Leena Rao
Chapter 1: The Moonlit Arrival
Viraj Saxena’s camera bag felt heavier than usual as he made his way down the dusty path that led to the riverbank. The sun had just set, casting an amber hue over the rugged landscape of Bhedaghat, a small town nestled by the Narmada River, near Jabalpur. Known for its towering white marble cliffs and the famous Dhuandhar Waterfall, Bhedaghat was a photographer’s dream. But Viraj had come here with a different purpose. He was after something deeper—something otherworldly.
He had heard about the moonlit beauty of the marble rocks, a sight that supposedly transformed when bathed in the silvery glow of a full moon. But more than that, there were whispers of an ancient, ghostly legend tied to the river, of pale figures that glided between the rocks at night. To Viraj, it was nothing more than superstition—a story to add flavor to his photo essay on the town’s natural wonders. But as a photojournalist, he couldn’t resist capturing something unique, something no one had ever seen before.
The evening air was crisp as he approached his guesthouse, a rustic structure with a faded sign that read “Narmada View Guesthouse.” A small boat, tethered by the water’s edge, bobbed gently in the current. The river had a way of calling out to you, its soft murmur a constant companion in this sleepy town. Viraj took in the peaceful scene, mentally preparing for the night ahead.
His footsteps echoed through the narrow passage leading to the small porch, where an old woman stood waiting for him.
“Viraj Saxena?” she asked, her voice low, almost as if she had been expecting him.
“Yes, that’s me,” Viraj replied, offering a polite smile. She wore a simple green saree, her silver hair tied in a neat bun. Her eyes, sharp and observant, scanned him briefly before she nodded.
“I’m Madhuri. I’ve heard you’re looking for the moonlit cliffs.”
Viraj raised an eyebrow. “You know about that?”
Madhuri’s lips curved into a faint smile. “I know many things about this place, young man. And I know that the Narmada does not give up its secrets easily.”
Viraj laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’m not here for secrets, just photos. I hear the cliffs look incredible in the moonlight.”
Her expression grew serious. “The moon reveals many things. But you must be careful. Some things are better left unseen.”
Viraj’s curiosity piqued, but he shrugged off the warning. He had always believed in the power of the camera lens to capture what others couldn’t see. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been to many places,” he said confidently.
Madhuri studied him for a moment before nodding. “If you say so. The boat is ready. We’ll leave in an hour.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Viraj set up his camera equipment. The night seemed to stretch infinitely before him, the soft sounds of the river only amplifying the sense of isolation. The moon was just beginning to rise, casting its silver glow over the landscape, transforming the marble cliffs into towering, ethereal giants.
As he boarded the boat, Madhuri’s words lingered in the back of his mind. “The Narmada does not give up its secrets easily.” Viraj chuckled, dismissing the thought. He was here to capture beauty, not ghost stories.
The boat slid silently across the water, its slow drift a meditation on the stillness of the night. Viraj positioned himself at the front, aiming his camera toward the cliffs that were now illuminated by the moon’s soft light. Everything was perfect.
But as the boat glided deeper into the gorge, something strange happened. In the distance, just beyond the rocks, Viraj saw a pale figure—a silhouette against the marble, moving effortlessly across the water. His breath caught in his throat. Was it a trick of the light? A figure reflected in the water? He couldn’t be sure.
But as the boat continued its journey, more figures began to appear, each one gliding silently between the rocks, vanishing into the mist before he could catch them in his lens.
Viraj’s heart raced. This wasn’t a trick. Something—someone—was out there.
Chapter 2: The Whisper of the Past
The following morning, the sunlight in Bhedaghat felt warmer, but the air was still thick with an unexplainable sense of mystery. Viraj had spent most of the night wide awake, reviewing the photos he had taken. The images were beautiful—striking images of the moonlit cliffs and the river shimmering under the night sky. But what unsettled him was the pale figures he had captured. They were almost translucent, their forms shifting between the rocks, like ethereal wraiths. He zoomed in on one of the images, but the figure was too faint, almost like a reflection in water.
His mind raced as he walked down the narrow street toward the small teashop by the river. The town was coming alive, the sounds of chatter and the clink of tea cups filling the air. He sat down at a wooden table where Madhuri was already waiting, her eyes scanning the river as if she were waiting for something—or someone.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” Viraj confessed, setting his camera bag on the table. “I kept thinking about what I saw. Those figures in the water. I thought it was just my imagination, but the photos…”
Madhuri nodded slowly, her gaze soft yet distant. “You saw them, didn’t you?” Her voice was steady, but there was a hint of something older, wiser in it.
“I don’t know what I saw, but they weren’t normal. There’s something there, Madhuri. I have to know more.”
Madhuri remained silent for a while, stirring her tea, before she spoke again. “People come here looking for beauty, Viraj, but there’s more to Bhedaghat than what meets the eye. Some stories are passed down, whispered between generations, and some… some should remain forgotten.”
Viraj leaned forward, his interest piqued. “What kind of stories?”
Madhuri’s eyes narrowed as she looked toward the Narmada River, her voice lowering. “The river has been a witness to many things—births, deaths, floods… But there’s one story that’s older than this town. A story of a flood that came without warning, hundreds of years ago. A flood that swept away a caravan of travelers—men, women, children. They were crossing the river when the waters rose up in an instant, carrying them away. They never stood a chance.”
Viraj’s pulse quickened. “That’s the legend I heard about. The travelers who drowned.”
Madhuri nodded, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Yes. But it’s more than just a story. The flood came so suddenly, so violently, that the people believed the river was angry—punishing them for something. After that, the town was never the same. The spirits of the drowned travelers became part of the river. Some say their souls are trapped here, waiting for others to join them. It’s said that the marble cliffs are the gateway to the underworld, and on nights like last night, when the moon is full and the fog rolls in, the spirits appear. They glide between the rocks, calling to those who dare to look.”
Viraj listened, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of her words. He had always been a skeptic when it came to myths and legends, but there was something in her tone that made him hesitate. The photographs he had taken were proof of something—something that couldn’t be explained away as a trick of the light or his imagination.
“Are you saying that these… these figures in the water are the spirits of those travelers?” Viraj asked, incredulous.
Madhuri’s gaze was steady, her expression unreadable. “I’m not saying anything, Viraj. All I know is that the river has a way of keeping its secrets. And if you keep pursuing this, you may find that some stories are better left untold.”
Viraj felt a chill run down his spine. There was something more to this place than the picturesque cliffs and the tourist attractions. He had come looking for beauty, but what he was finding instead was a mystery that tugged at the edges of his sanity.
“I have to know more,” Viraj said, his voice almost a whisper.
Madhuri sighed, her eyes locking with his. “You might wish you didn’t.”
Chapter 3: Through the Marble Gorge
Viraj barely slept again that night. The photos he had taken kept replaying in his mind, each image more haunting than the last. He could still see the faint figures gliding through the water, their forms dissolving in the moonlight, like ghosts who existed between the world of the living and the dead. The more he thought about it, the more the skepticism he’d once clung to slipped away. There was something real here, something that couldn’t be easily explained.
The next morning, after a restless night, Viraj met Madhuri near the riverbank. The sun was still low, casting long shadows on the ground, and the town was just beginning to stir to life. Madhuri didn’t say much, but there was a new weight to her presence, a quiet resignation in her eyes. She was waiting for him to come to terms with what was happening, as though she already knew how it would unfold.
“You ready for the boat ride?” she asked, her tone flat but calm.
Viraj nodded, his camera equipment slung over his shoulder, his mind buzzing with questions. Today, he wanted to get a closer look at the marble cliffs, the heart of the legend that had been shared with him. Madhuri led him to a small wooden boat docked at the river’s edge. The boatman, an old man with weathered skin and a tired expression, nodded silently as they climbed in.
The boat creaked as it pushed off, its slow glide across the water almost meditative. The Narmada River stretched out before them, its surface smooth like glass, reflecting the white cliffs in sharp contrast to the green vegetation that lined the banks. The beauty of the place was undeniable, but to Viraj, it now felt heavy, burdened with the weight of something far older than the town itself.
Madhuri, with her eyes fixed on the water, spoke again. “These cliffs,” she began, her voice a low murmur, “have been here for centuries. They’ve seen things—things we can’t even begin to understand. The marble’s white because it’s pure, untouched. But it’s also cold, lifeless, like it has no soul of its own.”
Viraj looked up at the towering white rocks, the sheer size of them almost overwhelming. As they drifted further into the gorge, the cliffs grew even taller, forming jagged walls that narrowed the passage, turning the river into a winding channel. The air grew heavier, as though the weight of the rocks above pressed down on them, muffling all sound except the soft splash of the boat’s oars.
“There’s something strange about the way the light hits these rocks,” Viraj said, adjusting his camera. “It’s like they’re alive, almost glowing in the moonlight.”
Madhuri glanced at him, her face unreadable. “The river speaks to those who listen. The cliffs are part of the Narmada, part of the spirit of this land. They remember things. Old things.”
Viraj didn’t respond. Instead, he focused on the water, trying to shake the unease that had crept into his chest. As they moved deeper into the gorge, the fog began to roll in, just like the previous night. It was subtle at first, a thin mist hovering just above the water, but soon it thickened, swirling around them like a living thing.
“That’s strange,” Viraj muttered, looking around. “The mist wasn’t there a moment ago.”
Madhuri didn’t answer. She was staring ahead, her expression tense. The boat moved through the mist, and Viraj felt a strange shiver run down his spine. The air was colder now, the water darker, and the sense of isolation, of being cut off from the rest of the world, was suffocating.
Suddenly, a figure appeared in the distance—pale, almost translucent, its form flickering between the mist and the rocks. Viraj’s breath caught in his throat. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was one of the figures from his photos, but this time, it was real.
He reached for his camera, but before he could raise it to his eye, the figure vanished, slipping into the fog as quickly as it had appeared. Viraj blinked, his heart racing. He turned to Madhuri, but her face was pale, her lips pressed tight.
“Did you see that?” Viraj asked, his voice hoarse.
Madhuri nodded, her gaze unwavering as the boat drifted on. “The river has many secrets, Viraj. You’re seeing what others have seen before you. But be careful… not all things should be captured in a photo.”
The boat continued deeper into the gorge, but Viraj was no longer focused on the landscape. His mind was racing. What had he just witnessed? And why did it feel like the river was trying to tell him something? Something he wasn’t ready to understand.
Chapter 4: A Glimpse of the Unseen
The day after the boat trip, Viraj found himself in a state of restless agitation. His thoughts were consumed by the ghostly figure that had appeared before him in the mist. He couldn’t shake the image from his mind—the way it had glided so effortlessly between the rocks, disappearing just as quickly as it had come into view. He had tried to reason it away as a trick of the light or a figment of his imagination, but deep down, he knew it was something more. Something that couldn’t be explained away so easily.
Sitting at the small desk in his guesthouse room, Viraj stared at his camera, its lens pointed toward the window that framed the river in the distance. He hadn’t gone back to the cliffs yet; the eerie presence of the mist still hung in the air. Instead, he had spent the morning poring over old books and articles about Bhedaghat, hoping to find something that could explain the strange phenomena.
Most of what he found was typical tourist fare—the beauty of the marble cliffs, the serenity of the Narmada River, and a brief mention of the Dhuandhar Waterfall. But then, he came across something else—a passage in an old historical text that caught his attention. The book was a collection of local folklore, its pages yellowed and fragile. He flipped to a chapter on the ancient history of the region and found a story that seemed to echo the words Madhuri had spoken.
“In the year 1609, a flood rose from the Narmada without warning, taking the lives of a caravan of travelers. The flood came as if summoned by the river itself, and the water carried their bodies far beyond the reach of the survivors. The town of Bhedaghat, once a prosperous trading post, was left abandoned and broken, its people believing that the river had claimed the souls of the travelers as its own. The spirits of the drowned wander the cliffs at night, calling to those who dare venture too close to the river.”
Viraj felt a coldness seep into his bones as he read the words. The flood—the caravan—the drowned travelers—it all matched the story Madhuri had told him. But it wasn’t just a story; it was a historical event, something that had happened in the very place he stood now.
He leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. Could the legends be true? Could these spirits really be the souls of those who had drowned centuries ago, now trapped between the living and the dead, haunting the river and the cliffs?
Viraj was pulled from his thoughts by a knock on the door. He opened it to find Madhuri standing there, her expression as unreadable as ever.
“I thought you might want to see something,” she said quietly, her eyes glancing nervously over her shoulder as if making sure no one was watching.
“What is it?” Viraj asked, a sense of unease settling over him.
“I think it’s time you saw the cliffs at night again,” she replied, her voice low and urgent. “There’s something you need to understand. Something I should have told you sooner.”
Viraj hesitated for a moment, his mind already filled with the memory of the pale figure from the boat ride. But he knew he had no choice. His curiosity had already led him this far, and now it was driving him to uncover the truth.
He grabbed his camera and followed Madhuri out of the guesthouse. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the distant hum of the river. As they walked down the path toward the boat dock, Viraj couldn’t help but notice the tension in Madhuri’s step, the way her gaze flicked nervously around, as though she were expecting something—or someone.
Once on the boat, the boatman didn’t speak, and the journey into the gorge began in eerie silence. The moon was rising, casting its pale light over the river, and the mist began to form again, swirling around them like a living presence. The cliffs loomed ahead, their white marble surface glowing faintly in the moonlight.
As the boat moved deeper into the gorge, Viraj felt the temperature drop. The air grew heavier, the mist thicker, and then, just as it had happened before, the figures appeared.
This time, there were more of them—dozens of pale, ethereal shapes, moving silently between the rocks. Viraj’s heart pounded in his chest as he raised his camera, trying to capture the images, but the figures were too fleeting, too elusive. His hands trembled as he snapped shot after shot, desperate to hold onto the proof that something otherworldly was happening.
But as he reviewed the photos, he saw something that made his blood run cold. In the last image, one of the figures was closer, its form clearer than the rest. It wasn’t just a silhouette—it had a face. A face that seemed to be looking directly at him, its hollow eyes filled with a sorrow he couldn’t comprehend.
Viraj’s breath caught in his throat. He had seen it. The spirit. The ghost of the drowned travelers.
Madhuri turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re calling to you, Viraj. They’ve been waiting for someone to listen.”
Chapter 5: The Luring Mist
The night after the boat ride, Viraj sat in his room, surrounded by his photographs. He had been reviewing them over and over again, his mind struggling to grasp the significance of what he had witnessed. The figure—the face—was undeniably real, yet it was impossible to believe. How could something so ethereal, so fragile, exist within the harsh reality of the world he knew?
But the photos were there, proof that something beyond the ordinary was unfolding in Bhedaghat. He had always been drawn to the unknown, to places where history and myth intertwined, but this was different. This was something ancient, something far more powerful than he had ever encountered.
Viraj couldn’t sleep. The pull of the Narmada River, of the marble cliffs and the ghostly figures, had become too strong. He felt like he was caught in a web, slowly being drawn into a story that was not his own. The mist, the whispers, the sorrow in the faces of the spirits—it all haunted him, filling his mind with an insatiable need to uncover the truth.
At dawn, he met Madhuri by the river. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed with the weight of something unspoken. She had been quiet all morning, her usual calm replaced by an air of urgency.
“You were right,” she said softly, her voice barely carrying over the sound of the river. “There’s no denying it anymore. You’ve seen what’s out there. And now they’ve seen you.”
Viraj frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The spirits,” Madhuri continued, glancing nervously toward the water. “They’ve been waiting for someone to come, someone who could see them. The river doesn’t just show its secrets to anyone. It chooses.”
Viraj felt a chill settle in his chest. “You’re saying I was chosen?”
Madhuri nodded, her face grim. “Chosen to see the truth. But you’ve also been chosen to become part of the story. The spirits are restless, Viraj. They don’t just appear to anyone. They appear to those who have a connection to them. And now they’ve marked you.”
Viraj shook his head. “I don’t understand. I’m just a photographer. I came here to capture the beauty of this place, not to get involved in some ancient myth.”
Madhuri’s eyes darkened. “It’s not a myth. It’s real. The flood that took those travelers, the curse that binds them to the river—it’s all real. And now the river wants something from you.”
The weight of her words hit Viraj like a physical blow. He had suspected as much, but hearing it from her made it undeniable. The spirits—the pale figures that haunted the river—were real. And they were calling to him.
As if on cue, the air around them began to grow thicker. The mist that had hung low over the water the past few nights began to rise, curling around the boat dock like a living entity. The temperature dropped, and a strange stillness filled the air. It was as if the world had paused, holding its breath.
Madhuri stepped back, her eyes wide with fear. “It’s happening again,” she whispered.
Viraj turned to look at the water. The mist had grown dense, swirling around the marble cliffs, and there, emerging from the fog, were the figures. The pale shapes moved with an unnatural grace, their bodies gliding just above the surface of the water, casting no reflection.
Viraj’s heart raced as he reached for his camera, his hands trembling. This was it—this was the moment he had been waiting for. He focused his lens, capturing the figures as they moved silently, their presence both beautiful and terrifying. But just as he pressed the shutter, something changed. The figures halted, their movements frozen in place.
For a brief, heart-stopping moment, the mist parted, and Viraj saw them more clearly than ever before. Their faces were no longer blurred, their features sharp and distinct. They were not mere shadows; they were people—people who had lived and died, their souls trapped in the Narmada’s depths.
And then, one of the figures turned toward him. It was a woman, her pale face gaunt and hollow, her eyes dark and empty. She reached out a hand, her fingers curling as though beckoning him.
Viraj’s breath caught in his throat. The air around him thickened, the mist wrapping around him like a suffocating embrace. He felt the pull, a deep, irresistible force drawing him toward the water, toward the waiting figures. It was as though the river was calling his name, urging him to join them.
“Madhuri!” Viraj gasped, stumbling backward, his hands still gripping the camera.
But Madhuri wasn’t there.
The boatman had disappeared, leaving only an empty, rocking boat behind. And in that moment, Viraj understood. The spirits weren’t just calling to him—they were luring him, drawing him into their world. The river’s hunger was insatiable.
“Madhuri!” he called again, but the words came out as little more than a whisper, lost to the wind.
The figures began to move toward him, their silent forms gliding across the water, and for the first time, Viraj realized he wasn’t just a witness. He was a part of their story now, a story that would not be easily forgotten.
Chapter 6: The Temptation of the River
The next morning, Viraj woke with the remnants of a dream still lingering in his mind. It wasn’t a dream, though. It was a memory—a vision of the pale figure, her outstretched hand beckoning him to the water. He could still feel the coldness of her touch, the emptiness in her hollow eyes. The vision had been so real, it was as though it had seeped into his soul, dragging him further into the river’s dark mystery.
The mist had not lifted since the night before. It clung to the Narmada like a heavy shroud, filling the air with an otherworldly stillness. Viraj stepped out of his guesthouse, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and curiosity. He had tried to dismiss the events of the previous night, to convince himself it was just the power of suggestion, but deep down, he knew the truth. The spirits, the river, the ghosts of the drowned travelers—they were real. And they were waiting for him.
He walked slowly down the path toward the riverbank, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the dense fog. The boatman was already there, standing near the dock, his expression unreadable. Viraj hesitated for a moment before nodding in his direction.
“Ready?” the boatman asked, his voice low and gravelly.
Viraj didn’t reply at first, his eyes scanning the water. The river was eerily quiet, its surface smooth and reflective like a mirror. But beneath that stillness, there was something else—something he couldn’t quite name. It was as though the river itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
“I’m ready,” Viraj finally said, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at his gut.
The boat ride was silent, the boatman’s steady strokes the only sound breaking the oppressive quiet. The mist seemed to swallow everything around them, blurring the line between reality and the supernatural. As they moved deeper into the gorge, the marble cliffs towered above them, their sheer whiteness glowing softly in the dim light of the morning. But it was not the cliffs that held Viraj’s attention now; it was the water.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that the river was watching him—that it was alive in a way he couldn’t understand. He had always seen nature as a passive observer, but now it felt different. The Narmada seemed to have a consciousness, a presence that was impossible to ignore.
As they approached the heart of the gorge, the temperature dropped sharply, the chill sinking deep into Viraj’s bones. The boatman looked back at him, his face shadowed in the mist.
“They are here,” the boatman murmured.
Viraj followed the man’s gaze. For a moment, he saw nothing. But then, just beyond the boat, the mist parted briefly, and he saw them. The figures. The same ghostly apparitions he had captured on camera—pale, translucent shapes that glided silently through the water. They moved with an unnatural grace, their bodies barely touching the surface, like spirits caught between two worlds.
Viraj’s heart raced. The figures had appeared again, and this time, there were more of them. He could see them clearly now, their faces twisted in sorrow, their hollow eyes fixed on him. The temptation to reach out to them, to join them in their silent, eternal journey, was overwhelming. It was as though the river itself was calling to him, urging him to step into its depths.
Viraj swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he lifted his camera. He tried to focus on the figures, to capture them on film, but as he raised the camera to his eye, a strange pull gripped his chest. He felt his fingers loosen on the lens, his arms growing heavy, as if the river were drawing him in with invisible threads. The figures seemed to sense his hesitation, and one of them—the woman from his dreams—glided closer, her pale face now so close he could almost touch it.
Her eyes locked with his, and for a moment, Viraj thought he saw something different in them. Not emptiness, not sorrow, but a kind of longing—a longing to be free, to escape the river’s grip. He felt it too, a deep yearning to be part of something greater, something eternal.
His breath caught in his throat as the woman reached out toward him. Her hand, cold and ghostly, brushed against the surface of the water. He felt a tremor run through his body, a strange warmth spreading through his chest. The pull was irresistible. The river seemed to whisper to him, its voice soft and insistent, calling him to join the spirits in the depths.
“Madhuri,” he whispered, his voice trembling. He needed her. He needed something to pull him back from the edge.
But the river was already pulling him in, the mist thickening around him as the boat rocked violently. The figures closed in, their silent presence suffocating.
“Madhuri,” he repeated, his voice louder this time, as though calling out to someone far away, someone who might save him from himself.
And then, as if on cue, the mist began to lift, and the figures vanished, slipping back into the water like whispers fading in the wind. The boat stopped rocking, the pull subsiding as the river returned to its peaceful stillness.
Viraj sat frozen, his heart still racing, his body covered in cold sweat. The woman’s hand had been so close, so very close. But now, all that remained was the silence. The temptation was gone, but the feeling lingered—a pull that would not easily be forgotten.
He turned to the boatman, his voice barely a whisper. “Take me back.”
The boatman nodded, not questioning, not speaking. He simply turned the boat, and they began the journey back to shore, the river’s silent watch over them never ceasing.
Chapter 7: Echoes from the Depths
Viraj’s mind had become a storm of conflicting thoughts, a swirling mixture of fear, fascination, and an undeniable pull toward the Narmada River. Each time he tried to rationalize what he had seen, his thoughts grew clouded, weighed down by the memories of the pale figures—those silent, sorrowful spirits that had haunted him since the first night he laid eyes on them. But now, the danger was real. The pull they had on him was undeniable.
He had avoided the river for the past two days, hiding away in the guesthouse, his camera resting untouched on the desk. He had tried to bury the truth—the fact that he was no longer merely a witness but an active participant in their world. The spirits wanted him, and somehow, he had become part of their eternal story.
But even in the silence of his room, Viraj couldn’t escape the growing sense of urgency. It wasn’t just his own safety at stake anymore; the river was calling to him, pulling him closer with every passing hour. The temptation to return to the marble cliffs was too strong to resist.
Madhuri had remained distant since the last boat ride. She had been quiet, almost as though she were waiting for something to happen, for him to make a decision. But Viraj knew what he had to do. He couldn’t run from it any longer. The spirits weren’t just calling him to witness their existence; they were calling him to understand their pain, their grief, and to free them from their endless wandering.
That evening, he found himself once again standing on the riverbank, the fog already beginning to creep in. The moon was full, its pale light reflecting off the water, casting the landscape in an ethereal glow. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, and the river seemed to hum with a strange energy.
He looked around, searching for any sign of Madhuri, but she was nowhere to be seen. The boatman had also disappeared. It was just him and the river now, as though the world had grown smaller, more confined.
With a deep breath, Viraj stepped onto the boat, his camera hanging loosely at his side. He had made up his mind—he needed to go deeper, to understand what had happened centuries ago, to hear the truth that the river had been hiding all this time. He rowed out, the boat drifting silently across the glass-like surface of the water.
As they moved further into the gorge, the mist thickened around them, a living fog that wrapped itself around the boat like a suffocating blanket. The marble cliffs rose around him, their sharp, jagged edges looming like ancient guardians, watching, waiting. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional splash of the oar against the water.
Suddenly, a figure appeared in the distance. A woman—pale, ghostly, with dark eyes that seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. She was standing on the water, her feet barely touching the surface as she moved toward him. Viraj’s breath caught in his throat. It was her—the same woman from his dreams, the same one who had reached out to him.
Her face was clearer now, her expression filled with a deep, endless sadness. She seemed to float closer, moving with an eerie grace, her presence powerful and commanding.
The river hummed louder now, as if the very water beneath him was alive, resonating with the pulse of the woman’s spirit. The boat rocked gently in the current, but Viraj barely noticed. He was frozen, his eyes locked onto the woman’s gaze. Her mouth didn’t move, but he could hear her voice clearly in his mind.
“Help us,” the voice whispered, “Free us from the river’s grip. Only you can hear us. Only you can release us from our endless waiting.”
Viraj’s heart pounded as the figure reached out, her hand coming to rest gently on the side of the boat. The coldness of her touch sent a shiver down his spine, and he could feel a strange pull, an almost magnetic force drawing him toward the water.
“But how?” he whispered, his voice trembling. He could feel the weight of the question settle on his chest, heavy and suffocating. “How can I help you?”
The woman’s face shifted, her expression shifting from sorrow to something else—something darker, more desperate. The water around him began to churn, the river’s surface breaking apart like the surface of a pond disturbed by a stone. Shadows swirled beneath the water, dark shapes moving just out of reach.
“You must give yourself to the river,” the woman’s voice echoed, clearer now, as though the river itself was speaking through her. “Only then will we be free. Only then will we find peace.”
Viraj recoiled, his mind reeling with the weight of her words. He could feel the pull intensifying, the river’s hunger growing. The spirits weren’t just trapped—they were bound by a curse, and to free them, he would have to make an unimaginable sacrifice. He had thought he was here to uncover the truth, to photograph the haunting beauty of Bhedaghat. But this was no longer about the photos. This was about breaking the cycle, releasing them from their eternal suffering.
His hands shook as he reached for his camera, the weight of the decision settling on him. There was no going back now. He had crossed the line from witness to participant. And the river, with its dark, whispering depths, would never let him go.
Chapter 8: The Final Offering
Viraj’s mind spun in chaotic circles as the river’s pull grew stronger. The woman—the spirit—stood in front of him, her eyes dark, her voice a haunting whisper that reverberated in his skull. “You must give yourself to the river.” Those words echoed in his mind, over and over again, as though the Narmada itself had carved them into his very soul.
His camera had fallen to the bottom of the boat, forgotten, its lens still pointing skyward. Viraj couldn’t think about the photos anymore. He couldn’t think about the article he had come here to write. The river was no longer just a place to capture beauty. It had become a living entity, alive with ancient power and unspoken demands.
As the spirit moved closer, Viraj could feel the temperature drop, the air growing thick with mist, as though the very atmosphere had become part of the river’s will. The boat creaked under the weight of the tension, the eerie stillness pressing in from all sides. He could hear nothing except the gentle lap of the water against the hull and the pounding of his own heart.
The woman’s face had shifted again, her lips curling into something like a smile, though it was twisted, hollow—empty. She reached out with her slender, translucent fingers, her touch sending an icy shock through his body. Viraj recoiled instinctively but found himself unable to pull away. The spirit’s presence was undeniable, inescapable.
“Please,” Viraj whispered, his voice barely audible over the growing hum of the river. “Tell me what I have to do. I don’t understand.”
Her eyes seemed to soften for a moment, as if recognizing the struggle within him. Then, without a word, she turned her gaze toward the depths of the river, where shadows seemed to shift beneath the surface. The water rippled unnaturally, as though something—or someone—was waiting just below.
“You must choose,” the woman said softly, her voice like the wind through reeds. “The river takes what it is owed. The souls of the lost must be released. But there is a price to be paid. A soul for a soul.”
Viraj’s pulse quickened. He could feel the weight of her words in the marrow of his bones. A soul for a soul. The Narmada was not asking for his life—not yet—but for something else. A sacrifice. The very essence of the bargain was something primal, something ancient, tied to the curse of the river itself.
“You’ve been marked,” she continued, her voice echoing strangely, “chosen by the river. Your presence here was no accident. You are part of this story now.”
He wanted to deny it, to reject the growing sense of inevitability that hung over him. But deep down, he knew it was true. The spirits had found him, just as they had found countless others before him. And now, the river’s hunger could no longer be ignored.
The boat began to rock violently, the water churning beneath them. Viraj’s mind raced, his thoughts fragmented as he tried to grasp at any shred of control. But everything felt out of his hands. He was no longer in charge. The Narmada was the one that decided. It always had been.
“Tell me,” Viraj pleaded, his voice desperate, raw with fear. “How do I free you? How do I release you from the river?”
The woman’s face became clouded with an emotion he couldn’t place—a mixture of sadness, longing, and something darker. She moved closer still, her form now so close to his that he could feel her cold breath on his skin. Her eyes, once hollow, now seemed to glimmer with something like recognition.
“To free us,” she said, her voice now carrying the weight of centuries, “you must give yourself to the river. Enter the water, and you will become one with us. Only then will the spirits find peace. Only then will the river’s curse be lifted.”
Viraj felt his heart stop. The air around him seemed to stifle his breath, the mist swirling more thickly now, as though the river itself was tightening its grip on him.
But as the woman’s words sank into him, something shifted within him—a deep, primal understanding. He had come to Bhedaghat to capture a story, but now the story had captured him. There was no turning back. The river had already claimed him, and the price had already been set.
The woman reached out again, her cold fingers brushing against his cheek. This time, Viraj didn’t pull away. He closed his eyes, letting the chill wash over him, feeling the final threads of resistance slip away.
In that moment, Viraj understood. The river didn’t just take life. It took memories, dreams, stories. It consumed everything, leaving only echoes behind.
With a final, shuddering breath, he stepped into the water. The boat rocked once more, violently this time, but it didn’t matter. The river had claimed its offering.
And in the distance, far beyond the reach of the cliffs, the spirits began to fade.
Chapter 9: The Silent Return
The cold water closed around Viraj like a veil, wrapping him in its icy embrace as he sank deeper into the river. His lungs screamed for air, but it was as though the river had already claimed him, its depths pulling him further into a world that existed beyond human understanding. He felt weightless, caught between life and death, between the living and the spirits that haunted this place. The Narmada had taken him.
But as the water surged around him, the world above—the world he had known—began to fade. There were no thoughts left in his mind, no memories to hold onto. The only thing that remained was the pull of the river, the ancient, all-encompassing force that guided him down into its watery depths.
He should have been terrified, but he wasn’t. There was no fear. Only an overwhelming sense of peace, of surrender to something much greater than himself. The spirits that had haunted the cliffs and the water were no longer strangers to him. He had become one of them, their suffering, their loss, their eternity.
As he sank deeper, his vision blurred, the light from the surface of the water growing dimmer with every passing second. The figures—pale, translucent—began to appear around him, not as shadows but as beings with form. Their faces were not mournful anymore, not filled with sorrow. They were calm, at peace, as if their endless suffering had finally come to an end.
Viraj could see them now—truly see them. The travelers. The lost souls of Bhedaghat. Their faces were no longer twisted in agony. They smiled at him, a soft, knowing smile that filled him with an overwhelming sense of belonging.
In that moment, Viraj understood the full weight of his sacrifice. It wasn’t just about appeasing the spirits. It was about becoming part of their story—an eternal part of the river’s curse. He wasn’t a witness anymore. He wasn’t a photographer trying to capture something beautiful and elusive. He had joined the river, had entered the realm of the spirits, where time no longer held meaning.
But then, just as he was beginning to feel the pull of the river’s depths take him fully, something changed. There was a tug at his heart, a sudden, sharp awareness. A memory. A name.
“Madhuri.”
The name whispered through his mind like a distant echo. It came with a rush of images—her face, her eyes, her voice. The warnings she had given him, the way she had tried to protect him from the river’s grasp. He had ignored her, he had chosen to pursue the story, but now her presence—her love, her concern—felt as though it were breaking through the suffocating grip of the water.
For the first time since he had entered the river, fear crept into his chest. Not the fear of death, but the fear of never seeing her again. The fear of becoming just another lost soul, a nameless spirit wandering the depths of the Narmada forever.
A sudden burst of strength surged through him, and he tried to kick his legs, to move, to fight the river’s hold. But the water was relentless. The spirits that surrounded him, once peaceful, now looked at him with a mixture of sadness and understanding. They were too far gone. They had accepted their fate. And now, he was beginning to realize that he might never return to the world above.
But the voice—Madhuri’s voice—was louder now, clearer. “You don’t belong here, Viraj. You belong to the world above. The story you sought, it’s not over. The river has claimed many, but it can’t claim you forever.”
The pull was still there, but now it was tempered by a force of will stronger than any current. He fought the water, fought the spirits, fought the river’s call with every ounce of strength he had left. And then, as if the river itself relented, the current loosened. The spirits faded back into the shadows of the water, their eyes no longer pleading.
The surface of the river was just within reach. He kicked his legs again, harder this time, his arms flailing, his chest burning with the desperate need for air. The water around him seemed to grow lighter, the pressure on his body easing as if the river was letting him go, allowing him to escape its grip.
His head broke the surface, gasping for air, choking as the cold night air filled his lungs. He was alive. The river had tried to claim him, but somehow, against all odds, he had broken free.
The mist on the water had begun to clear, and in the distance, he could see the faint outline of the marble cliffs, the moonlight shimmering on the water. And beyond the cliffs, the faint silhouette of a figure standing on the bank. It was Madhuri. Her presence, like the light from the moon, had guided him back.
Viraj pulled himself toward the shore, each stroke slower than the last, the weight of his experience pressing down on him. The spirits of the river were still there, but he had escaped. He had returned to the world of the living, to the land of stories yet to be told. The Narmada River had claimed many, but it had not claimed him.
Not yet.
Chapter 10: The River’s Last Whisper
Viraj’s body felt heavy as he dragged himself onto the shore, his muscles weak from the battle with the Narmada. His skin was pale, his chest heaving with each desperate breath he took, but his mind was clear—clearer than it had been in days. The river had released him, but only just. He could still feel the faintest traces of its pull, like the echo of a haunting melody, lingering just beyond the reach of his thoughts. The spirits, too, were still there—he could feel them watching, waiting, but they no longer had the same hold over him.
He looked up at the figure standing on the shore. It was Madhuri. Her silhouette, illuminated by the soft moonlight, seemed almost ethereal, like she was a part of the river itself, something beyond human comprehension. The sight of her brought a rush of relief. For a moment, he could hardly believe that he had made it back—that he had escaped the river’s grasp.
“Viraj…” Her voice trembled with emotion, her face softening as she hurried to him, her eyes wide with concern. She knelt beside him, her hands gently touching his cold, wet skin. “What happened? I—I felt something. I didn’t know if you’d…”
Her words trailed off as she looked into his eyes, a question hanging between them. The depth of her concern was clear, but so was the realization that he had returned different. Something about him had changed.
“I was there,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, as though speaking too much hurt. “I saw them… the spirits of the travelers. They were all there, waiting for me. They wanted me to join them. They wanted me to become one of them. But… I couldn’t. I couldn’t stay.”
Madhuri’s eyes filled with sorrow, her lips trembling as she reached for his hand. “I knew it,” she said softly. “I knew you’d be pulled in. The river doesn’t let go so easily. But you’re here now. You’re back with me.”
He nodded slowly, still trying to catch his breath. The memory of the river’s depths, the endless darkness, seemed so far away now. But it was still with him, lurking beneath the surface of his thoughts, like an unfinished story that refused to be ignored.
“What’s going to happen now?” Viraj asked, his voice strained as he looked out at the river. The Narmada shimmered in the moonlight, the surface calm and peaceful, as though nothing had changed. But he knew better. The river was never truly at peace. It would always be there, its depths filled with the lost and the restless.
Madhuri’s gaze followed his, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the gentle lapping of the river against the shore.
Finally, Madhuri broke the silence. “You’ve seen the truth, Viraj. You’ve felt the pull. But you also came back. The river is never truly satisfied—it takes what it wants and leaves behind what it doesn’t need. But you… you’re not just a part of the story now. You’ve changed it. You’ve broken its cycle.”
Viraj looked at her, confusion clouding his features. “I don’t understand. How did I break it? I almost… I almost became one of them. One of the lost souls.”
She smiled faintly, her expression gentle. “By returning, you chose to live. You chose to break free of their hold. The river can claim anyone, but you didn’t let it take you. You fought back. And that’s something the spirits can never do. They’re trapped in an endless cycle of yearning. But you… you found a way out.”
Viraj looked down at his hand, still gripping hers. For the first time, he felt the weight of everything that had happened—the river, the spirits, the choices he had made. He hadn’t just come here to take photographs. He had come here to witness something much greater than he could have ever imagined.
And in the end, he had become part of a story far older than any he could ever tell with his camera.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Viraj murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “The river… it will never stop calling.”
Madhuri’s hand tightened around his. “No, it won’t. But you’re not alone anymore. You’ve seen the truth, and you’ve returned. You’ll carry that truth with you, but you don’t have to be lost in it. You have the power to choose.”
Viraj turned back to the river, his gaze drifting over its tranquil surface. The spirits were still there, he could feel them—watching, waiting, as they had always done. But he was no longer afraid. He had come to understand them, to understand the river, and he had made his choice.
The moonlight shimmered on the water, casting a soft, silvery glow over the landscape. It was peaceful, but Viraj knew better than to believe that peace could last forever. The river had its secrets, and he had uncovered them. But the river would always have more to give, more to take. It would call to him again someday, and he would have to decide whether to listen or walk away.
For now, though, he was free.
For now, the story was his to tell.
The End
