The Brahma Chhal of Rampur

The bustling village of Rampur was shrouded in the silent mist of a peculiarly cold winter night. The relentless waves of Himalayan winters had driven its few hundred souls to retreat to their houses and hatchets, leaving the unfortunate duo—Manjunath and Rangilla—out on their own to brave through these ruthless midwinter gusts.

“Pardesi babu, it’s pitiable these folks close their shops so soon,” Rangilla said at last, breaking the hush. “A tea at this moment would have been heavenly.”

“I agree, Rangilla, but these folks don’t seem particularly inclined to serve us today,” Manjunath replied.

“On second thought, it is well that we tread hastily through this forsaken place before midnight.” His tone fell to a whisper “They say that he dwells amidst these crooked trees; his gaze once fell on a passerby, whose breaths did he cease.”

In the short time that he had known him, Manjunath was oblivious to this poet within Rangilla, though he knew well the man’s fondness for superstition. A chill climbed Manjunath’s spine, then faded, leaving curiosity in its wake.

“Who is this hero of your poetry?” Manjunath chuckled- much to Rangilla’s annoyance.

“Not a hero, babuji, but an abominable spirit.”

Manjunath slipped into a brief, ill-timed laugh at the mention of the supernatural, then noticed the offense gather on Rangilla’s face.

“You are a pardesi babu; it is easy for you to discard such beliefs,” Rangilla said evenly. “But our faith rests on what we have seen. How does one cast off tales narrated by his own eyes?”

“I apologize, Rangilla,” Manjunath said, swallowing his mirth. “If you don’t mind, I suppose I should also be party to such folklores. Besides, it would serve as a great pastime for forlorn travelers like us.”

Rangilla studied his companion’s steady, inquisitive gaze. Manjunath was a decent man, an educated sahib, honorable in his dealings. At the spur of the moment, Rangilla hadn’t the heart to deny him.

“Not a pastime tale, babuji, but the truth hushed within these trees,” he whispered. “The spirit of Brahma Chhal, that wanders under the dark shroud of night.”

“Brahma Chhal?” The name sent a shiver through Manjunath.

“Yes, babuji. Many accounts exist, yet all point to a petty official who died in these woods—unnoticed by the village. The absence of last rites, and an immense thirst for authority and admiration, turned his once-benevolent spirit into a Brahma Chhal, a being that thrives on reverence. He calls to heedless travelers in the voice of someone they respect, enchants them, and at last entraps them.”

A moment of silence prevailed as the fantastic tale ended with a dramatic twist. Manjunath was enthralled; his silence became a mere façade to hide the flurry of thoughts running through his mind.

“Mind you, Rangilla, I’ve witnessed many cultures with their vivid folklores,” he said at length. “Yet this is among the most enthralling. Still, I assume you’ve never encountered such a creature?”

Rangilla immediately pulled out an iron amulet fastened with a thread around his neck. “With this, no evil can befall me,” he said. “It is as sacred as the river Ganges.” He murmured a prayer and slipped it back beneath his collar. Manjunath watched, unwilling to quarrel with a friend, and the conversation ebbed away.

***

It had been over ten minutes since Rangilla vanished into the trees for some personal business. As Manjunath’s wristwatch marched on, a quiver ran down his spine. Clouds veiled the moon; darkness pooled on the path; even the usual brisk hum of the night withdrew into silence.

Just then a shadow arose from the trees, metamorphosing into familiarity beneath the thin light.

“I apologize, babuji, for the delay. Some things can never be averted,” Rangilla grinned, exposing tobacco-stained teeth.

“Perhaps alcohol wasn’t the best partner in this strenuous journey?” Manjunath said, and Rangilla’s grin vanished in an instant.

“You don’t understand, pardesi babu. I went to fetch these,” he said, displaying a bundle of twigs. “My son is suffering from fever; a potion brewed with these will set him right. You saw me picking them too, didn’t you?”

Manjunath was perplexed at his last comment, but before he could answer, Rangilla started marching toward the village.

“Hurry, pardesi babu—we must make it before midnight!” Manjunath couldn’t help but snicker as his co-traveller trotted ahead, arms moving with the drama of a soldier in a flag march. However true to his promise, they managed to reach the village outskirts just prior to midnight.

“Babuji, I have one more task. Go on without me,” Rangilla said, then hesitated. “Also, if you don’t mind, may I have my amulet back?”

Manjunath was perplexed. “Which amulet?”

“The one you borrowed while I searched for medicine in the woods?” Disbelief creased Rangilla’s face.

 “I think you’re too drunk to make sense,” Manjunath said gently. “Go home and rest. I neither saw you picking sticks, nor did I ask for the amulet.”

“It can’t be... Babu sahib. If not you, then…” The color drained from Rangilla’s cheeks; terror gathered in his eyes.

“What is it, Rangilla? All well?” But he stood rigid, his shivers testifying to his dread.

“Babu sahib, please rush home. Don’t worry about me, but you shouldn’t stay here any longer,” he said, voice quivering, and without waiting for a response he rushed toward his house.

Manjunath stood baffled, then brushed it off as the peculiarity of a drunk man. Weariness did the rest; he hurried home and surrendered to sleep.

The next morning, a hue and cry took the small hamlet by storm. Still in his nightgown, Manjunath stepped into the street to inquire, and the answer sent a chill through his spine. In the jungle, at the spot where Rangilla had gone for the twigs, lay his contorted remains. His lifeless gaze rested on the bundle of twigs beside him, wrapped neatly with his iron amulet.

-The End