Om Jindal
Part 1 – The Transfer Order
Ooty, 1895.
The train hissed as it wound up the Nilgiri mountains, its wheels screeching around narrow curves, as though the very hills resisted intrusion. From his open window, Devendra Nath Rai watched thick clouds drape over eucalyptus trees and tea plantations like a shroud. The air had a peculiar chill—unlike the searing plains of Madras Presidency, where he’d spent most of his career.
He was thirty-two, a quiet man with neat handwriting and a taste for facts. The British admired him for his efficiency; Indians called him “Sarkari Sahib” behind his back. But even he couldn’t shake the unease that came with the transfer order he’d received two weeks ago:
You are hereby appointed Assistant Settlement Officer, Nilgiris District. Immediate posting to Rosenthal Estate.
The name sounded like an echo. Rosenthal.
He asked his superior once, who waved it off. “Some colonial madman’s property. Abandoned. The records are all dust. Just make sure the land survey is updated and the place doesn’t become a haven for squatters. You’ll enjoy Ooty—cool air, fine walks, pretty hills.”
But Devendra wasn’t so sure.
The horse cart waiting for him at the station bore a grim-faced driver who spoke little. As they passed the manicured gardens of British bungalows, a silence fell between them, broken only when they turned off the main road onto a gravel path thick with weeds.
“That road leads to the Rosenthal place,” the driver said, not meeting his eyes. “I’ll drop you at the forest edge. After that… it walks with you.”
Devendra frowned. “Who walks with me?”
The man looked startled. “No one, sir. Just a saying.”
By the time Devendra reached the gate, the fog had thickened into a cold wall. The once-grand Rosenthal Manor loomed like a ghost. Its walls were streaked with moss, the windows shuttered tight, and the once-red tiles were broken like old teeth. A stone raven sat atop the gatepost, wings open in silent alarm.
Inside, the caretaker—a stooped Anglo-Indian named Joseph—showed him around with tired gestures.
“No one’s lived here in decades, sahib. But the walls hold memory, they say.”
Devendra set his trunk down and glanced around the drawing room. Dust lay thick on everything, but the air carried a faint scent of eucalyptus and something else—metallic, old.
“There’s a study upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes, but locked. Master Rosenthal kept it so. Key was never found.”
Devendra raised an eyebrow. “Rosenthal disappeared, didn’t he?”
Joseph nodded. “In 1856. Just after the monsoons. Went out to the forest. Never returned. They searched for days. Found nothing but… feathers.”
“Feathers?”
“Raven feathers. All over the study floor.”
That night, as wind moaned through the broken chimney, Devendra lit a lantern and went exploring. He found the study at the far end of the second floor, its heavy teak door locked, the keyhole rusted. But someone—recently, perhaps—had left scratch marks on the doorframe, as if fingernails had dug into it in desperation.
Downstairs in the cellar, tucked behind sacks of coal, he found a trunk bearing Rosenthal’s initials: E.R. It was bound by thick leather straps and half-eaten by mildew. Breaking it open, he discovered what looked like water-damaged papers, brittle maps, and a cloth-bound diary.
He carried it upstairs and opened the first page carefully. Written in looping ink was:
“To return from the hills is to forget. But the hills never forget.”
— Edward Rosenthal, 1855
Devendra turned the pages slowly, scanning entries about land measurements, tea plantation yields, and sketches of tribal dwellings. Then, mid-way through, something shifted. The tone turned frantic.
“The temple stone was not meant to be moved. I told them. The drums haven’t stopped since. The hills watch. And now the raven comes to me in dreams.”
Devendra felt his fingers go cold. He flipped further.
“The child bled from the nose. Said the ‘White Spirit’ whispered in the banyan. James dismissed it. But James is dead now. His eyes were… wrong.”
Suddenly, a sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Devendra turned sharply.
The window pane, long shut, now vibrated as if struck from the outside.
He went to it, pushed it open. The night was pitch black, the mist hanging like thick wool. Nothing stirred—no owl, no wind. And yet—
At the far edge of the garden, just before the forest began, a figure stood. Cloaked. Still.
He blinked. Gone.
Heart racing, he closed the window and bolted it.
By morning, Devendra had made up his mind. He’d start with the tribal records. If Rosenthal had tampered with sacred ground, as the diary hinted, the local Badaga and Toda elders would know.
He made his way to the village of Kothagiri, where he was directed to a small school on a slope, shaded by ancient pine trees. There, he met Meghala, the head teacher.
She was in her late twenties, intelligent eyes behind round spectacles, and a voice that held no fear.
“You’re from the Rosenthal place?” she asked, brows raised.
“Yes. You’ve heard stories?”
“My grandfather worked there,” she replied. “Housekeeper’s boy. Left after Rosenthal vanished. Said the house listens. Said the walls echo with old guilt.”
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe truth has weight. And some truths—if buried—press too deep into the earth.”
Devendra took out the diary and placed it before her.
“I need help translating the tribal references. And maybe understanding what Rosenthal was afraid of.”
Meghala scanned the first few pages, eyes narrowing.
“There’s a name here. Repeated in the margins.”
“What name?”
She pointed to a smudge, then traced it aloud.
“Aatharai.”
“What does it mean?”
She looked up slowly. “It’s not a word. It’s a person. Or rather… a legend.”
Devendra leaned in.
“In Toda lore,” she whispered, “Aatharai is the keeper of the forest’s memory. The one who punishes those who break ancient pacts. No one speaks her name aloud now.”
Outside, the wind stirred again. Somewhere, a raven called once. Then silence.
Devendra closed the diary.
The Rosenthal Secret had begun to unravel.
And Ooty was watching.
Part 2 – The Keeper of Memory
Devendra leaned back on the wooden bench outside Meghala’s schoolroom, the diary still open in his hands. Meghala stood silently beside him, her eyes fixed on the pages as though reading a story she already knew too well. The word Aatharai echoed in his mind—sharp, ancient, and heavy with meaning.
“So,” he said finally, “Rosenthal believed this… Aatharai was real?”
Meghala didn’t smile. “The Todas do. She’s not a ghost. Not exactly. More like… a force. A punishment woven into nature. You breach a sacred pact, you don’t hear thunder or see fire. You just vanish. And the earth forgets you ever stood there.”
Devendra frowned. “Rosenthal was a man of science. A cartographer, botanist, explorer. Why would he write about forest spirits?”
“Because,” she said, “he saw something that science couldn’t explain.”
Back at the manor, the fog rolled in thicker than before. Joseph, the caretaker, had placed a kettle on the fireplace, mumbling something about “the house going quiet” after sundown. Devendra ignored him and returned to the study, lantern in one hand, Rosenthal’s diary in the other.
He turned to the last legible page. The ink had bled into the paper in parts, but one sentence was still visible:
“Buried beneath the roots of the twin banyans. May she sleep undisturbed.”
Below it was a drawing: a map of the forest surrounding the manor, with an X marked near a stream, beside two large trees.
Devendra sketched the map onto a fresh sheet, packed it with the diary, and readied his boots. He would find those trees.
But as he stepped out the door, Joseph caught his arm. The old man’s face had paled.
“You’re going into the jungle now?” he asked.
“I need to locate a site. Just an hour or two.”
Joseph shook his head. “Sir, don’t. At twilight the fog thickens. And the drums—”
“What drums?”
The caretaker fell silent.
Devendra left before he could change his mind.
The jungle behind the estate was dense, alive with the sound of cicadas and the occasional rustle of leaves. The air grew heavier as he moved farther in. The map led him downhill, past an abandoned tea shed and a dried well. Then he saw them—two towering banyan trees, roots snarled like petrified snakes. The stream beside them had dried to a trickle.
He began circling the trees, looking for signs of burial—an unnatural mound, a dislodged stone. Then his boot struck something hard. He knelt. It was a rusted metal object—flat, circular, with grooves around the edge. Pulling it out, he realized it was a seal, stamped with an emblem: a raven over crossed axes.
Behind him, a twig snapped.
He turned.
Nothing but the stillness of green and grey. But then he heard it—a distant drumbeat, soft at first, then pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Devendra stumbled backward, breath hitching. The jungle seemed to narrow, pressing in around him.
He turned and ran.
Back at the manor, he locked the seal in a drawer and tried to calm his nerves. But the sound of the drums still echoed in his ears. Not a hallucination. Not a superstition.
That night, he dreamt of Rosenthal.
In his dream, the man stood before him—pale, wide-eyed, hair disheveled—pointing toward the jungle, his voice hoarse with warning:
“Don’t wake her. You don’t know what they buried.”
Devendra woke in sweat.
The next morning, Meghala visited the manor.
“I found something,” she said, holding out an old government file wrapped in cloth. “My grandfather kept it hidden.”
Inside were yellowing pages, some in English, others in Toda script. Names. Dates. Land deeds. And a record of a tribal revolt in 1856—exactly the year Rosenthal vanished.
Meghala explained, “The British tried to build a new tea factory by clearing tribal land. The Todas resisted. Some were arrested. But others… just disappeared. No official record. But my grandfather said Rosenthal argued with the officers.”
Devendra sifted through the papers. One name stood out: Major Thomas Braithwaite.
“He was the head of military policing then,” Meghala said. “He came to Ooty weeks before Rosenthal vanished. Then he left suddenly. And two of his officers were later found dead near the temple ruins.”
Devendra thought of the seal. The raven and axes.
He opened the drawer.
But it was gone.
He stared at the empty velvet lining.
Meghala looked confused. “What’s wrong?”
“I found a seal in the forest,” he said. “It had a raven symbol. It was right here.”
They searched the study, the hall, the cellar. Nothing.
Joseph was questioned. He swore he hadn’t touched anything.
Devendra felt a slow unease creep in. Either someone had entered the locked manor, or the manor was no longer truly locked.
That evening, as Devendra sat by the fireplace, Meghala handed him another page from the file—one Rosenthal himself had apparently written and submitted just days before his disappearance.
“The forest doesn’t forgive. We came to measure, to tax, to civilize. But this land is older than our laws. If this reaches London, know this: we never conquered these hills. We merely walked into their patience.”
Meghala looked at him quietly. “I think Rosenthal tried to stop whatever the British were doing. He paid the price.”
Devendra’s thoughts turned to the drumbeats, the figure in the fog, and the sealed room.
“What if,” he murmured, “Rosenthal wasn’t killed?”
Meghala’s eyes widened. “You mean…”
“What if he gave himself up? As penance.”
The wind outside howled. The glass panes rattled.
Then, from somewhere deep in the forest…
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Slow. Steady. Closer.
Devendra stood, heart pounding.
Meghala whispered, “She’s awake.”
Part 3 – Beneath the Seal
Devendra paced the stone-floored hallway of Rosenthal Manor, his steps echoing between the faded portraits and cracked windows. Outside, the mist clung to the earth like a warning. The rhythmic thump-thump of unseen drums had stopped just before dawn, but their after-echo still rang in his ears. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was anticipation. As though the hills had drawn a breath and were waiting for something—or someone—to exhale.
In the study, Meghala was still poring over the old documents. A cup of untouched tea sat beside her elbow, now cold.
“There’s a pattern here,” she said quietly, not looking up. “All the men who signed the land transfer to the East Nilgiri Company—they died within six months. Accidents, mostly. One fell from his horse, one drowned in a spring. One simply walked into the forest and vanished.”
Devendra frowned. “This was never about just land. There’s something else they were trying to hide.”
She nodded and handed him a folded parchment. “This one was locked inside a separate envelope. It’s a list.”
The parchment bore five names, each followed by a mark:
Major Thomas Braithwaite – Deceased
Lt. Charles Evans – Deceased
Sir Henry Masters – Deceased
Bishop Richard Hale – Deceased
Edward Rosenthal – Missing
All crossed out in black ink.
At the bottom, a sixth line had been added in faded handwriting:
Devendra Nath Rai – Appointed.
He stared at it, pulse quickening. “Who wrote this?”
Meghala hesitated. “There’s no signature. But the ink… it’s fresh.”
They both looked toward the door as the wind rattled the old hinges. The manor felt colder. Closer.
Devendra crossed the room and retrieved the journal again. Hidden between two pages was a folded sketch—one Rosenthal must have drawn in haste. It showed a stone platform under the banyan trees, and below it, a symbol: the raven with open wings. Beneath that, a line in Rosenthal’s jagged hand:
“She watches the blood debt. And waits for its balance.”
“What if the seal I found wasn’t just a medallion?” Devendra asked aloud. “What if it’s a key?”
Meghala stood slowly. “Then we need to go back.”
By late afternoon, the mist had lifted just enough to reveal the broken path to the jungle. The two walked in silence, Devendra holding a crowbar and his satchel, Meghala carrying a lantern and her grandfather’s walking stick—the head carved in the shape of a Toda totem.
They reached the twin banyans as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting everything in a twilight blue.
“This is the place,” Devendra said.
The earth near the roots had softened from the night’s dew. Meghala cleared away fallen leaves while Devendra traced the edges of the stone platform from the sketch. It was real—almost flush with the ground, moss-covered and worn smooth by time.
Together, they dug at its edges. It took them nearly an hour, their hands blistered and faces streaked with sweat. Then Devendra found it—a metal indentation, perfectly circular, embedded at the base of the stone.
“The seal,” he whispered. “It fit here.”
But the seal was gone.
“What if,” Meghala said slowly, “we recreate it?”
Devendra looked up.
“I remember the design,” she continued. “I used to draw it as a child when my grandfather told me stories. Raven over crossed axes. I can carve it into wood.”
That night, back at the manor, Meghala worked with concentration. Devendra watched her hands move with precision, cutting the outline into a piece of teak from a broken chair. By midnight, the makeshift seal was ready.
They returned to the banyans the next morning.
As Meghala pressed the seal into the indentation, the stone shifted.
A deep groan emerged from beneath the platform, as though the earth itself had sighed. Slowly, the slab moved, revealing a narrow stone shaft descending into darkness. A staircase, spiraling down.
They exchanged one look.
Devendra went first, lantern held high.
The air was dense, thick with the scent of damp rock and something older—woodsmoke? Blood?
The stairs ended in a small underground chamber. Carved into the walls were pictograms—not British, not even Sanskrit. These were tribal, older than written history. In the center stood a stone altar, and on it lay bones. Human. Carefully arranged. White, brittle, undisturbed.
At the foot of the altar was a plaque, written in both English and Toda script:
Here lies the bearer of guilt. One who broke the sacred bond. One who chose silence over conquest.
Meghala whispered, “It’s him.”
“Rosenthal?”
She nodded. “He asked to be buried here. Not as a hero. As an offering.”
Devendra’s hands trembled as he read the final inscription, hidden behind the altar:
The debt will not rest. Blood spilt must be returned. Each generation must answer. Until balance is restored.
Above them, the drums started again. Louder this time.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They rushed up the stairs, sealing the platform behind them. The forest had turned restless—leaves shivering without wind, birds taking flight in frantic patterns.
As they emerged, Joseph stood waiting on the path, holding the original seal in his hand.
“Where did you get that?” Devendra demanded.
Joseph looked hollow, his voice trembling. “It was under your pillow. I didn’t put it there.”
Devendra took it, holding it up. Its surface had changed. The raven now had red eyes. Not painted. Embedded.
Meghala said, “We’ve awakened something.”
Back at the manor, that night, a letter arrived. No postmark. No signature. Just four lines written in old ink.
The seal has been broken.
The pact disturbed.
The forest keeps count.
One must pay.
As the lantern dimmed, Devendra and Meghala knew—this was no longer about history.
It was about survival.
Part 4 – The Man with Raven Eyes
Rain lashed against the windows of Rosenthal Manor. The storm had rolled in just past midnight, sudden and vengeful, as if summoned. Thunder cracked over the Nilgiris and the old house groaned with every gust. Inside, Devendra paced the hallway, clutching the letter that had arrived with no messenger, no postmark, and no sound. Meghala stood by the hearth, her face lit by firelight, eyes locked on the flickering flame.
“The forest keeps count,” she murmured, repeating the final line of the letter.
Devendra sat, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. “What if we’re not just researching history anymore, Meghala? What if we’re living in it?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she opened Rosenthal’s diary again. Her fingers paused on a page she had missed before—nearly glued to the binding, as if deliberately hidden. She pulled it free.
This one was different.
Not written in prose, but a list—names, places, and dates. Some names had a red line through them. Others had question marks.
And at the bottom:
Aatharai – active
Last seen: Temple Grounds, West Forest.
Devendra leaned closer. “So she’s not just legend. Rosenthal thought she was still… out there.”
Meghala looked up. “The West Forest is off-limits to locals. Not even the Toda shepherds graze cattle there. My grandfather once said a British officer tried to map it—never returned.”
Devendra nodded. “We go tomorrow.”
Before she could protest, a knock echoed through the manor.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
They turned toward the main door.
Joseph was already standing at the end of the hall, lantern in hand, face pale.
“Sir,” he whispered. “There’s someone at the door.”
Devendra stepped forward cautiously and pulled the heavy door open.
A man stood there, soaked, his black umbrella hanging from one wrist. He was dressed in a finely tailored coat with brass buttons and a scarf tied neatly at the neck. In his left hand, he held a silver-tipped cane. In his right—a pocket watch.
But it was his eyes that chilled Devendra.
Dark, unreadable, and flecked with deep crimson, like dried blood under glass.
“May I come in?” he asked with a calm, almost musical voice.
Devendra hesitated. “Who are you?”
The man smiled faintly. “A friend of the manor. Call me… Mr. Rathbone.”
Meghala appeared beside Devendra, brows drawn. “There’s no record of anyone by that name.”
The man tilted his head. “Oh, there wouldn’t be. My presence is usually undocumented.”
Joseph shifted nervously behind them. “Sir, he’s been here before. Long ago. When I was a child.”
Devendra turned. “What?”
“I remember those eyes.”
Mr. Rathbone stepped into the manor without waiting for permission. He walked to the study as if it were his own, ran his gloved fingers over the edge of Rosenthal’s desk, and sat down.
“You’ve found the seal,” he said, nodding at the drawer.
“It found us,” Devendra replied.
Rathbone’s smile deepened. “Yes, it tends to do that. It’s not a symbol. It’s a trigger. A key not just to doors, but to memory. The land doesn’t forget, Mr. Rai. It only waits.”
Meghala stepped forward. “You’re part of the pact, aren’t you?”
Rathbone looked genuinely amused. “Oh no, my dear. I’m part of the consequence.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a second letter—identical in paper and ink to the one they had received before. He tossed it on the table.
Devendra opened it. Four new lines:
The watcher has returned.
The seal is active.
The sixth has been named.
By fire or blood, the debt must be paid.
Rathbone stood. “Six names. Five crossed out. The forest is balanced only when all are accounted for.”
Meghala’s voice cracked. “Who chose the six?”
Rathbone paused. “They chose themselves. By walking onto sacred land, drawing maps, issuing orders, desecrating what they didn’t understand. Some did it with greed. Others… with good intentions. It makes no difference.”
Devendra’s fists clenched. “I didn’t desecrate anything.”
“But you were sent to finish what Rosenthal started,” Rathbone said quietly. “To finalize the maps. To unlock what was buried. The forest sees the seal, not the soul.”
With that, he walked back toward the door, the storm still raging outside.
“One last thing,” he said, turning around. “Don’t go to the West Forest during full moon. It listens too closely then.”
And he was gone.
The next morning, the skies were clear, but the air heavy with wet earth and unsaid things. Devendra, Meghala, and Joseph met in the sitting room.
“We go now,” Devendra said. “To the temple ruins. We follow Rosenthal’s trail.”
Joseph refused at first but eventually gave in. “My grandfather served tea to that man every morning. I’ll come. Someone must watch your backs.”
They packed supplies, lanterns, a compass, and the carved seal. Meghala carried the journal. Devendra carried a revolver he hadn’t used since college.
By noon, they entered the West Forest. It was unlike any other part of the Nilgiris—older, darker, silent. Even the birds seemed to avoid it.
Half a mile in, they found the stone archway Rosenthal had sketched in his notes. It led to a circular clearing, overgrown but strangely symmetrical.
At its center stood the ruins of a temple—pillars broken, the roof collapsed, vines crawling over ancient carvings. The stones were blackened in places, as if scorched by fire.
Meghala knelt beside a carving. “It’s Aatharai,” she whispered. “Not a goddess. A guardian.”
Devendra turned to Joseph. “Anything familiar?”
The old man pointed to a mound of earth near the rear wall. “That wasn’t here before.”
They approached. The mound was fresh. Dug recently.
Devendra brushed the top layer of dirt aside—and froze.
Another seal lay buried there. Identical. But this one was cracked down the middle, and beneath it was a scrap of cloth—a fragment of a British uniform.
A small tag still clung to it.
Evans, Lt. Charles.
“One of the six,” Meghala whispered.
Suddenly, the wind stopped.
The clearing fell unnaturally quiet.
From the trees came a low hum—not human, not animal. A vibration, as if the land itself was growling.
Joseph backed away. “We shouldn’t be here. She’s close.”
Then they heard it.
A woman’s voice, distant yet near, layered with echo:
“You opened the gate. You wear the seal. The forest knows.”
They turned.
Standing beyond the archway was a figure in white, long hair flowing like mist, eyes dark as the raven’s feather, staring directly at Devendra.
Part 5 – The Forest Knows
For a moment, all three of them stood frozen—Devendra, Meghala, and Joseph—staring at the figure beyond the stone archway. The woman in white didn’t move. She seemed more apparition than flesh, her eyes locked on Devendra with a calm so intense it was terrifying. The mist clung to her form, making her edges shimmer like a mirage. Long strands of black hair flowed with the wind that wasn’t blowing.
Meghala whispered, “That’s her.”
Devendra’s voice was barely audible. “Aatharai.”
The name tasted like ash in his mouth.
Joseph backed away, trembling. “She was in my dream, sahib. Just like this. In the forest, by the ruins. She was waiting.”
Aatharai lifted her hand. No anger, no violence—just a gesture of recognition. Like a priestess welcoming a guest. Devendra took an involuntary step forward before Meghala gripped his arm.
“Don’t,” she said. “This is no vision. She’s real. Or close enough.”
But Devendra’s gaze was fixed. A memory stirred in him—one he didn’t recognize as his own. A flash of fire, screams in the jungle, tribal drums, and a British officer falling to his knees, blood seeping from his ears.
Then it was gone.
“I need to speak to her,” he said.
“She doesn’t speak,” Joseph muttered. “She shows.”
But it was too late. Devendra had crossed the clearing, moving slowly toward the archway. Meghala followed him, reluctantly, clutching the seal like a talisman.
When they stepped under the arch, the world around them shifted.
Everything dimmed.
The forest grew silent, not with peace, but with a held breath. The trees stood still, leaves motionless. Even the sound of their footsteps seemed muffled.
And then—without warning—the ground beneath them gave way.
They fell.
They landed in a chamber—not stone, not entirely natural. Roots formed its walls, gnarled and pulsing faintly with light. A circle of flickering fire surrounded them, though no flame emitted heat.
And before them stood Aatharai.
Only now she was clearer, more tangible. Her skin bore markings—tribal tattoos spiraling across her arms and down her neck. Around her waist, she wore a belt of feathers and beads. Her eyes held entire histories, deep and relentless.
She spoke—not aloud, but into their minds.
“He came with promises. Maps. Gifts. They touched the sacred spring. The stones we prayed on. And we warned him. But he did not listen.”
Images flooded their vision. The British expedition. Rosenthal at the front, notebook in hand, followed by soldiers. Trees falling. Hills being measured. Symbols painted over. And the scream of a tribal child being dragged from a temple.
“They thought the land belonged to them. But the forest chooses its own.”
Then, a vision of Rosenthal alone, kneeling in the same ruin where they now stood. His clothes torn, eyes hollow, whispering apologies to no one.
“He returned the seal. Buried himself in silence. But his death was not enough.”
Devendra gasped as a pressure built in his chest—memories not his own clawing to get in. He saw through Rosenthal’s eyes: the betrayal of his fellow officers, the secret pact to forcefully claim tribal lands, the greed that turned into regret too late.
“Each generation sent another. Another map. Another claim. Until the sixth came.”
And Devendra saw himself—arriving in Ooty, journal in hand, eager to restore order, to finish what had been left incomplete.
“You wear the seal. You hold the blood memory. The debt must be answered.”
He fell to his knees, chest heaving.
“No,” he gasped. “I didn’t come to destroy. I came to understand. To preserve.”
The chamber trembled. The fire circle rose, its light intensifying.
“You are part of the line. The sixth. The forest sees intent. But blood sees inheritance.”
Meghala stepped forward, still clutching the seal.
“Then let it end with him,” she said, voice fierce. “Don’t make the forest a prison. What if reparation could come not with blood—but truth?”
The light dimmed. A pause.
Then Aatharai blinked—slowly—and extended her hand. The seal in Meghala’s hand rose from her palm, floating toward Aatharai’s fingers.
“Truth is not enough. Truth must be known.”
Another flood of vision: villagers reading from Rosenthal’s journal, British maps burned in fires, tribal elders standing in front of a government office with the seal as witness.
A pact rewritten.
Devendra looked up. “Then I must bring this to Delhi. To the court. The truth, the documents, the death record. All of it.”
“Then you must live.”
The light shattered.
They woke in the clearing again, lying in the wet grass. Joseph was kneeling beside them, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“You were gone,” he said. “For hours. I thought— I thought she had taken you.”
Devendra sat up, chest still tight, vision blurry. Meghala slowly rose beside him. The temple ruins were unchanged, but something felt different. Lighter. As if some heavy curtain had been pulled aside.
In Devendra’s hand was the seal—warm, now pulsing faintly with red light.
“We have work to do,” he said softly.
Two weeks later, in Delhi, Devendra stood in front of the Archaeological Survey of India, carrying a satchel of translated Toda texts, Rosenthal’s complete journal, and a notarized statement signed by tribal elders of the Nilgiris. Meghala stood beside him.
The director read the documents in silence. Then: “This… could change everything. The entire Nilgiri land record would need to be revised. Several British estates were built on illegally seized sacred grounds.”
Devendra nodded. “Then revise them.”
The director raised an eyebrow. “And the woman in the vision?”
Devendra paused. “She isn’t seeking revenge. She’s asking us to remember.”
Back in Ooty, the fog thickened once more. But it no longer felt like a warning. At Rosenthal Manor, Joseph kept the windows open.
And in the jungle, beneath the twin banyans, the seal remained buried—at peace.
The forest had spoken.
And this time, someone had listened.
Part 6 – The Silence That Speaks
The letter arrived without a stamp again—just like before. But this time, it didn’t bring dread. It brought an invitation.
To Mr. Devendra Nath Rai,
Assistant Settlement Officer, Nilgiris District.
You are requested to present the findings from the Rosenthal file before the Special Committee on Colonial Records, scheduled for the 15th of July, Calcutta. Bring all evidence, artifacts, and witness statements.
— Signed, Ministry of Internal Affairs
Devendra folded the letter slowly and slid it into his satchel, beside Rosenthal’s diary, the original seal, and his own handwritten notes. He stood at the balcony of the guesthouse in Ooty town, gazing toward the distant blue haze of the hills.
Meghala walked in with a stack of printed Toda folktales she had been helping translate. “You’ll go to Calcutta?”
“I have to,” he replied. “If the Ministry accepts the report, the tribal land rights will be recognized. Officially. After a hundred years.”
“And if they don’t?”
Devendra smiled grimly. “Then we find another door. But someone has to knock first.”
Meghala looked out toward the mist with him. “The forest has quieted. I haven’t heard the drums since that day.”
“Because they were never drums,” Devendra said. “They were warnings. Echoes of history trying to be heard.”
She turned to him. “And now?”
“Now we speak for the silence that was never listened to.”
The train to Calcutta chugged along the plains, slicing through a land scorched by sun but weighed with history. Devendra sat in a second-class colonial compartment, a file of documents in his lap and anxiety pacing in his chest.
Across from him sat a thin, sharp-eyed man reading a Bengali newspaper.
“You’re carrying government papers?” the man asked suddenly.
Devendra blinked. “Yes.”
The man leaned forward. “You were in Ooty, weren’t you? They say something strange happened at Rosenthal Manor. Ghost stories, spirits in the jungle.”
Devendra remained quiet.
The man smiled. “Funny thing about stories. They travel faster than trains.”
Before Devendra could reply, the train whistled loudly and screeched into a sudden halt near a bridge. Passengers leaned out of windows. A cow had wandered onto the tracks.
As people murmured and guards shouted, Devendra clutched his satchel instinctively. And it was then he saw it—a flash of white, just beyond the window, near the trees by the river.
A woman.
Still.
Watching.
Not Meghala. Not human.
She was barefoot, her white robes floating just above the grass, her long hair falling like black vines down her shoulders.
Devendra’s blood ran cold.
Aatharai.
He blinked.
She was gone.
By the time he reached Calcutta, the heat was oppressive. The city pulsed with colonial energy—rickshaws rattling down Chowringhee Road, telegram boys darting between clubs and mansions, and British officers sipping iced gin on verandas.
The Special Committee convened in an aging courtroom beside Fort William, its high ceilings and wooden benches smelling of sweat and bureaucracy. Devendra stood at the podium before a panel of six men—three British, two Indian, and one Eurasian. The room was full. Journalists. Clerks. Anxious silence.
He laid out the seal first.
“The symbol you see here,” he began, “was once used by a secret colonial group tasked with redrawing land boundaries in the Nilgiris. They worked under the pretense of economic expansion but desecrated tribal lands, destroyed sacred temples, and forcibly removed communities.”
He held up Rosenthal’s diary.
“This man, Edward Rosenthal, was part of that system. But he broke ranks. His notes, confessions, and eventual burial beneath tribal grounds are documented here. His guilt preserved not just in ink, but in ritual.”
A British commissioner frowned. “You speak of ritual. Are you implying spiritual consequences?”
“I speak of cultural memory,” Devendra replied. “And yes, the forest responded. It remembered what we chose to forget.”
The Indian judge leaned forward. “You’re saying the tribal belief system acted like a historical ledger?”
“Yes. And that ledger is still open.”
He turned to Meghala, seated in the witness gallery. She nodded.
“Ms. Meghala will submit translated records from Toda oral histories—preserved for generations—corroborating these events. They speak of the pact, of the woman they call Aatharai. She was not a ghost. She was a custodian. A symbol of resistance and remembrance.”
The panel listened.
Devendra paused, then added, “Five men died. One vanished. And I—sent there to finish their work—almost became the sixth. I believe I was spared because the truth finally had a voice.”
The room was still.
Then the Eurasian judge murmured, “Do you expect the Ministry to rewrite decades of records based on… folklore?”
Devendra stepped forward.
“No. I expect the Ministry to respect the evidence—the sealed confession, the maps, the remains of Lt. Charles Evans found beneath a desecrated temple site. I expect the Ministry to recognize that what was called ‘uncultivated’ land was in fact holy ground. And I expect us to begin restitution—not just with land—but with acknowledgement.”
Silence. Then a murmur. Then—
A gavel slammed.
“We will deliberate,” said the head commissioner. “You are dismissed for now.”
That night, Devendra sat at the riverside ghats, watching lamps float on the Hooghly. Meghala sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her.
“You were brave today,” she said.
“No,” he replied. “I was afraid the whole time.”
She smiled. “But you still spoke.”
They sat in silence for a while.
Then Meghala said, “You know, I used to believe Aatharai was just a bedtime story. A moral tale. But now I think she was never meant to be real in the way we think. She was meant to remind us.”
“Remind us of what?”
“That the land listens.”
Devendra nodded.
They rose to leave.
But just before stepping onto the bridge, Devendra turned back one last time.
And there, standing among the trees at the water’s edge, she waited—Aatharai.
Still watching.
Not angry.
Just ensuring the story had been told.
Part 7 – Ink and Ashes
A week passed.
The Ministry issued an internal memo, discreetly phrased but undeniable in tone:
“The Ministry acknowledges historical discrepancies in the Nilgiri Settlement Records of 1856–1860. A committee shall initiate a review of affected territories, beginning with the Rosenthal Estate.”
It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t justice. But it was a beginning.
Devendra read the line three times in his small Calcutta lodging, sitting at a teakwood desk littered with ink bottles and old maps. Meghala, across the room, was carefully wrapping up a stack of tribal testimonies in cloth.
“They didn’t deny it,” she said, not quite smiling.
“No,” Devendra replied, “but they didn’t admit it either.”
He closed the memo and stood by the window. The humid city buzzed below—tram bells, street hawkers, the clang of steel. But in his ears, he could still hear the forest. The hush of leaves. The beat of unseen drums. The whisper of her name—Aatharai.
He turned to Meghala. “We’re not finished.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Meaning?”
Devendra walked to the trunk beside his cot and opened it. Inside, beneath folded clothes and notebooks, lay the original Rosenthal seal—wrapped in cotton, still glowing faintly with that strange reddish hue.
“She let us go,” he said. “But she didn’t release the story.”
Meghala understood instantly. “It can’t remain locked in files.”
Devendra nodded. “The public must know. Not as dry testimony—but as a tale. With names, places, and memory.”
Meghala tilted her head. “You want to write a book.”
“No,” he said. “I want to finish his book.”
That evening, they visited the printing press of Satyaprakash Ray, a journalist friend of Meghala’s, who ran a modest publication in Bowbazar. The press office smelled of ink, metal, and ambition.
Ray, a wiry man with sharp spectacles, leaned over the table and stared at the manuscript pages.
“You’ve written it as a narrative,” he observed. “A historical thriller?”
“It’s all true,” Devendra said. “Every detail. But truth is easier to digest when it moves. We want readers to feel the fear, the injustice, the silence. Not just read about it.”
Ray tapped the seal design embossed on the cover. “What’s this symbol?”
“Let’s call it,” Meghala replied, “the mark of remembrance.”
Ray grinned. “You’ll have your first hundred copies in two weeks. And if the British try to shut it down, well—more reason to print a thousand.”
The book launched under the title “The Forest Remembers”, authored jointly by D. N. Rai and M. Ramanathan. It sold modestly at first—mainly among academic circles and university students—but by the third week, the press began receiving letters.
From a lawyer in Bombay:
“My grandfather served under Braithwaite. He always mentioned Ooty in fearful tones. Now I know why.”
From a Toda woman in Coimbatore:
“You wrote the truth we only whispered. I read it aloud to my children.”
From an old man in Darjeeling:
“I walked into that forest once. And never forgot what I saw. Thank you for reminding me I wasn’t mad.”
But not all responses were kind.
British officers lodged protests. The District Collector of Nilgiris sent a stiff telegram questioning Devendra’s authority to publish “unverified tribal mythology as historical fact.”
And then—one night—someone broke into the press office.
They didn’t steal money.
They burned the first edition copies.
When Devendra and Meghala arrived the next morning, the air still smelled of smoke. Pages lay in curls of ash. The printing plates had been smashed.
Ray stood beside the wreckage, jaw tight. “They think this will stop us.”
Devendra crouched beside the embers, finding a half-burnt page. The last paragraph was still legible:
“She was never the ghost of vengeance. She was the voice of those erased. She only came because no one else had.”
He stood slowly. “Then we print it again.”
Meghala’s voice was soft, but firm. “And we take it to the villages.”
Over the next month, The Forest Remembers traveled across southern India—not through bookstores, but by mouth. Devendra and Meghala began a slow, deliberate journey from Ooty to Coonoor, Kotagiri to Gudalur, meeting tribal elders, schoolteachers, and farmers.
In every gathering, they read from the book—not as authors, but as messengers.
And in every village, someone stepped forward to say, “I’ve heard this story before.”
A grandmother in a Badaga village sang a song she hadn’t sung since she was a girl—of a man with white skin and bleeding eyes, kneeling before the jungle. A Toda shepherd shared a rock carving his father said marked “the land of silence.” And a boy—barely nine—claimed to have seen a woman in white watching from the trees at dusk.
Every tale matched.
Different names. Different forms.
But always the same eyes.
Always Aatharai.
One night, in a village near Mudumalai forest, Meghala and Devendra were resting by a fire after a long reading. The village headman handed them warm rice and lentils, nodding in gratitude.
As the fire crackled, Meghala asked, “Do you think she’ll come again?”
Devendra stared into the flames. “If we fail to remember, she will.”
Silence.
Then, from the far side of the village, a dog howled.
A drumbeat followed—soft, steady, not from a human hand.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The villagers fell silent. Children looked toward the jungle edge.
But Devendra rose, calm, seal in hand.
“It’s not a warning anymore,” he said.
“It’s a memory knocking.”
Part 8 – The Memory That Knocked
Devendra stood beneath the vast, moonlit sky, holding the Rosenthal seal in one hand and a hurricane lantern in the other. The sound of the drums came not from any visible place, yet it moved through the earth—low, rhythmic, ancient. It pulsed like a heartbeat in the soil.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The villagers behind him had fallen into silence. Even the children, who had been giggling minutes ago, now stared toward the dark tree line with wide, glistening eyes. Mothers instinctively pulled them closer. The elders sat still, their faces not frightened—but reverent.
Only Meghala stepped forward to stand beside Devendra, her voice hushed but steady.
“She’s not here to punish.”
Devendra nodded. “She’s here to see.”
They waited.
Nothing moved in the jungle ahead. But slowly, deliberately, a wind unfurled across the forest canopy, whispering through the leaves like a forgotten song. A tree branch creaked, a bird rustled from sleep. And then—
From the edge of the darkness, she came.
Aatharai.
Her white robe glowed faintly under the starlight, her bare feet stepping silently over roots and stone. Her eyes—dark, unblinking, and knowing—rested on each face as she walked past the villagers. No one screamed. No one ran. The drumbeats stopped.
She walked until she stood in front of Devendra.
And then, she bowed her head.
A collective breath was drawn across the village square. Meghala whispered, “She’s not here for him anymore.”
Aatharai raised her eyes and reached out—not toward Devendra—but toward the children gathered behind him.
They stepped forward, unsure, and she extended her hand. One child touched it. Another followed.
Then, as if obeying some ancient rite, Aatharai turned slowly toward the forest. She raised her arm and pointed.
To the east.
A direction.
A place not yet known.
And without a sound, she faded into the mist.
Back at the fire, the village headman finally spoke. “She used to come in dreams. Never in waking. Until now.”
“What does the east mean?” Devendra asked.
The man looked toward the distant horizon. “There is a cave near Agaram. Older than our fathers’ fathers. Our people were forbidden to go. It was said… that is where she began.”
Two days later, Devendra and Meghala set out with a small group—one elder, two teenagers, and the headman as guide. They crossed ridges, walked past cascading streams, and moved through forests where sunlight filtered like smoke. The path narrowed to a deer trail. Then the deer trail became nothing.
They found the mouth of the cave beneath a sheer wall of stone, hidden behind a curtain of vines and moss. A faint symbol had been carved above the entrance—worn but visible.
A raven with wings folded inward.
“She rested here,” the elder whispered. “Before the pact. Before the blood.”
Inside, the air was damp and cool, filled with the scent of earth and limestone. The lanterns cast uneven light on the walls—revealing paintings. Hundreds of them.
They told a story.
Of a woman born from soil and mist.
Of colonists arriving with iron and flame.
Of sacred stones shattered.
And of a pact: six must fall for the land to rise again.
At the very end of the mural trail was a blank wall, except for a hollow circle—empty.
Devendra slowly reached into his satchel and took out the Rosenthal seal.
It fit.
A low hum echoed through the cave. The seal glowed briefly, then settled into silence. And as it did, an unseen wind passed through the chamber—dust lifted, old leaves scattered.
And a final inscription revealed itself:
“The seal returns not to bind, but to remember.
The forest watches until it is no longer needed.”
They stood in silence for a long time.
In the months that followed, word spread.
Not about ghosts, or hauntings, or curses.
But about truth.
Villages that had long kept silent began to speak. Tribal histories were recorded. New land maps were drawn. Memorial stones were placed at the ruins of the old temple. And Rosenthal Manor—long feared and abandoned—was converted into a museum of memory, curated by Meghala and the Toda elders.
The seal rested in a glass case, no longer glowing. Still. Quiet. Returned.
Devendra returned to administrative work, but he never again signed a land certificate without first visiting the site, listening to the people, and asking, “What do the trees remember?”
His book, The Forest Remembers, was translated into four languages.
And Aatharai?
She was seen only once more.
It was the night of the museum’s inauguration. A mild drizzle fell across Ooty, and guests from across India filled the restored hall. As Meghala lit the ceremonial lamp and Devendra read Rosenthal’s final diary entry aloud, a gentle breeze moved through the room.
The flame flickered. The air turned still.
And through the broken glass pane near the banyan grove, someone saw a woman standing beneath the tree.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t speak.
She simply watched.
And then she was gone.
Because the forest never forgets.
It only waits for us to remember.
Part 9 – Beneath the Banyan Sky
Ooty changed after The Forest Remembers was published.
Not in dramatic ways—not with fanfare or flags—but in subtler, more enduring ones. The British authorities remained cautious, but they no longer interfered. The Toda and Badaga elders were invited to public councils. Tribal land, once labeled “vacant,” was slowly being returned. The Rosenthal Estate, once a crumbling colonial shell, now thrived as a museum, research center, and memorial.
But for Devendra, peace was elusive.
Not because of fear. Not because Aatharai haunted him.
But because the story didn’t feel finished.
Late one evening, as Meghala catalogued a new donation of Toda scriptures, Devendra sat by the museum window overlooking the banyan grove, the original site where Rosenthal’s body was found.
The twin trees stood still in the moonlight—silent witnesses to over a century of violence, silence, and memory.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something still lingered beneath.
He rose, quietly took the lantern, and stepped out of the manor.
The ground beneath the banyans was soft from recent rain. The twin trunks rose like guardians, their roots twisted into each other as though holding secrets underground. Devendra paced the site, then knelt beside the stone platform.
The makeshift seal they’d carved months ago still bore faint grooves.
He ran his hand across the mossy slab—and felt a tremor.
Not from the earth.
From inside.
He stepped back, breath shallow.
A moment passed.
And then, to his left, a patch of soil crumbled.
Something had been buried there—recently.
He dug with his hands, the earth wet and cold.
And then his fingers struck metal.
A small brass box, no larger than a diary.
He lifted it carefully, wiped off the mud, and unlatched the clasp.
Inside were folded pages, brittle with age, and a thin leather-bound journal with initials stamped in gold: T.B.
Thomas Braithwaite.
Devendra returned to the study, trembling.
Meghala looked up. “You’re covered in mud—what—?”
He placed the journal before her.
She opened the first page.
It was unmistakably Braithwaite’s handwriting—precise, arrogant, full of control.
“Rosenthal grows weak. He questions our methods. We warned him, yet he trembles at shadows. He speaks of drums, dreams, and the forest whispering. I grow tired of his conscience. If he betrays us, I will ensure the jungle buries more than his maps.”
Meghala’s eyes widened.
“This isn’t just a journal,” she said. “It’s a confession.”
Devendra flipped to the final entry.
“We took the idol. We burnt the grove. The girl screamed until her throat gave out. Rosenthal refused to sign the deeds. So we locked him away. By morning, he was gone. Some say he ran. But I know he didn’t run. He became one of them. The forest consumed him.”
They stared at each other.
It changed everything.
The Ministry had always treated Rosenthal’s fate as a disappearance. Theories ranged from jungle fever to suicide. But now—Braithwaite’s own words confirmed it.
Rosenthal was murdered. Or worse—sacrificed.
Not by spirits. But by his own countrymen.
That week, Devendra submitted the journal to the Ministry with a sworn affidavit.
The shockwaves were immediate.
Newspaper headlines across Madras and Calcutta screamed:
“Colonial Crime Unearthed: New Evidence in Nilgiris Massacre”
“Braithwaite’s Journal Confirms Cover-Up”
“Forest Not Just a Folklore—Official Recognition Begins”
British officials tried to discredit the journal.
But the evidence was irrefutable. The handwriting matched old military orders. The events corroborated Rosenthal’s diary, the tribal testimonies, and the location of Evans’s remains.
It was the final piece.
On a damp August morning, under grey skies and scattered drizzle, a state memorial ceremony was held beneath the banyan trees.
For the first time, Toda, Badaga, British, and Indian officials stood together.
A stone pillar was raised:
In memory of the unnamed, the unheard, and the forgotten.
Let the forest no longer weep in silence.
Devendra stood quietly beside Meghala.
The crowd dispersed slowly. The drizzle faded. A rainbow formed faintly in the distant mist.
Meghala turned to him. “Do you think she’ll come again?”
Devendra shook his head. “No. She doesn’t need to.”
They walked back toward the manor.
And from the edge of the forest, just beyond the reach of shadow, a final whisper rode the wind:
“It is finished.”
The Forest Remembers
Six months later.
Ooty, early winter.
The fog returned as it always did—curling through the Nilgiri valleys like a soft-spoken memory. The tea bushes glistened with frost. The air held the sweet scent of eucalyptus and woodsmoke. But something had changed. The land no longer felt like it held its breath. It had exhaled.
Rosenthal Manor stood still and dignified on the hill, no longer a haunted ruin but a living archive. Its wood had been polished, its broken windows replaced, its silence now filled with curious schoolchildren, researchers, and the soft echo of tribal songs played on old gramophones.
In the east wing of the museum, under a glass case, rested the three journals—Rosenthal’s, Braithwaite’s, and Devendra’s own field diary, all arranged chronologically. The seal, no longer glowing, sat beside them on black velvet.
The placard read:
“Witness to Silence. Key to Memory. Not a curse. A reminder.”
Meghala entered the gallery with a group of young girls from a nearby Badaga school. She spoke gently, letting them ask questions, letting them touch history not as outsiders, but as inheritors.
At the same time, in the courtyard, Devendra was speaking with a journalist from The Hindu.
“It’s rare,” the man said, scribbling notes, “that a story of colonial cruelty ends without vengeance.”
“It doesn’t end,” Devendra replied. “It continues. Through knowledge. Through memory. Vengeance feeds on fire. But remembrance…” he glanced toward the trees, “remembrance roots deeper.”
The journalist nodded. “And Aatharai?”
Devendra smiled faintly. “She’s not a ghost. She was a keeper. A myth, yes—but one born from real grief. She walked until the truth walked beside her.”
He paused.
“She came because no one else would. Now we walk instead.”
That evening, as twilight spilled gold across the hills, Devendra returned to the banyan grove one last time. The twin trees stood regal and rooted, their branches stretched like arms embracing the wind.
He sat cross-legged between them, listening.
Not for drums.
Not for voices.
Just for the earth.
He took out a final page he had been saving for months—a letter never sent, addressed to Rosenthal.
Dear Edward,
I’ve read your words, followed your path, stood where you fell. You were not perfect. But you tried. In a time when trying cost lives. You buried your guilt beneath the roots of the world. I hope we’ve unearthed it with care.
I’ve met those you failed. And those you saved. The land speaks of you still—not with anger, but with warning. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that is peace.
We’ve left the seal in the open, where all can see it. We don’t hide history anymore.
With respect,
D.N. Rai
He folded the letter and buried it beside the banyan roots, without a box, without a marker.
Let the forest take it.
Let the earth decide its worth.
In the weeks that followed, Meghala returned to teaching full-time, now heading a curriculum that included local tribal histories, oral storytelling, and the ethics of land preservation. Her classroom looked out onto the very trees that once echoed with legend.
Devendra was transferred back to Madras—but not to land revenue. He was appointed to a new department: Historical Reconciliation and Cultural Preservation. A post that had never existed before. One created because of The Forest Remembers.
Their story spread.
Not in loud headlines. But in the hands of those who had long been voiceless.
The Toda children made plays out of Aatharai’s legend. Young poets wrote verses comparing the mist to memory. A mural was painted on the library wall in Ooty—a woman in white, standing between banyan trees, with a raven perched on her shoulder.
And far beyond the Nilgiris, in corners of India where no books had yet reached, whispers traveled faster than printing presses:
“There was once a woman the land itself remembered…”
Years passed.
Devendra never saw Aatharai again. But sometimes, when he walked alone in remote forests, or passed ancient temples covered in moss, he felt watched—not with menace, but with witness.
She was never there to curse.
She was there to ensure the forgetting did not return.
One winter, Devendra returned to Ooty. An old man now, with slower steps but clear eyes.
He visited the grove.
The banyans were still standing.
A group of children played nearby. One girl stood a little apart, quiet, gazing at the trees.
Devendra smiled and approached her.
“Do you like these trees?”
The girl nodded. “They remember things.”
He chuckled. “They do. And what do you remember?”
She thought for a moment.
“That she came when no one listened.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Who told you that?”
The girl just smiled and ran to join her friends.
Devendra stood there for a long time, the mist rising again like breath.
He didn’t chase the answer.
Some stories don’t need endings.
They just need to be passed on.
END
