly, their hearts racing with the tension of the mission. Laya’s mind buzzed with fear and adrenaline, but Kayla’s presence beside her was steady, unwavering.

They reached the data center, where rows of genetic material were stored in cryo-chambers. Kayla gestured to the one marked with Laya’s identification number.

"This is it," she whispered. "We take your material, and then we go."

Laya’s breath caught in her throat. This was the moment.

As Kayla expertly hacked into the chamber, Laya could only watch in awe. The woman moved with a confidence that seemed unshakeable, as if she had done this countless times before. A soft hiss filled the air as the cryo-chamber door slid open, revealing the small vial containing Laya’s genetic material.

Kayla carefully extracted it and handed it to Laya. "This is your future," she said softly.

Laya stared at the vial, her pulse pounding in her ears. The child that would grow from this—her child—was now within her grasp.

Suddenly, alarms blared, and the sterile white walls were bathed in flashing red light.

"They’ve found us!" Kayla yelled, her voice taut with urgency.

Laya’s heart leaped into her throat as they bolted for the exit, the sound of boots pounding the floor behind them. Government agents, clad in black uniforms, were closing in.

"Go!" Kayla shouted, shoving Laya toward the emergency exit. "Get to the safe house! I’ll hold them off!"

Laya hesitated for a split second, panic rising in her chest. But Kayla’s fierce gaze pushed her into action.

She ran, clutching the vial tightly in her hand as she sprinted through the darkened corridors. The world around her blurred as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Behind her, she heard the sounds of struggle—the clash of bodies, the shouts of the agents.

But she didn’t look back.

---

The safe house was a small, hidden bunker on the outskirts of the city. Laya arrived just before dawn, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear. She collapsed onto the floor, cradling the vial to her chest.

She had made it.

The next few weeks passed in a haze of tension. Laya remained in hiding as the underground worked to ensure her genetic material was safe. The government intensified its surveillance efforts, cracking down on anyone suspected of dissent. The city was on high alert, and rumors spread like wildfire about the resistance’s activities.

But Laya’s future—the future of her child—remained intact.

Soon, the time came for the implantation procedure. The underground doctor worked quietly, efficiently, ensuring the embryo was placed safely within Laya’s womb. The process was almost surreal—this tiny life, growing inside her, was something the government could never take from her.

Months passed, and Laya’s pregnancy progressed in secret. She could feel the life inside her, a small miracle in a world that had forgotten the beauty of creation. Every kick, every flutter reminded her of what she was fighting for.

But as the final weeks approached, Laya couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that hung over her like a storm cloud. The government was still searching for the radicals responsible for the breach at Facility 46A, and every day, the net grew tighter.

Then, one cold morning, as Laya sat in the dim light of her hiding place, cradling her swollen belly, the door burst open.

Government agents flooded the room, their faces cold and unyielding.

Laya stood, her heart pounding, shielding her unborn child with her hands. They had found her.

But as they moved toward her, something shifted inside her—not just physically, but mentally. This was the future she had fought for, the future they wanted to steal from her.

Her eyes blazed with determination, the same fire she had seen in Kayla’s eyes.

This wasn’t just a fight for survival anymore. This was a fight for humanity.

And as the agents closed in, Laya whispered to her child, "You are the beginning of something new."

Tapestry of randomness

 

In twilight's hush, where shadows play,

We wander through a garden's maze,

Where paths unfold, then fade away,

Like whispers of a distant sway.

Each step we take, a choice we make,

The landscape shifts, a new path's stake,

Forking endlessly, like branches high,

A labyrinth born of wonder why.

Yet, we're not sole architects of this maze,

The garden's grown, nurtured by time and grace,

Tended by hands that came before our own,

And those who presently, its beauty have sown.

The garden remembers every footstep light,

Every decision made, in endless night,

The trees, the flowers, the wind, the sun's embrace,

All whisper secrets, of the paths we trace.

In this ever-changing tapestry so fine,

We weave our thread, a moment's design,

A choice, a step, a breath, a heartbeat's pace,

In the garden's heart, a shifting, sacred space.

So let us wander, lost, yet not alone,

For in the garden's depths, a wisdom's sown,

That guides us through, the paths we cannot see,

To hidden truths, and mysteries yet to be.

The Game of Shadows - Sequel to Kiss of Death

Mohini Barua could still feel the weight of Mr. Sarmah’s body as it slumped to the floor, the kiss of death sealing his fate. Weeks had passed since the elite gathering in New Jersey, yet the memory remained vivid. The plan had gone off without a hitch; Mr. Sarmah, the man who had wronged her years ago, was no more. It was his fatal allergy to peanuts—delivered through her cunningly applied lipstick—that had done him in.

But Mohini wasn’t satisfied. The thrill of that night had awakened something inside her—a hunger, a need for control and power that she could no longer ignore. She had tasted blood, and now she wanted more. And in her mind, another name began to surface: Mr. Dutta.

The Barua residence in New Jersey was a fortress of opulence, a symbol of the couple’s success in the land of dreams. The mansion, with its sprawling lawns, grand columns, and shimmering chandeliers, was the crown jewel of the Assamese diaspora in the United States. Every year, it played host to the most prestigious gatherings, where the elite mingled, exchanged business cards, and spoke of their shared nostalgia for Assam.

Mohini Barua, with her striking beauty and sharp intellect, was a star hostess at these events. Her Wall Street career had earned her respect, and her looks had earned her attention. But beneath the surface, Mohini was a master of manipulation, a woman who wielded her beauty and intellect like weapons. She was aware of every lingering glance, every envious whisper, and she reveled in it. But her thoughts were far from the chatter and flattery that surrounded her.

She had noticed something different in Mr. Dutta's demeanor the last time they spoke. It was at one of these grand gatherings, amidst the laughter and clinking glasses, that he had made a remark that set off alarm bells in her mind.

"You know, Mohini," Mr. Dutta had said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "life has a way of surprising us. Sometimes, people aren’t who they appear to be. It’s funny how a single detail can change everything."

The words were casual, almost friendly, but Mohini sensed the underlying suspicion. Mr. Dutta was a smart man, and if he had started to suspect her, it could unravel everything. She couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Mohini’s relationship with Mr. Dutta extended beyond the social sphere; it was deeply intertwined with business. As a Private Equity expert on Wall Street, she advised wealthy clients like Mr. Dutta, guiding their investments with precision. But Mohini was always meticulous, and when Mr. Dutta’s subtle suspicion began to worry her, she decided to dig deeper into his personal life.

Her investigation led her to uncover the stormy relationship between Mr. Dutta's wife, Sagarika, and Gautam Payeng, a man originally from Shillong. Gautam was a striking figure—handsome, adventurous, and successful. His passions for wildlife photography, the study of primitive tribes, and his frequent trips to the jungles of Colombia, Amazonian rain forest and Africa painted him as a man of intrigue. But what caught Mohini’s attention the most was his connection to Colombia.

From her childhood, Mohini had been captivated by an Agatha Christie novel where a murder was committed using frog dart poison, a lethal substance derived from a frog found only in the jungles of Colombia. The Golden Poison Dart Frog's venom, also known as batrachotoxin (BTX), is a powerful and deadly neurotoxin that can kill a human being within 20 minutes if ingested, inhaled, or if it enters the body through an open wound. This potent poison is produced by the frog's skin glands and is used for defense against predators. BTX works by blocking nerve impulses, leading to muscle paralysis, cardiac arrest, and respiratory failure. Even a tiny amount of the venom, equivalent to two grains of salt, can be fatal. The indigenous people of Colombia have historically used the frog's venom to poison the tips of their hunting darts, hence the name "poison dart frog."

The pieces began to fall into place in Mohini’s mind. Gautam's frequent visits to Colombia and his relationship with Sagarika made him the perfect scapegoat.

With her skills as an investment banker and her training as an engineer, Mohini began to plot the perfect murder. She would use the frog dart poison to eliminate Mr. Dutta, framing Gautam for the crime. The financial benefits for Gautam, along with his affair with Sagarika, would provide the perfect motive, further distancing herself from any suspicion.

With her Electronics Engineering background, Mohini developed a small device designed to be both deadly and undetectable. This device, cleverly disguised as an innocuous object, had one purpose: to release a lethal dose of dart frog poison into the air, which would be inhaled by Mr. Dutta. The trigger? A simple spoken phrase: "Bhoot Jolokiya." The device worked with the same principle as a smart assistant device like Alexa, which gets activated with a keyword. And she programmed the device to deactivate itself after the only time it would be activated to release the poison, removing any traces to the keyword.

She knew exactly where to place this device—in the flower pot in Mr. Dutta’s office. But to remain above suspicion, she enlisted the help of an unsuspecting Cleaning Lady to plant the device, for a handsome payment, of course. The Cleaning Lady, oblivious to the true nature of the device, did as she was told. However, fate took a dark turn. Shortly after completing the task, the Cleaning Lady was tragically murdered in what appeared to be a random mugging and shooting in Camden, NJ. The incident was chalked up to a coincidence, erasing any link back to Mohini.

Meanwhile, Mohini's role as a trusted financial advisor allowed her to manipulate Mr. Dutta’s assets without raising an eyebrow. She advised him to transfer a significant portion of his wealth into an umbrella account in the Canary Islands, a move that seemed perfectly legal and advantageous. Simultaneously, she subtly steered Mr. Payeng, another client with whom she had fostered a rapport, into a similar arrangement. What Mr. Dutta didn’t know was that his death would inadvertently benefit Mr. Payeng, who had unknowingly been tied to the same account.

On the fateful night, Mr. Dutta was on a Zoom call with Mohini. The conversation was as professional as ever, with Mohini exuding her usual charm and expertise. They discussed a lucrative new deal, and everything seemed normal. As they were about to end the call, Mohini, with a smile, casually mentioned, “By the way, Mr. Dutta, you must try the new Ghost Chilly pickle I procured from Assam. It's simply exquisite. By the way, what was the Assamese word for Ghost Chilly? I couldn’t recollect it.”

"Bhoot Jolokiya" - responded Mr. Dutta.

The moment the words left his lips, the device hidden in the flower pot silently activated. Within moments, a deadly mist of dart frog poison was released into the room. Mr. Dutta, still at his desk, never saw it coming.

While the poison took effect, Mohini’s face betrayed nothing but concern. She watched Mr. Dutta’s expression change from confusion to panic as the venom gripped him. His breathing became labored, and his eyes widened in terror.

“I’m feeling strange, Mohini,” he gasped. “Something’s wrong… I can’t…”

“Oh my God, Mr. Dutta, are you having a heart attack? I’m calling Sagarika right now!” Mohini said, her voice dripping with urgency and concern.

She quickly dialed Sagarika’s number. “Sagarika! It’s Mohini. Something’s wrong with Mr. Dutta! I think he’s having a heart attack! He needs help, now!”

On the other end of the line, Sagarika’s voice was laced with panic. “What? A heart attack? Oh my God! Where is he? I’m on my way!”

Mohini stayed on the call just long enough to hear the panic in Sagarika’s voice, then ended it with a soft, reassuring word. She knew that by the time Sagarika reached Mr. Dutta, it would be too late. The poison would have done its work.

When the authorities arrived, the scene they found only deepened the mystery. Mr. Dutta’s death was initially assumed to be a heart attack, but the toxicology reports soon revealed the presence of a rare and exotic poison. The investigation led to the discovery that the poison was derived from a dart frog native to Colombia. Given Mr. Payeng’s well-known trips to Colombia, his connection to Mr. Dutta’s financial dealings, and the gossip surrounding his affair with Sagarika, he quickly became the prime suspect.

The police pieced together the financial motive: Mr. Dutta’s death would lead to a windfall for Mr. Payeng, thanks to the offshore accounts Mohini had carefully linked. Combined with the affair, it painted a damning picture.

As the investigation deepened, the pieces of the puzzle fell perfectly into place. Mr. Payeng, oblivious to the trap Mohini had set, found himself under intense scrutiny. The financial links, the affair, the poison—all pointed directly to him.

Mohini, meanwhile, was untouchable. The authorities never considered her involvement, not even for a moment. She had played her role flawlessly, leaving no trace, no suspicion. As the days passed, she watched with satisfaction as the investigation closed in on Sagarika and Gautam. They were both arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder, their lives destroyed by the evidence Mohini had so carefully constructed. And Mohini? She was nowhere in the picture. Her hands were clean, her name untainted. The satisfaction of executing yet another flawless plan washed over her. She had played the game to perfection, and once again, she had won.

---

Epilogue

Behind her serene facade, Mohini savored the satisfaction of a plan perfectly executed. The thrill of control, the power over life and death, had become her silent obsession.

The shadows in her life deepened, but so did her hunger for the game. She had won again, and now, her gaze turned towards the horizon, scanning for the next move in her deadly game. The world had become her chessboard, and she was the master, always one step ahead, always unseen.

She has tasted blood. Not once - twice, She wanted more of it. She began planning her next move.

Legend of the Naked Ghost at Kokrajhar

 

In the early 1960s, Kokrajhar was a sleepy little town nestled in the western part of Assam, close to the foothills of Bhutan. Unlike the bustling town it would later become, Kokrajhar was a place where everyone knew each other, and the pace of life was slow and unhurried. The town was surrounded by dense forests and streams that flowed through the landscape, giving the area a tranquil, almost mystical quality. 

But as the sun dipped below the horizon, a different mood settled over Kokrajhar. The hustle and bustle of the day gave way to a tranquil silence, broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant call of a jackal. The streets, once filled with life, became empty and still, as if the town itself was holding its breath. It was at this time, in the dim light of dusk, that Kokrajhar seemed to slip into another realm, one where the boundaries between the living and the dead blurred, and old tales of spirits and apparitions took on a life of their own.

One such tale was the legend of the naked ghost, a story that would become synonymous with Kokrajhar and its mysterious banyan tree.

At the very center of Kokrajhar was a corner that everyone in town knew. It was an unremarkable spot—a small clearing shaded by a peepal tree, with a rickety wooden bench and a chai stall that served the best tea in town. But it was here that the men of Kokrajhar gathered every evening, a ritual as old as the town itself. They came to escape the monotony of their lives, to share news, exchange gossip, and engage in the age-old pastime of storytelling.

The corner was a place where time seemed to slow down. The men would arrive just as the sun was setting, their voices rising and falling like the melody of a well-practiced song. There was Mr. Narzary, the schoolteacher with a passion for poetry; Mr. Gupta, the shopkeeper who knew the price of everything; and Mr. Basumaraty, the postmaster who could recount the history of every family in town. But among them, one man stood out—Mr. Dutta.

Mr. Dutta was a man of contradictions. He was short and stout, with a round belly that strained against the buttons of his shirt. His face was perpetually flushed, as if he had just run a marathon, and his thick mustache twitched when he spoke. He had a voice that could be heard from a mile away and a personality that demanded attention. But what made Mr. Dutta truly unforgettable was his penchant for storytelling. He had a tale for every occasion, and though most of them were wildly exaggerated, he told them with such conviction that even the most skeptical listener couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Mr. Dutta’s stories were a mixture of fact and fiction, with the lines between the two often blurred beyond recognition. He would regale the men at the corner with accounts of his adventures—how he had single-handedly caught a band of thieves, how he had outwitted a corrupt government official, and how he had once saved a drowning child from the Brahmaputra’s treacherous waters. The men listened with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, knowing that Mr. Dutta’s tales were more fiction than fact. But they enjoyed his company nonetheless, for Mr. Dutta brought a certain vibrancy to their otherwise mundane lives.

As the evening wore on, the men would play cards, sip on their chai, and lose themselves in conversation. But as the clock neared nine, the gathering would begin to disperse. One by one, the men would bid each other goodnight and make their way home, leaving the corner to the night and its shadows.

Mr. Dutta was always the last to leave. He had a habit of lingering, as if reluctant to let go of the day. He would tuck his deck of cards into his shirt pocket, adjust his belt, and set off on his nightly walk home. His route took him past the old courthouse, a crumbling relic from the British era, and the towering banyan tree that stood beside it.

The banyan was a tree unlike any other. It was ancient, its roots sprawling outwards like the tentacles of some mythical creature. The branches were thick and gnarled, twisting and turning as if in a dance with the wind. The tree’s canopy was so dense that even the moonlight struggled to penetrate it, casting the ground below in an eerie half-light. The banyan had a reputation, one that made the townsfolk wary of passing by it after dark. It was said that spirits resided in its depths, drawn to its ancient roots and the secrets they held.

Mr. Dutta, however, dismissed such stories. He was a man of the world, or so he claimed, and had no time for superstitions. He had walked past the banyan tree countless times, and never once had he encountered anything out of the ordinary. But on one hot summer night in 1964, that would change.

Mr. Hazarika and Mr. Rahman were young men with a zest for life that belied their academic pursuits. They had recently completed their master’s degrees at Guwahati University and had joined the faculty of the newly established Kokrajhar College. The two shared a small rented room near the courthouse, a modest abode with creaking floorboards and a leaking roof. But what the room lacked in comfort, it made up for in camaraderie. The two men were fast friends, bound by their love of literature, philosophy, and a good practical joke.

They had been part of the evening gatherings at the corner since they arrived in Kokrajhar, and it didn’t take them long to notice Mr. Dutta’s larger-than-life personality. They listened with amusement as he spun his tales, their eyes meeting over the rim of their chai cups whenever Mr. Dutta ventured into particularly implausible territory. It wasn’t long before the idea of playing a prank on Mr. Dutta took root in their minds.

It was a simple plan, born out of the sweltering summer heat and the boredom that often accompanied it. They would disguise themselves as ghosts—naked, save for the lungis they would drape over their heads—and wait for Mr. Dutta to pass by the banyan tree on his way home. The thought of the stout, self-assured Mr. Dutta fleeing in terror was too delicious to resist.

On the appointed night, the two men prepared for their prank with the giddy anticipation of schoolboys. They stripped down to their underwear, wrapping their lungis around their heads like makeshift turbans, and covered their faces with a layer of talcum powder to give themselves a ghostly pallor. Their hearts raced with a mixture of excitement and nervousness as they made their way to the banyan tree, taking care to avoid being seen by anyone who might give away their plan.

The night was oppressively hot, the air thick with humidity. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves of the banyan, and the only sound was the distant croak of frogs in the nearby marsh. The two men crouched behind the tree’s massive trunk, their muscles tensed with anticipation. They didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, they heard the familiar sound of Mr. Dutta’s sandals slapping against the road, accompanied by the tuneless hum that always signaled his approach.

As Mr. Dutta came into view, his portly figure outlined by the dim light of a streetlamp, the two men exchanged a quick glance. This was it—the moment they had been waiting for. As Mr. Dutta drew closer, they stepped out from behind the tree, their bodies swaying in an exaggerated dance, their voices rising in eerie wails.

For a moment, Mr. Dutta froze in his tracks. The sight that greeted him was something out of a nightmare—two ghostly figures, naked from the waist down, their faces pale and their movements otherworldly. His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. For the first time in his life, Mr. Dutta was at a loss for words.

“Maa Kali! Maa Durga!” he gasped, his voice barely more than a whisper. He took a step back, his hands clutching at the air as if to ward off the apparitions. But the ghosts only moved closer, their dance becoming more frantic, their wails more insistent.

“O Maago!” Mr. Dutta shrieked, his voice cracking with fear. His legs felt like jelly, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. Was this it? Had the spirits of the banyan tree come to claim him? All the stories he had so casually dismissed now came flooding back, each one more terrifying than the last.

Without another thought, Mr. Dutta turned on his heel and fled. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life, his sandals flapping against the ground as he bolted down the road. Behind him, the two “ghosts” struggled to suppress their laughter, their plan a resounding success.

Mr. Dutta didn’t stop running until he reached the safety of his home. He burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him, his chest heaving with the effort. His wife, who had been dozing in a chair, woke with a start at the commotion.

“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded, eyeing her husband with concern.

“Ghosts!” Mr. Dutta panted, his face ashen. “There were ghosts—two of them, under the banyan tree!”

His wife raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Ghosts, you say? And what did they look like, these ghosts?”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes widened as he recalled the sight. “They were naked, save for the cloths wrapped around their heads. And their faces—they were so pale, so ghastly!”

His wife stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. She had lived with Mr. Dutta long enough to know when he was exaggerating, and this story had all the hallmarks of one of his tall tales.

“Well, you’re home now,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. “No need to worry. You’ve scared them off, I’m sure.”

But Mr. Dutta was not so easily consoled. He spent the rest of the night wide awake, his mind replaying the encounter over and over. The next morning, as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains, he resolved to share his story with the men at the corner. After all, they needed to know about the danger that lurked beneath the banyan tree.

Word of Mr. Dutta’s encounter spread through Kokrajhar like wildfire. By the time he arrived at the corner that evening, the story had already taken on a life of its own. The men greeted him with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, eager to hear the details firsthand.

“Is it true, Dutta Babu?” Mr. Basumatary asked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “Did you really see ghosts last night?”

Mr. Dutta puffed out his chest, relishing the attention. “It’s true, all right. Two of them—pale as death, and naked as the day they were born.”

The men exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from amusement to disbelief. Mr. Dutta’s reputation for exaggeration was well-known, and while they enjoyed his stories, they were often taken with a grain of salt.

“But how did you escape?” Mr. Narzary inquired, leaning forward. “Surely, the ghosts didn’t just let you go.”

Mr. Dutta’s eyes narrowed as he recounted his tale. “I didn’t just escape—I drove them away. You see, I have a deep knowledge of ‘bhoot vidya,’ the ancient art of exorcising spirits. When they saw that I wasn’t afraid, they fled!”

There was a moment of silence as the men absorbed this new twist in the story. Then, almost as one, they burst into laughter. The image of Mr. Dutta, a portly man with a fondness for sweets, single-handedly exorcising ghosts was too much to take seriously.

“Bhoot vidya, is it?” Mr. Gupta chuckled, wiping tears from his eyes. “I never knew you were a ghost hunter, Dutta Babu!”

Mr. Dutta’s face flushed with indignation. “Laugh all you want, but I’m telling you, those spirits won’t be troubling us again.”

But the men were unconvinced. They knew Mr. Dutta well enough to see through his bravado, and while they didn’t believe his claim of exorcism, there was something about his story that struck a chord. The banyan tree had always been a place of mystery, and Mr. Dutta’s vivid description of the ghosts—naked and pale, their heads wrapped in cloth—was enough to plant a seed of doubt.

As the days passed, the story of Mr. Dutta’s encounter with the naked ghosts began to take on a life of its own. The townsfolk added their own embellishments, weaving the tale into the fabric of Kokrajhar’s folklore. Some said the ghosts were the spirits of British officers who had been executed during the struggle for independence. Others claimed they were the souls of criminals who had been hanged from the banyan tree’s branches. The more the story was told, the more elaborate it became, until it was nearly impossible to separate fact from fiction.

But while the legend grew, Mr. Dutta found himself becoming the subject of ridicule. His story of exorcism was met with disbelief, and the men at the corner began to tease him mercilessly. They would greet him with mock salutes, pretending to be terrified of his ghost-hunting prowess, and he would respond with a scowl, muttering under his breath about their lack of respect.

Yet, despite the teasing, Mr. Dutta took some comfort in the fact that his encounter had left a lasting impression on the town. The banyan tree, once a place of quiet contemplation, became a site of fear and fascination. Children dared each other to approach it after dark, and even the most skeptical adults found themselves avoiding the tree on moonless nights. The legend of the naked ghosts had become a part of Kokrajhar’s collective consciousness, a story that would be passed down from generation to generation.

Years passed, and Kokrajhar changed with the times. The small town grew, its population expanding as new families moved in. But the banyan tree remained, its roots digging deeper into the earth, its branches spreading wider across the sky.

The story of the naked ghosts persisted, though it was now told with a certain reverence, as if the passage of time had imbued it with an air of solemnity. Mr. Dutta, meanwhile, continued to hold court at the corner, though his stories had lost some of their luster. He had grown older, his once booming voice now softened by the years, and his tales, though still exaggerated, were met with more patience and less laughter.

But there was one group of people who knew the truth behind the legend—Mr. Hazarika, Mr. Rahman, and a select few of their colleagues at the college. The two young lecturers had revealed the secret to a handful of trusted friends, sharing the story of their prank with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. My father was among those who were privy to the truth, and as his son, I grew up hearing the real story of the naked ghosts—how a simple prank had turned into a legend that would outlive its creators.

It was a story that was shared with a wink and a nod, a reminder that sometimes, the most enduring tales are born not out of truth, but out of imagination and a well-timed joke. And so, while the people of Kokrajhar continued to believe in the presence of ghosts beneath the banyan tree, there were a few of us who knew better. We knew that the only spirits haunting that corner of the town were the ghosts of laughter and camaraderie, the echoes of a summer night long ago.

Even now, more than sixty years later, the legend of the naked ghosts is still told in Kokrajhar. The banyan tree, its roots entwined with the town’s history, remains a place of mystery and intrigue. On moonlit nights, when the wind whispers through the leaves, the people of Kokrajhar still speak in hushed tones about the spirits that dwell beneath its branches. Children are warned not to venture too close, and the older residents recall with a shiver the night Mr. Dutta encountered the ghosts.

But for those of us who know the truth, the story is a source of amusement rather than fear. It is a tale we tell with a smile, a reminder that even the most serious of legends can have their origins in something as simple as a prank. And as the years go by, the story only grows richer, its details more embellished, its characters more colorful.

So, the next time you find yourself in Kokrajhar, take a walk past the old banyan tree. Listen to the whispers of the leaves, feel the weight of the night air, and remember the story of Mr. Dutta and the naked ghosts. But don’t worry—there’s no need to run. After all, it was just a prank… or was it?

The Kiss of Death

 

A Night of Secrets and Seduction

The Assamese expatriates in New Jersey were the crème de la crème of Assam, a close-knit community of professionals who had carved out a slice of the American dream. Tonight's soirée at Mr. Dutta's palatial mansion was a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie. The sprawling estate was bathed in a golden glow, with opulent crystal chandeliers casting a soft, enchanting light over the extravagantly decorated rooms. The polished marble floors gleamed, and the air was alive with the elegant hum of classical music, punctuated by laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Women draped in exquisite sarees and gowns that shimmered like a sea of jewels moving gracefully through the crowd. Their hair was styled to perfection, and their jewelry sparkled with every movement, adding an air of glamour and sophistication. They sipped on fine wine, exchanging whispers and laughter, their eyes sparkling with secrets and stories. The men, sharp in tailored suits, clustered in animated conversation, their discussions on politics and economy as fervent as any high-stakes boardroom meeting, punctuated by the smooth swirl of Scotch in crystal tumblers.

The party spilled out onto the expansive terrace, where the night air was fragrant with the scent of blooming jasmine and the stars above seemed close enough to touch. It was here, under the starlit sky, that Mr. Sarmah, a recent arrival from California, stood laughing heartily amidst a group of friends. The scene was a picture of effortless elegance and joy—until it wasn't.

In a heartbeat, the atmosphere shifted. Mr. Sarmah's laughter turned to a strangled gasp. He clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain, and then he collapsed, hitting the polished floor with a sickening thud. A wave of shock rippled through the guests. Women screamed, their hands flying to their mouths, while men rushed forward, their faces a mask of disbelief.

Mr. Dutta, the ever-gracious host, sprang into action. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse as a hush fell over the crowd. Time seemed to stretch interminably. The chandeliers flickered, casting eerie shadows. The classical music, oblivious to the unfolding drama, continued its gentle serenade.

After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Dutta looked up, his face ashen, his voice a grave whisper that cut through the tension like a knife. "He's gone."

---

A Few Hours Before the Party

Mrs. Mohini Barua stood before her vanity, meticulously applying the finishing touches to her makeup. The reflection staring back at her was one of poise and perfection. Married to Rupam for the last fifteen years, they were both prominent professionals working on Wall Street. Mohini was a vision of elegance, her figure the envy of many women, and tonight she was determined to look her best. She knew Mr. Sarmah would be at the party, and she had old scores to settle.

Years ago in Assam, when she was an innocent middle-class girl, Mr. Sarmah had been her senior. One fateful night, while she was working alone in the computer lab, desperately trying to finish a programming assignment, Mr. Sarmah had attempted to molest her. She had managed to escape, running breathlessly back to her hostel. The shock of the incident left her traumatized, too timid to seek justice. In the conservative Assamese and Indian society, victims of sexual assault often found themselves blamed instead of the perpetrator. It was one person's word against another's, and Mohini had been too scared and ashamed to speak out. The incident haunted her for years, a dark shadow on her soul.

But now, things had changed. Mohini was no longer the docile and timid girl she once was. Today, she was a successful Wall Street banker, a woman of style and sophistication. Her past had forged her into a resilient and powerful force, and tonight, she intended to wield that power.

Tonight, she would transform into a femme fatale. As she slipped into a stunning black evening gown that accentuated her every curve, she felt a surge of confidence. Her eyes, lined with kohl, were dark and smoldering, a mirror to the fire burning within her. She fastened a pair of diamond earrings, their cold brilliance a stark contrast to the heat of her resolve.

Tonight, she was getting dressed for the kill. She would make Mr. Sarmah pay for what he had done all those years ago. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. As she slipped on her stilettos and gave herself one last approving glance in the mirror, she felt invincible.

With a final deep breath, Mohini walked out of the room, her heels clicking with determination on the polished floors. She joined her husband Rupam in their sleek black car, the engine purring as they set off for Mr. Dutta's party. As they drove through the city, the lights reflecting off the car's glossy surface, Rupam glanced at his wife and chuckled. "You look stunning, Mohini. You could literally kill the men with your looks tonight."

Mohini's eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she turned to him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Literally," she responded, her voice smooth and confident. The anticipation of the confrontation sent a thrill through her, sharpening her senses. The past had tormented her long enough. Tonight, she would face her tormentor and settle the score once and for all.

---

The Party

As the Baruas arrived at Mr. Dutta's grand mansion, the party was already in full swing. The estate was alive with the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the gentle strains of classical music. As Mohini and Rupam stepped through the ornate doors, all eyes turned towards them. Mohini, in her stunning black evening gown, immediately became the soul of the party. Although each lady looked gorgeous, it was Mohini who stole the show, her presence commanding attention and admiration.

Mohini gracefully moved through the crowd, her laughter and charm leaving a trail of admirers in her wake. She seemed to effortlessly float from one group to another, exchanging pleasantries and flashing her dazzling smile. However, when she spotted Mr. Sarmah across the room, her old anger bubbled up inside her. He was as obnoxious as he used to be, loud and boorish, oblivious to the disdain he provoked. But Mohini was determined not to show her fury. Instead, she masked her emotions with a serene smile.

Mr. Sarmah, noticing Mohini's approach, shifted uncomfortably. There was a flicker of unease in his eyes, a hint of the guilt he perhaps felt. Yet, Mohini greeted him as if she had completely forgotten the past, her demeanor warm and inviting. She subtly seduced him with her charm, engaging him in light banter, her laughter ringing like a melodious chime. Mr. Sarmah, despite his unease, was drawn in by her allure, unable to resist her.

As the evening progressed, Mohini saw her opportunity. With a coy smile and a whisper in his ear, she lured Mr. Sarmah out of the party and into the garden. The moonlight bathed the garden in a silvery glow, the air fragrant with the scent of jasmine. Leading him to a secluded spot, she turned to face him, her eyes dark and inviting. Mr. Sarmah, enthralled by her, moved closer, their faces inches apart.

In that moment, Mohini's lips met his in a lingering kiss. Unknown to him, her lipstick was laced with peanut butter oil, a carefully calculated weapon, she knew from her college days that Mr. Sarmah had a history of allergic reactions from peanut butter. She pulled back, her eyes glinting with satisfaction. "I should get back to the party," she said with a playful smile, leaving him breathless and dazed.

Mohini returned to the party, her heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline and vindication. She mingled with the guests, her demeanor as radiant as ever, while a sense of anticipation simmered beneath her calm exterior. It wasn't long before the effects of the peanut allergy began to manifest. Mr. Sarmah, who had rejoined the party, suddenly turned pale, his breathing becoming labored. He staggered, clutching at his throat as panic spread through the room.

Women screamed, their faces contorted with horror, while men rushed to his aid. Mr. Dutta, the host, was the first to reach him. He knelt beside Mr. Sarmah, his fingers searching for a pulse. The room seemed to hold its breath as Mr. Dutta's face grew pale. He looked up, his voice heavy with the finality of the moment. "He's gone."

After the party

The eventful party had come to a grim end, the laughter and music replaced by the wailing sirens of ambulances and police cars. Mr. Sarmah's sudden death cast a pall over Mr. Dutta's mansion, transforming the once-glamorous soirée into a scene of investigation and hushed conversations. Guests were questioned, and statements were taken as the night stretched into the early hours of the morning.

It was only after the police and paramedics had departed, their grim tasks completed, that Mohini and Rupam found themselves alone in their sleek black car, driving back home through the now-quiet streets of New Jersey. The city lights flickered past them, casting fleeting shadows inside the car. An eerie silence hung between them, heavy with unspoken words.

Rupam glanced sideways at his wife, who stared out of the window, her face illuminated intermittently by the passing streetlights. He could sense the turmoil within her, the storm of emotions swirling behind her calm exterior. Finally, he broke the silence.

"What's on your mind, Mohini?" he asked gently, his voice breaking through the quiet hum of the car engine.

Mohini turned to him, her eyes reflecting a mix of resolve and vulnerability. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to unburden her soul. "Rupam," she began, her voice steady despite the gravity of her confession. "I need to tell you something about tonight. About Mr. Sarmah."

Rupam's grip tightened on the steering wheel, but he remained silent, his eyes focused on the road ahead, urging her to continue.

"Years ago, back in Assam, he tried to molest me," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she recalled the painful memory. "I was too scared and ashamed to do anything about it then. But tonight, I saw my chance to make him pay for what he did. I put peanut butter oil on my lipstick, knowing he had a severe allergy. When I kissed him, I knew it would trigger a reaction."

Rupam's eyes widened with shock, and he pulled the car over to the side of the road. Turning to face her, he saw the raw emotion etched on her face. For a moment, there was only silence as he processed her confession.

"Mohini," he said finally, his voice soft but firm. "What you did was... extreme. But I understand why you did it. He hurt you deeply, and you carried that pain for so long. You felt powerless then, but tonight you took back control."

Tears welled up in Mohini's eyes as she listened to her husband's words. "Rupam, I never wanted to involve you in this. I didn't plan on telling you, but I couldn't keep it from you any longer."

Rupam reached out, taking her hand in his. "You don't have to go through this alone, Mohini. I'm here for you. I support you, no matter what. What happened to you was unjust, and while I wish there could have been another way, I understand your need for closure."

As they resumed their drive home, a sense of relief washed over Mohini. She had feared Rupam's reaction, but his support gave her strength. She knew the path ahead wouldn't be easy, but with him by her side, she felt she could face whatever came next.

---

The following week, the police investigation concluded. The official report stated that Mr. Sarmah's death was accidental, a result of peanut butter poisoning. There was no evidence of foul play, and the case was closed.

Agiocochook: The Home of the great spirit

The Wind's Whimsy

“Damn it. There she goes—my prospect for a much-needed rest,” Prabal muttered, his voice mingling with the erratic wind of Mt. Washington, the tallest peak in the northeastern USA, standing at a modest 6,288 feet. Though dwarfed by the Himalayan standards, the mountain's reputation for capricious weather was legendary. On this fateful November evening, the mountain seemed determined to challenge Prabal's resolve.

Prabal watched as his tent, a flimsy sanctuary against the elements, was unceremoniously whisked away by an invisible hand. It was a sight that should have induced panic, but instead, a bemused resignation settled over him. This was just another twist in the tempestuous tale his life had become.

A Pilgrim's Journey

He had embarked on this pilgrimage to escape the cold war brewing at home. His marriage, once a haven, had become a battlefield of misunderstandings and silent accusations. The journey to New Hampshire had been long—a nine-hour overnight drive through landscapes that gradually shifted from the mundane to the magnificent.

As dawn broke, New Hampshire unveiled its treasures: rolling hills that shimmered with morning dew, snow-capped peaks that gleamed like ancient sentinels, streams of crystal-clear water that sang as they tumbled over colorful rocks, and forests that stood in solemn preparation for winter. This was the same area where he and his wife had once spent a blissful week, their hearts in harmony with nature's rhythms.

A particular stream captivated him with its clarity, and he decided to follow it to its source, a symbolic act of seeking clarity for his own troubled soul. GPS indicated a two-day hike to reach the source and return, a prospect that filled him with a sense of purpose. He parked his car, gathered his supplies, and set off.  

The Ascent

The hike was arduous, the path strewn with silver-grey boulders that glistened with quartz. The whispering wind and the stream’s murmur were his only companions. The climb was steep, at times nearly vertical, but he welcomed the physical exertion. It mirrored the internal struggle he was determined to overcome.

As he ascended, the vegetation transformed from alpine to tundra, the trees giving way to bush-like plants. The landscape expanded before him—rolling hills, deep gorges, glacial lakes, meadows, and forests, all remnants of an ancient ice age. It was a scene of primordial beauty that resonated with his primal need for peace.

The higher he climbed, the more treacherous the path became. Icy patches concealed under a thin layer of snow threatened his footing. At one point, he nearly lost his balance, saved only by a quick grab at a nearby rock. His muscles ached from the effort, and his breath came in ragged gasps as the air thinned.

By evening, he reached the stream's source, a small lake fed by underground reservoirs and melting snow. He began to set up his tent, but fate had other plans. A fierce gust of wind snatched the tent from his grasp, sending it spiraling into a deep gorge. Left with only his sleeping bag and a few provisions, he prepared for a long, cold night.

The Whispering Wind

Darkness fell swiftly, bringing with it a biting chill. The sky, a canvas of twinkling stars, offered little warmth. His phone showed 21 degrees Fahrenheit, a perilous temperature given the strong wind. Prabal knew he had to stay awake to avoid hypothermia.

He attempted to light a fire, but his lighter broke. Huddled in his sleeping bag, he sipped brandy sparingly, knowing he couldn't afford to get drunk and fall asleep, that would surely lead to hypothermia and his freeze to death. He gazed at the stars, thoughts drifting to his wife and children, a pang of regret mixing with the cold.

As he knelt by the stream to splash water on his face, he sensed a presence. Startled, he reached for his hunting knife.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I am Aha-ka-toon-ka—The Whispering Wind—of the Abenaki Indian Tribe. I am a medicine man, here to collect plants that thrive in the night. I saw your flashlight and thought someone might need help. You have nothing to fear from me,” the man replied.

Prabal was stunned. A person, let alone a Native American medicine man, was the last thing he expected to find on this remote mountainside. He had never even heard of an Abenaki reservation in this area.

Aha-ka-toon-ka, with his long hair, weather-beaten face, aquiline nose, and traditional attire, looked like a figure from another time. His presence exuded calm and kindness, dispelling Prabal’s fear.

“We have always been here, my son, and our spirits will always roam these mountains. In the great circle of life, no one enters and no one exits,” Aha-ka-toon-ka said.

“I see you’re struggling to light a fire. Without one, you won’t survive the night. Our Native American skills will come in handy.”

Prabal watched in awe as Aha-ka-toon-ka lit a fire using ancient tools. As he worked, he chanted an Abenaki hymn:

"Kassiwi Niona Enna Odakozik Chibaio Agaskwikok

Kizos Aalakws Nionakiya Alnobanogan Nionakiya"

The hymn, mingling with the wind's whispers and the stream's murmur, created a mystical atmosphere. “It’s almost eerie yet wonderful,” Prabal thought.

Wisdom of the Ancients

The fire’s warmth was a blessing. Prabal offered Aha-ka-toon-ka some brandy, but he refused. “My son, you don’t need intoxication to stay warm. The strength and conviction of your heart can provide all the energy you need. Conviction alone will keep your mind warm against this chilly gust or the gust tormenting your soul. Just listen to your heart and act on it.”

“How does he know? Is he reading my mind?” Prabal wondered.

“My son, consider me a reflection of your destiny and thoughts. Your thoughts shape your world. You are a slave to them. Listen to your heart to free yourself.”

Aha-ka-toon-ka’s words resonated deeply. “When in trouble, we Native Americans look to nature for answers. Look at the stars, listen to the wind’s rhythm, the stream’s flow, the eagle’s flight. Wah-kan-taw-wah created all nature’s elements in perfect harmony. The book of nature is the greatest source of wisdom. It has undergone countless revisions since creation. Read its signs to find answers to your troubles.”

Prabal found himself absorbing Aha-ka-toon-ka’s wisdom like a parched land soaking up rain. The words resonated with a truth that transcended time and culture. He felt as if a veil had been lifted, allowing him to see the interconnectedness of all things. The rhythm of the wind, the song of the stream, and the dance of the stars were all part of a larger symphony, one that he had been too preoccupied to notice.

“You see, my son, the answers are always there, woven into the fabric of nature itself. We must only learn to read them,” Aha-ka-toon-ka continued. “The stars above us tell stories of endurance and hope. The winds whisper tales of change and resilience. The waters remind us of life's flow, its cycles of birth, growth, and renewal.”

As they conversed, the sky began to shift. The inky blackness of night was interrupted by a shimmering curtain of light. The aurora borealis, with its ethereal dance of greens, pinks, and purples, spread across the heavens like a celestial tapestry.

The Aurora's Embrace

Prabal’s breath caught in his throat. The northern lights were more than just a natural phenomenon; they were a beacon of hope, a visual symphony that filled his heart with a profound sense of wonder and possibility. The colors undulated and twisted, painting the night with luminous splendor.

“Behold the aurora borealis,” Aha-ka-toon-ka said softly. “It is the Earth’s way of reminding us that even in the darkest times, there is beauty and hope. The lights dance in the sky, just as our spirits must dance through life’s trials.”

Prabal felt tears prick his eyes as he watched the magnificent display. The lights seemed to reach into his soul, washing away the grime of doubt and despair. He felt a renewal, a rebirth of spirit, as if the universe itself was assuring him that everything would be alright.

In that moment, the wisdom of the ancients, the lessons of nature, and the beauty of the aurora combined to forge a new clarity within him. He understood that his struggles were part of a larger journey, one that required patience, faith, and an open heart.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been watching the wonders in the sky, but when he turned to thank Aha-ka-toon-ka for the most wonderful words of wisdom he had ever learned – he realized that Aha-ka-toon-ka was gone.

Aha-ka-toon-ka disappeared as mysteriously just as he had appeared. From nowhere into nowhere.

By then, the dawn had broken and the sun appeared in the eastern horizon.

The Descent and Home Coming:

As Prabal embarked on his descent, a euphoric sense of enlightenment and hope swelled within him, like a symphony of liberation. The encounter with Aha-ka-toon-ka, that enigmatic apparition, lingered in his mind - a hallucination, a figment of his imagination, or a glimpse of the unknown? 

The unforgiving vastness of the wilderness, where temperatures plummeted to 21 degrees Fahrenheit and winds howled like a chorus of banshees, yet he survived without hypothermia,  had yielded its secrets to him. The impossible had become possible, as if the gods themselves had conspired to revive the ancient wisdom of the Abenaki tribe, thought to be extinct. The medicine man's words still resonated within him: "We native Americans read the book of nature for solutions when turmoil besets us."As he drove, the silence was punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine, a gentle accompaniment to his racing thoughts.

 

Reaching home after 9 hours of driving, he beheld his wife, her beauty frozen in contemplation, her gaze lost in the mirror's silvered glass. Was she seeking answers in the labyrinthine corridors of her own soul?

Prabal approached her with the stealth of a summer breeze, his arms enfolding her in a warmth that had long been absent. She reciprocated, her body yielding to his embrace like a leaf surrendering to the autumn wind. They stood thus, suspended in the silence, their hearts beating in tandem, the rhythm of their love rekindled like a flame that had never truly flickered out. Or perhaps, it was all just a product of his fevered imagination, a chimera born of solitude and the whispers of the devil in his mind. Yet, Agiocochook, the Home of the Great Spirit, had stirred something deep within him, reviving the symphony of their love, a harmony that would forever resonate through the chambers of his soul.

The Whispers of Barapani

 

Ranjan’s story

As Ranjan felt the cool wind brush against his chin while cruising on the winding roads of the Guwahati-Shillong highway, he couldn't help but wonder if the breeze could conceal the sweat and nervousness raging inside him. The verdant hills of Meghalaya stretched out around him, cloaked in mist, their lush greenery a stark contrast to the turmoil within his heart. He was on his way to Barapani to meet Sangeeta, the woman who had held his heart since their college days. The Royal Enfield beneath him wasn’t his own; he had borrowed it from a friend, hoping to maintain the illusion of success. He wanted Sangeeta to believe he was still serving in the army.

Since his dishonorable discharge from the Indian Army, Ranjan seldom bothered with haircuts or shaves. But for this occasion, he had groomed himself to resemble the proud Sergeant Major he once was, before his court-martial for refusing to carry out a Colonel's order to conduct a fake encounter in an insurgency-ridden area.

The memories of his past swirled around him as he rode, the rhythmic thrum of the motorbike a steady companion. He recalled his college days with Sangeeta in the mid-nineties, a time of both love and strife in a politically turbulent Assam. Their romance had blossomed amidst the chaos, a beacon of hope in a world of mistrust between the Bodos and the Assamese. Sangeeta's parents, however, disapproved of their relationship and forced her into an arranged marriage with an Assamese bureaucrat. Heartbroken, Ranjan joined the Assam Regiment, where he distinguished himself as a courageous soldier until his conscience led to his court-martial and dishonorable discharge. He could not bring himself to "eliminate a few civilians labeled as insurgents" just to increase the "kill count" as ordered by his Colonel.

Ranjan never married. After his discharge, he faced financial difficulties and adopted a disheveled appearance. Despite his own struggles, he kept track of Sangeeta, learning that her life had also been hard. Her husband, an alcoholic, routinely abused her and was eventually removed from service on corruption charges. Sangeeta had to take on multiple odd jobs to support her family.

The road twisted and turned through the hills, revealing glimpses of the serene Barapani Lake below, its waters shimmering under the afternoon sun. Although Ranjan had little to offer, he carried a bundle of notes carefully concealed in his duffle bag, hoping to lend a helping hand to Sangeeta. The thought of seeing her again filled him with a mix of excitement and anxiety, each mile bringing him closer to a long-awaited reunion.

Today, he looked very much like the proud soldier he once was, adorned with numerous service medals. He didn't want to burden Sangeeta with his woes, knowing she had enough of her own.

As the restaurant overlooking Barapani Lake approached, Ranjan could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The scenic beauty of the lake, surrounded by rolling hills and kissed by a gentle breeze, was a fitting backdrop for the emotions surging within him. The thought of seeing Sangeeta again, of perhaps rekindling their lost romance, made his heart race with a mixture of hope and fear.

---

Sangeeta’s story

Sangeeta stood in front of her mirror, carefully draping a beautiful mekhela chador around her, its delicate embroidery a testament to her Assamese heritage. She applied makeup with practiced precision, accentuating her striking features. Despite the strain etched into her face from years of struggle, she still radiated a remarkable beauty. Her heart fluttered with nervous anticipation; today, she would meet Ranjan, the man who had never left her thoughts.

She had borrowed a car from a friend for the occasion, complete with a driver, to maintain the illusion of a successful bureaucrat’s wife. Her own car was old and unreliable, and the thought of Ranjan seeing through her ruse made her stomach churn. She wanted to appear strong and prosperous, not weighed down by her own troubles. Today, she would conceal her woes behind a facade of elegance and poise.

As the car wound its way through the mist-covered hills of Meghalaya, Sangeeta gazed out at the breathtaking scenery. The verdant landscape, shrouded in a soft haze, seemed almost magical, a stark contrast to the turmoil of her life. The mist swirled around the peaks, lending an air of mystery and romance to the journey. She clutched her purse tightly, within which a bundle of notes lay hidden. She hoped to offer this small help to Ranjan, unaware that he, too, had come prepared to support her.

As the car approached the restaurant overlooking Barapani Lake, Sangeeta took a deep breath, steadying her racing heart. The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, its serene waters a mirror to the sky. The picturesque setting, with its rolling hills and gentle breeze, felt like a scene from a dream. She wanted everything to be perfect, to show Ranjan that she had weathered life's storms with grace and dignity.

Stepping out of the car, she smoothed her mekhela chador and composed herself. Today, she was determined to be the confident, beautiful woman Ranjan had fallen in love with all those years ago. She didn’t want to burden him with her own sorrows, knowing he had endured so much himself. As she walked towards the restaurant, her heart pounded with anticipation, each step bringing her closer to a long-awaited reunion. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, the misty hills providing a romantic backdrop to the emotions swirling within her.

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The Reunion

Inside the restaurant, their eyes met, and for a moment, the years of separation melted away. They walked towards each other, their steps hesitant but filled with hope. When they finally stood face to face, there were no words, just a shared understanding of the struggles and heartache they had endured.

They sat down and began to talk, their conversation naturally drifting back to their college days. They laughed as they reminisced about their favorite tea stall near the campus, where they spent countless hours over cups of steaming chai, debating politics and dreaming of a future together. They recalled the cultural festivals where they danced to the rhythm of Bihu songs, and the serene evenings by the Brahmaputra River, where they would watch the sunset and share their dreams.

Their romance had been a respite from the surrounding chaos, filled with tender moments and secret rendezvous. They remembered the stolen kisses behind the old library, the whispered promises under the banyan tree, and the handwritten letters slipped into each other's bags, carrying words of love and longing.

But when the conversation shifted to the present, the atmosphere subtly changed. Sangeeta spoke of her husband’s supposed success, glossing over the reality of his disgrace and her own struggles. Ranjan, in turn, talked about his thriving business ventures, hiding the truth of his financial woes and the dishonorable discharge from the army. Each knew the other was lying, but neither wanted to shatter the fragile illusion, understanding that the truth might wound the other's pride.

As they chatted, Ranjan subtly diverted Sangeeta’s attention to a scenic view outside the window. Seizing the moment, he slipped the bundle of notes he had brought into her purse, careful not to draw attention to the act. It was a small gesture, but one he hoped would ease her burdens just a little.

When the sun began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the lake, Sangeeta looked at Ranjan with a wistful smile. “Do you remember how we used to ride your bike back in college?” she asked. “Would you take me for a ride, just like old times?”

Ranjan’s heart swelled with nostalgia. “Of course,” he replied, standing up and extending his hand to her. They walked out to the borrowed Royal Enfield, the air filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the distant calls of birds returning to their nests.

As they rode through the misty hills of Meghalaya, the wind in their hair and the hum of the motorbike beneath them, Sangeeta felt a sense of freedom she hadn’t experienced in years. She held onto Ranjan tightly, the warmth of his back a comforting presence. Under the cover of the ride, she deftly slipped the bundle of notes she had brought into the duffle bag slung over Ranjan’s shoulder, ensuring he wouldn’t notice until later.

When they returned to the restaurant, the twilight sky painted in shades of pink and purple, they both felt an unspoken bond had been renewed. They knew they couldn’t change the past or their current circumstances, but they had given each other something invaluable: hope and a reminder of better days.

As they said their goodbyes, there was a sense of peace between them. They had lied to protect each other’s dignity, but in their actions, they had shown the depth of their care. With a final embrace, they parted ways, each carrying a piece of the other’s strength and a renewed spirit to face the challenges ahead.

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The Ballad

In the quiet of the twilight, 

Two hearts found solace anew, 

Beneath the misty Meghalayan hills, 

Where love's old whispers grew.

Though paths may part and dreams may fade, 

In this serene, enchanting land, 

Their souls entwined, forever bound, 

By the touch of a loving hand.