The Veiled Woman of Kolkata

Kolkata, rightly acknowledged as the city of joy, is a major metropolitan of India which prides itself as a hotspot of various cultures and inspirations, as it rose from a strong colonial influence to establish itself as a mixture of both hemispheres and a cosmopolitan which has created a distinct identity as an amalgamation of a multitude of people. Famed for its culinary mastery and remarkable architecture, it manages to hides some dark mysteries within its folds, exhibiting its misfortune to some ill-fated.

***

Year- 1996

Mr. Bhattacharya was a man of science, a firm believer in the evidentiary sciences behind the myth of paranormal, he was closely associated with many science clubs and awareness groups during his college days itself. A bank employee and a family man, his profile was amenable to any other common man you would see walking down the streets of Kolkata.

A man of prolific caliber and a perfectionist to the core, he would usually stay in his small cabin after his usual office hours to work on his personal projects or complete any other work in the bliss of solitude...

One such day, a Friday perhaps, he found himself too engrossed in his personal endeavors, eventually losing the track of time only to be brought back into this realm by the office runner, who was growing impatient by each passing moment.

“Sir, its already past 8… I am awaited at home” He pleaded. Mr. Bhattacharya couldn’t bear to give troubles to the poor man just for the sake of his own convenience and so he agreed but not before getting a piece of advice from the aged man himself.

“Sir, it’s Amavasya tonight… a night of spirits and misfortune. Please tread with care” The man whispered as he locked doors of the office.

“Don’t worry about me Shambhu… just pray that I don’t encounter a human, it’s worse than a spirit” Mr. Bhattacharya waved off his friend a good night and started his arduous walk back to his home.

The way to his home involved a brisk walk through the busy streets of Kolkata and the famed Vidyasagar bridge or commonly known as the Hooghly Bridge. It gave him some peculiar nostalgic joy to march against the cold gusts of this great river.

That day, the chill in the air seemed sharper than usual. As was his tradition every Friday, Mr. Bhattacharya decided to stop by old Ramu’s roadside snack stand for his favorite treat: a plate of sizzling tela-bhaja paired with a steaming cup of masala chai. The combination, with Kolkata’s misty winter weaving around him, was a ritual he dearly cherished.

“One chai and some fresh tela-bhaja, Ramu,” Mr. Bhattacharya called out, rubbing his hands together to keep warm.

Ramu, who was bundled up in his usual winter layers and his signature monkey cap, nodded with a toothy grin. He moved swiftly, preparing the delicacies with a practiced hand.

As Ramu worked, Mr. Bhattacharya leaned in, trying to spark a conversation. “So, Ramu, how’s life treating you these days?”

Ramu shrugged, his voice carrying a weary edge. “Same as always, saab. Just trying to get through one day at a time.”

Mr. Bhattacharya chuckled softly. “Aren’t we all?”

The comment made Ramu smile, though faintly, as he placed the hot, crispy tela-bhaja on a plate.

“And your grandchildren?” Mr. Bhattacharya asked. “You mentioned last week they just started school.”

“Oh, they’re doing well, saab! The boy’s getting naughtier by the day,” Ramu said with a laugh, his pride evident.

The first bite of the crispy tela-bhaja made Mr. Bhattacharya close his eyes in delight. He followed it with a sip of the chai, the warmth spreading through him like a comforting embrace. “Ah, Ramu, this is divine! You’ve outdone yourself today.”

Ramu’s face lit up. “You’re too kind, saab. It’s just what I do.”

“I’m serious,” Mr. Bhattacharya insisted, pointing at him with the steel glass of chai. “You should think about opening a proper shop someday. You’ve got a gift.”

Ramu laughed, shaking his head. “A roadside stall is all I can handle, saab. But hearing this from you makes my day.”

They continued chatting, the warmth of their conversation cutting through the cold. As the minutes passed, Mr. Bhattacharya decided to steer the discussion in a different direction.

“By the way, Ramu,” he said, lowering his voice slightly, “have you heard about the recent disappearances on the bridge? People are saying strange things about it.”

Ramu froze for a moment, his expression clouding. He glanced nervously up and down the deserted street before leaning in. “Saab, I don’t know anything… and I didn’t see anything. But I’ll tell you this—it’s not the work of a human.”

Mr. Bhattacharya raised an eyebrow. “Not human? What are you talking about?”

Ramu whispered, his voice barely audible over the hiss of his frying oil. “They say it’s a Nishi. A spirit that calls out to people in familiar voices. If you answer before it calls three times, it takes you away… forever.”

“A Nishi, really?” Mr. Bhattacharya smirked. “Come on, Ramu. These are just old wives’ tales to scare people.”

Ramu looked hurt but didn’t back down. “You educated people can laugh all you want, Saab. But ask anyone around here—they’ll tell you. Just… just don’t answer if someone calls your name at night. Not until the third time. Promise me that.”

“Ramu, I’ll tell you what’s scarier than a Nishi—the fact that whoever’s behind this nonsense is still out there, taking advantage of people’s fear.”

With that, Mr. Bhattacharya drained the last of his chai, tucked his scarf tighter around his neck, and rose to leave. “Thanks for the company, Ramu. Stay warm.”

“Be careful, Saab,” Ramu called after him, his voice tinged with worry.

The city’s usual hum seemed unusually subdued as Mr. Bhattacharya resumed his arduous walk toward the bridge, his thoughts lingering on Ramu’s words. A hushed laugh escaped his lips as he pondered upon the ridiculous advice. He glanced at his watch, it already half past 10... it was incredibly late for him, especially in this bitter cold which gave him all the more reason to quicken his pace and he, thus, managed to reach the bridge well before 11- a new feat in his records…

He shuddered as a gust of cold air rose up from the river, bringing with it another layer of mist that engulfed the bridge, which already seemed desolate without a single soul upon it.

“Strange... I wonder what’s troubling people from being out on streets today?” Mr. Bhattacharya wondered as he stuffed his hands into his pockets and scurried his way across, his footsteps resounding loudly against the metal underneath them in the silence of the night.

But then, gentler than the water flowing beneath came a hushed call from behind.

“Shyamu…” It was his mother’s voice. The recognition sent jitters down his spine afterall it had been years since her demise. Mr. Bhattacharya froze in his track, his heart lurching wildly. It was against everything he had believed so far yet, in the gush of silence that followed, he sought composure in the belief that his mind ought to play tricks upon him at this hour. The thought helped him to regain self-control as he resumed his march, albeit with jittery steps.

But then another call came, in another hushed whisper- “Shyamu… It’s been so long since I saw you, child” His mother’s caressing voice echoed in his ears. His feet froze, beads of sweat flowed down his forehead and his mind lacked sheer capacity to think and in this frenzy he whipped around, partly hoping to find humans at play but the sight was enough to drag any man out of his wits. There stood, wrapped in a spotless white saree, a woman. Her face was obscured by sheer darkness save her bloodshot pair of eyes that shone despite the utter lack of illumination. Her disheveled hair and her groans of rage were probably the most dreadful sight that ever befell any man. Ramu’s words of caution reverberated in his mind- Just don’t turn back… he had just broken the only rule to stay safe and now it was the time to pay for his insolence.

Bhattacharya shrieked and with quivering feet whipped back, whipped around and ran towards the end of the bridge. This time he refused to look back, using all his strength to just get as far as possible from this apparition but no matter how fast he ran, he knew she was getting close for he could hear, clearly in the unholy silence of the night, a pair of anklets… the jingling, which grew louder by each passing moment, widened the void that rose within his chest.

But then, in an instant, it ceased. Mr. Bhattacharya, whose feet jogged relentlessly till now, had usurped every iota of strength that remained within his body… the silence behind him was a heavenly relief to the distraught man. He looked around, he was finally at the end of the bridge.

“What happened saab?” The voice pierced the momentary silence and threw Bhattacharya into a heart-wrenching shriek. It was a woman, her face hidden behind a veil, stirring the boiling pot of tea in her make-shift shack.

“T-there… o-on the bridge… S-she- I saw her!” Mr. Bhattacharya cried, his words struggling to make way out of his throat.

“Don’t worry saab, you are safe here… here have this” She poured him a cup of tea. The warmth of tea coupled with a company in this nerve racking solitude helped bhattacharya to regain his wits.

“I saw her on the bridge, she called out to me and then-” He paused, still unable to believe it all.

“Happens to many at this hour sahib… the voice of loved ones makes it irresistible to look back.” The woman’s lips curled into a smile as she spoke throwing Mr. Bhattacharya into a midst of unnerving silence. He wished to reach home as soon as possible, to somehow end this bizarre occurrence.

“You know sahib; you shouldn’t have looked back… even if it was your mother calling” The woman whispered. Mr. Bhattacharya’s blood ran cold at her words...

“H-How do you know… I-it was my mother’s voice” His voice quivered. The lady fell into a fit of unnerving laughter at his query.

Suddenly a gust of wind lifted her veil, revealing those same pair of bloodshot eyes and an absolutely horrifying countenance. Her hands were a pair of rotten flesh, ending in abnormally long fingernails. Mr. Bhattacharya fell cold at the sight, freezing at his very place.

And in the cold city of Kolkata, shrouded in the midst of darkness, no-one heard the blood-curdling screams of a man, so cruelly met with his end…

-The End