Arjun Nair
Part 1 – The Arrival
The train screeched into Netarhat station just before dusk, scattering a few sleepy dogs off the tracks. Meera Joshi stepped down with her rucksack, adjusting her glasses against the thick blanket of humidity that clung to the air. She was thirty-two, a wildlife biologist with years of fieldwork behind her, yet this place carried a silence she had never felt before. The sal trees stretched in dark rows beyond the station, their shadows already deepening with the falling light, as if the forest had secrets it was unwilling to share with newcomers.
A forest guard named Prakash was waiting for her, leaning against a jeep painted with the faded green of the Forest Department. His face carried both exhaustion and caution, as if the land itself weighed on him. “Madam, we should leave quickly,” he said, glancing at the treeline. “The forest after sunset is not safe.”
Meera chuckled. “Wild animals don’t wait for clocks, Prakash. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t smile back. Instead, he muttered, “It’s not the animals you need to worry about.”
The jeep jolted down a dirt track, past villages of mud huts and flickering lanterns. Children stopped their play to watch her, whispering something she couldn’t hear. At one bend, Meera noticed a group of tribal elders gathered around a bonfire. Their eyes followed the jeep, unblinking, their faces painted with white ash. She felt the weight of their gaze long after the vehicle moved on.
The rest house was a crumbling British-era bungalow, swallowed by vines and the smell of damp earth. Its wooden shutters rattled in the evening wind. Inside, there was a single kerosene lamp and the faint echo of dripping water. Meera dropped her bag, stretched her stiff shoulders, and stepped onto the veranda.
That was when she heard it—faint, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat. Drums. Far away, somewhere deep in the sal forest. Slow, deliberate beats, carrying a chill that the warm air couldn’t explain.
Prakash stiffened. “Stay inside, madam. That’s not for us.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, leaning over the railing.
He lowered his voice. “Kaal Van. The dark grove. No outsider should go near it. The drumming starts when the shadows wake.”
“Shadows?” Meera raised an eyebrow. “You mean people?”
His face remained grave. “Not people. Not spirits. Something in between. My advice—do your work with elephants, leave the rest alone.”
But Meera had never been the kind of woman to turn away from a mystery.
That night, she tried to sleep on the iron cot inside her room. The forest hummed with crickets, owls, and the occasional rustle of branches. Yet beneath it all, the drumbeats continued—sometimes fading, sometimes returning stronger, like an unseen pulse guiding the forest.
Around midnight, she woke with a start. Someone was knocking on her door.
“Who’s there?” she called.
Silence.
She stepped cautiously toward the door, pressing her ear against the wood. No sound, no footsteps, just the thud of her own heart. Slowly, she lifted the latch and pulled it open.
The corridor was empty.
But at the far end, scratched into the wall with what looked like charcoal, were three words:
“Don’t follow them.”
Meera stood frozen. Her breath turned shallow, the hairs on her arms rising. She had locked the door herself earlier. No one could have come in.
And yet, the words were fresh.
From the forest outside, the drumbeats rolled again—louder this time, almost urgent.
She closed the door and backed away, her mind racing. Science had taught her to seek evidence, not superstition. Still, as she slid under the blanket, clutching her torch like a weapon, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the sal forest was alive, watching, waiting.
And for the first time in her career, she wondered if she had walked into something larger than herself.
The shadows had already noticed her.
Part 2 – The Myths
The morning broke with a mist that clung low across the sal groves, turning the world into shades of silver and green. Meera stepped out with her notebook and binoculars, trying to shake off the unease of the night. The scratch on the wall—Don’t follow them—still gnawed at her thoughts, though she told herself it must have been some prank by a villager, or perhaps Prakash trying to scare her.
She walked toward the water tank behind the bungalow, watching a pair of hornbills swoop between trees. The air smelled of damp leaves and wild turmeric. For a moment, she let herself relax, listening to the forest breathe. But when she bent to fill her bottle, she noticed something etched into the stone base of the tank: a circle with three lines running through it. The same symbol she had seen in anthropology journals—associated with tribal rituals of protection.
Prakash appeared from the path carrying firewood. He saw her tracing the mark and frowned. “Madam, don’t touch that. It is not meant for you.”
“It’s a tribal symbol,” she said. “What does it mean?”
He avoided her eyes. “It keeps the shadows away. At least, that is what they believe.”
“And you? Do you believe it?”
He set down the wood with a thud. “Belief is not the question. Fear is real, madam. Last year, a schoolteacher stayed here. He went into Kaal Van to collect firewood. Never came back. We searched for weeks. Found only his bag, hanging from a tree.”
Meera felt a shiver crawl up her neck, but she pressed on. “But surely there’s an explanation. Smugglers, maybe? Or wild animals?”
Prakash shook his head. “Animals leave bones. Men leave signs. Here, there is nothing. Just silence.”
Later that day, Meera walked to a nearby village to meet the headman. The path wound past terraced fields and grazing cattle, until the huts came into view—mud walls, thatched roofs, smoke curling from cow-dung fires. Children played with wooden tops, pausing to stare at her like she was an apparition.
The headman, a wiry man with sharp cheekbones, introduced himself as Lakhiram. His hut smelled of mahua liquor and dried herbs. When Meera asked about Kaal Van, his eyes darkened.
“The forest remembers, madam,” he said in a low voice. “Long ago, our ancestors sealed a curse there. Men who defy the forest—cut too much wood, dig too deep—they vanish. The Chhaya Purush take them.”
“Shadow men,” Meera whispered.
He nodded. “They wear no face. They come when the drums sound. If you see them, run. If you hear them call your name, close your ears. They will take you into the dark.”
Meera scribbled notes furiously. “Have you seen them?”
Lakhiram hesitated, then unwrapped a cloth bundle. Inside was a wooden mask—long, hollow eyes, painted black with streaks of red. “This was found near the grove. Not ours. Not made by any hand we know.”
Meera touched the mask lightly. The wood felt cold, unnaturally smooth, as though polished by something other than tools.
Before she could ask more, a woman burst into the hut, weeping. She held a boy by the arm—no more than ten, his leg covered in scratches. The villagers gathered quickly, whispering. Lakhiram demanded an explanation.
The woman sobbed, “He went near the grove to chase a goat. He says he saw a tall man in the shadows. The man called his name. He ran, but the forest cut him.”
Meera crouched beside the boy. “What did you see?”
The boy’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated. His voice was barely a whisper. “No face. Only darkness. But he knew my name.”
That night, back at the rest house, Meera sat by the kerosene lamp, replaying every detail. Rational explanations tangled with the irrational. Could traffickers be using the myths as camouflage? But then—how did the boy hear his name?
The drumbeats began again, steady, louder now, as though they were closer. Meera gripped her pen, forcing herself to document it: Beats at intervals of five seconds. Approximate direction: southeast.
Then she froze.
From outside her window, through the mesh screen, a voice whispered—clear, deliberate, intimate.
“Meera.”
She spun around, heart pounding, torchlight slicing the darkness. Nothing. Just the sal trees swaying.
Her notebook slipped from her hand.
The shadows had spoken her name.
Part 3 – The Discovery
Sleep was impossible. The whisper of her own name still echoed inside Meera’s skull as she sat upright on the iron cot, clutching the torch like a weapon. Every creak of the old bungalow sounded magnified, every gust of wind against the shutters like a hand trying to get in. The drumbeats had faded, but the silence that followed was worse—thick, expectant, as though the forest was holding its breath.
At dawn, she decided to act. If she let fear rule her, her work would never begin. Notebook slung across her shoulder, binoculars strapped to her chest, she stepped out into the misty forest. Prakash tried to stop her. “Not today, madam. The forest is restless. I can feel it.”
Meera managed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “All the more reason to understand it.”
They followed elephant tracks down a narrow trail, dew still glittering on the undergrowth. Birds called overhead, but even their song seemed restrained, cautious. After two hours of walking, the trail opened into a clearing. Meera stopped short.
The ground was scorched black, as if fire had swept through recently, though there were no ashes, no fallen trees. At the center lay the remains of huts—burnt wooden posts, collapsed thatch, the skeleton of a small settlement.
“What is this place?” Meera whispered.
Prakash shifted uneasily. “Old mining camp. They left years ago. But people say the shadows drove them out.”
Meera knelt, brushing away leaves from the soil. Her fingers touched something cold—metal. She pulled it free: a rusted lantern. Beside it, half-buried in the earth, a small leather-bound notebook.
She opened it carefully. The pages were brittle, smudged with soot, but words were still legible: “Patrol day 47. Movement near grove. Not spirits. Men in masks. Cannot report—orders from above to stay silent. If I don’t return—this book is my truth.”
The name on the inside cover jolted her: Officer R. Sen, Forest Department. She remembered the story—an officer who vanished five years ago, last seen heading into Kaal Van. Officially, it was written off as an accident.
Her breath quickened. This was no myth. Someone had been here, watching, silencing.
As she tucked the journal into her pack, a sound split the air—a low moan, not animal, not wind, but human. It came from the trees at the edge of the clearing.
“Stay here,” she told Prakash, though her voice trembled.
Pushing through the sal trunks, she found a hollow tree, its bark scarred with deep claw marks. Inside the hollow were toys—wooden tops, a rag doll missing one arm, and a tin lunch box. Dusty, forgotten. Meera’s stomach knotted. Children had lived here.
The moan came again, this time beneath her feet. She crouched, pushing aside leaves, revealing a crude trapdoor made of planks and rope. Heart pounding, she lifted it. A wave of cold, damp air hit her face.
Steps led down into the earth.
She hesitated only a moment before climbing down, torchlight cutting through the dark. The passage smelled of rot and smoke, the walls shored up with timber beams. Deeper inside, she found what she feared—rusted chains bolted into the walls, broken clay pots, scraps of fabric. A prison, hidden under the forest floor.
Her torch caught something else—writing on the wall, scrawled in desperate hands: “THEY ARE NOT GODS. THEY ARE MEN.”
A noise from behind made her spin. Prakash was at the entrance, his face pale. “Madam, we must leave. Now.”
But before she could answer, a drumbeat thundered through the tunnel—louder than ever, so close it shook the beams.
Prakash yanked her arm. “They know we are here.”
They scrambled up the steps, bursting into the clearing. The forest was no longer silent. Whispers hissed between the trees, too many voices to count, all speaking in low tones that twisted into her name.
“Meera…”
The journal slipped from her hand.
She grabbed it back, clutching it to her chest as they ran through the undergrowth, the drumbeats chasing them like a predator’s footsteps. Branches whipped against her arms, roots clawed at her ankles, but she kept moving, the whispers pressing closer.
When they finally stumbled back onto the dirt track near the rest house, the drums stopped. Silence fell again, sudden and absolute.
Meera doubled over, gasping, sweat stinging her eyes. Prakash was trembling. “You should leave, madam. Tonight. Before it is too late.”
But Meera straightened, clutching the journal like a lifeline. Fear was one thing. Evidence was another.
Whatever haunted this forest, it was no mere legend. Someone had been silenced. Someone powerful didn’t want the truth out.
And she was not leaving without uncovering it.
Part 4 – The Hunt
By evening the rest house felt smaller, as though the forest had pressed closer, its shadows leaning against the walls. Meera spread the journal across the desk, tracing every brittle word of Officer Sen’s notes. Pages spoke of movements at night, masked figures near the grove, and orders from “above” to stay quiet. She underlined the last entry: If I don’t return—this book is my truth.
The lamp flickered. Somewhere outside, a nightjar cried. And then—soft footsteps on the veranda.
She froze.
The steps circled once, twice. Slow, deliberate. She switched off the lamp, gripping her torch. Through the gap in the shutter, she saw them: three figures standing in the clearing, unmoving. Tall, draped in dark cloth, faces hidden by wooden masks.
The Chhaya Purush.
Her chest tightened. They weren’t spirits. They were men. But how did they know she was here? And why tonight?
One of them lifted a drum and beat it once—deep, resonant, final. Then, in perfect unison, they melted back into the trees.
Prakash burst into the room, his face slick with sweat. “Madam, they know your name now. You must leave tomorrow.”
But Meera’s voice was steady, even as her hands shook. “No. Tomorrow I go deeper. I need proof.”
At dawn she packed her camera, recorder, and the journal. Prakash refused to follow. “Go alone if you must. I have a family.” His eyes held both guilt and terror.
Meera walked into the forest alone, following the southeast trail where the drums had sounded strongest. Hours passed. The air grew heavier, the canopy thick, sunlight swallowed whole. At last she found what she was looking for—a second clearing, larger, ringed by sal trees carved with strange symbols.
At its center stood a pit covered with bamboo lattice. She pushed it aside and gagged. Inside were sacks of coal, iron tools, and crates marked with the seal of a mining company she recognized from newspaper exposés—linked to a local MLA under investigation.
So that was it. Illegal mining hidden behind myth. Shadows used to scare tribals, to keep outsiders away.
She raised her camera, snapping photos furiously. But as the shutter clicked, she felt it: eyes watching.
From the treeline, masks emerged. Five this time.
Her breath hitched.
She ran.
The forest became a labyrinth, trunks closing in, roots reaching to trip her. The drumming began again, faster, chasing her heartbeat. She stumbled, fell, scrambled up, clutching the camera to her chest. Whispers threaded the air, curling around her ears.
“Meera… stop…”
Her lungs burned. She darted toward a stream, hoping water would mask her trail. She waded in, cold biting her ankles, mud sucking at her shoes. The voices followed. She climbed the far bank, collapsed behind a fallen log, holding her breath.
The drumming stopped.
Silence.
Then—a hand clamped over her mouth. She thrashed until a low voice hissed, “Quiet. They’ll hear.”
She turned. A boy of maybe fourteen crouched beside her, eyes wide with urgency. She recognized him—the same boy who had been scratched near the grove.
“They’ll kill you,” he whispered. “Come.”
He led her through a hidden path, ducking beneath branches until they reached a small cave masked by creepers. Inside, faint light revealed tribal paintings on the walls—hunters, animals, and faceless figures with drums.
Meera sank against the stone, gasping. “Who are they?” she asked.
The boy’s voice trembled. “Not gods. Not spirits. Men who work for the netas. They come at night, wearing masks, so no one dares question. They took my uncle when he spoke against mining. He never came back.”
Her chest tightened. The journal, the pit, the whispers—everything lined up. A crime disguised as folklore.
She switched on her recorder. “Tell me your name.”
“Biru,” he said.
“Biru, will you tell the world what you’ve seen?”
He nodded slowly, fear warring with courage. “If it saves my people.”
But before she could ask more, a sound shattered the cave’s silence—a drumbeat, so close it shook the stone. Then another.
The shadows had followed.
Biru’s face went pale. “They know you came here.”
Meera gripped her recorder, her camera, the journal—her only weapons. Proof was in her hands, but survival was slipping away.
And outside the cave, the masked figures waited, patient as predators.
Part 5 – The Shadows Unmasked
The cave walls pulsed with each drumbeat, dust sifting from the cracks as if the forest itself were trembling. Meera’s torch beam flickered across Biru’s terrified face. His small hands clutched her sleeve, urging silence. But the steps outside grew louder—measured, unhurried, certain.
Meera’s mind raced. Evidence she had—photographs, the journal, the boy’s testimony. But what use were they if she never left this forest alive?
The bamboo at the entrance rustled. A masked figure bent low, drum slung over his shoulder. Behind him came two more, their movements fluid, rehearsed. They filled the mouth of the cave, sealing off escape.
Biru whispered, “They will take us. Say nothing. Close your ears.”
But Meera stood, torch in one hand, recorder in the other. “Who are you working for?” she demanded, her voice louder than her fear. “Why hide behind stories of spirits? Why kill your own?”
The figures did not reply. Instead, one stepped forward and ripped the mask from his face.
Meera’s heart stopped.
It was Prakash.
The loyal forest guard, the man who had warned her every day. His eyes were cold now, stripped of pretense. “You should have left when I told you, madam. You don’t know what you’ve walked into.”
Her throat tightened. “You were part of it all along.”
Prakash’s smile was thin, bitter. “We are only tools. Orders come from above. From men in white clothes who sit in air-conditioned offices. We do what we’re told. And those who ask too many questions—become shadows themselves.”
He lifted the drum and struck it once. The cave echoed like a tomb.
Two men seized Biru. The boy screamed, thrashing, but their grip was iron. Meera lunged forward, only to be slammed against the wall. Her recorder clattered to the ground, still blinking red, still capturing every word.
Prakash bent close, his breath hot. “You want the truth? The Holloways, Officer Sen, the villagers who vanished—they all tried to resist. Mining money is stronger than justice, madam. You think your notebook can fight that?”
Meera spat blood, defiance flaring. “If I die here, someone will find it. And your truth will burn.”
His jaw tightened. For a moment, doubt flickered in his eyes. Then he raised his machete. “No one will find you.”
But before the blade could fall, Biru’s small voice pierced the cave. “Leave her!” He twisted free just long enough to snatch the torch from the ground and hurl it at the bamboo entrance. The dry creepers caught instantly, fire leaping upward, smoke choking the cave.
Chaos erupted. Men coughed, stumbled, masks catching sparks. Meera grabbed her recorder, shoved the journal into her bag, and pulled Biru toward the back wall where the smoke was thinner. She spotted a fissure in the rock—narrow, jagged, but passable.
“Go!” she shouted, pushing him through.
Flames roared, heat blistering her skin. Behind her, Prakash bellowed, “You’ll never escape! The forest belongs to us!”
Meera squeezed into the crack, stone tearing at her arms. She crawled blindly, heart hammering, until the fissure spat her and Biru out onto the forest floor. They tumbled into the undergrowth, coughing, eyes streaming. Behind them, the cave mouth belched black smoke, shadows writhing inside the fire.
They ran.
Branches whipped at their faces, roots clawed at their feet, but they kept going, driven by raw terror. The drums were gone now—replaced by the crackle of fire and the shrieks of men unmasked by their own myth.
At last, they burst into the clearing near the rest house. Dawn was breaking, light spilling across the sal trunks like a benediction. Meera collapsed onto the steps, clutching her bag to her chest. Inside lay the journal, the camera, the recorder—all the proof she needed.
Biru sat beside her, silent, eyes wide. His small body trembled, but his voice was steady when he said, “Now you know the truth. Will you tell the world?”
Meera wrapped an arm around him. “Yes. Even if it kills me.”
That night, as she prepared to leave Netarhat, she paused one last time on the veranda. The forest was quiet, soot-stained clouds still drifting from the direction of the cave. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it was over—that the shadows had been burned away.
And then she heard it.
A single drumbeat. Faint, distant.
She froze.
Was it only memory? Or had the shadows survived the fire, waiting for the next outsider to wander too deep?
She could not know.
But as her jeep rattled down the road toward the station, she whispered to herself, “The forest remembers. And so will I.”
The sal trees watched her go, their silence as heavy as ever.
Part 6 – Return to the City
The train to Ranchi clattered across the plains, carrying Meera away from the sal forest, though its shadows clung to her like a second skin. She sat by the window, her rucksack pressed against her chest, unwilling to let it out of her sight. Inside were three things that mattered more than her own life: Officer Sen’s journal, her camera with photographs of the pit, and the recorder with Prakash’s confession.
Biru slept on the opposite berth, his small frame curled under a woollen shawl given by a sympathetic passenger. Every few minutes he twitched, muttering in his sleep. The boy had been through more than most adults ever would, yet he clung to her presence as if she were his last anchor.
As the train approached Ranchi, the skyline of half-built towers and smoky chimneys rose against the sky. Civilization, but not safety. Meera knew the men who had built their empire on shadows would not let her walk away.
She booked a small hotel near Lalpur Chowk under a false name. The receptionist barely looked up, more interested in his cricket commentary than in guests. The room smelled of stale incense and damp plaster, but the lock was firm, the curtains heavy. She placed her bag on the table, double-checked the latch, and only then allowed herself to breathe.
Her first call was to Anil Menon, her former editor at the Delhi paper. His voice, warm at first, hardened as she explained.
“Illegal mining in Netarhat? Masked men terrorizing tribals? Meera, this isn’t a report—it’s suicide.”
“You know me,” she said. “I don’t exaggerate. I have proof. A dead officer’s journal. Photographs. A boy who witnessed everything.”
Silence stretched. Finally, Anil sighed. “Send it to me. But don’t use email. They monitor everything now. Courier it. And Meera—be careful. You’re up against people who own judges, ministers, even police commissioners.”
After the call, she typed furiously on her laptop, drafting her story. Each line felt like a battle cry. The forest is bleeding. The shadows are not gods—they are men in masks, men with power. She saved the draft on a pen drive, tucked it inside her shoe.
That night, exhaustion claimed her. She locked the bag, shoved a chair under the door handle, and collapsed onto the bed. The hum of ceiling fans drowned out the city noise. For the first time in days, sleep came heavy and deep.
She woke to silence. Too much silence.
Her eyes flew open. The chair was still wedged under the door, but her bag—her bag was unzipped. The journal lay inside, untouched. The camera too. But the recorder—the recorder was gone.
Her heart lurched. She tore through the sheets, the corners of the room, even under the bed. Nothing. Someone had been in here while she slept.
She stumbled to the door, ripping it open. The corridor was empty, the air heavy with disinfectant. At the far end, she glimpsed the elevator doors closing. She sprinted, but when they opened again in the lobby, only a stray cat wandered through.
The night clerk blinked at her dishevelled state. “Problem, madam?”
She forced her voice calm. “No. Nothing.”
Back in her room, she sat trembling on the bed, the reality sinking in. They knew exactly where she was. They had touched her belongings, stolen only the recorder. A message.
Her phone buzzed. No caller ID. She answered with a shaking hand.
A whisper crawled through the line: “Leave it buried.”
The call cut before she could speak.
Her skin prickled with ice. She shut the phone off, ripped the SIM card out, and flushed it down the toilet. Still, the whisper clung to her ears. They had stolen her voice—the confession—and warned her that the shadows stretched even here, beyond the sal forest.
Biru stirred awake, rubbing his eyes. “Didi, what happened?”
She forced a smile. “Nothing, Biru. Go back to sleep.”
But inside, her resolve hardened. They thought they had silenced her. They thought the city would make her small, afraid.
They were wrong.
She picked up the journal, its pages fragile but still burning with truth. She touched her pen drive hidden in her shoe. Two weapons left. Enough to start a fire.
She whispered to herself, “If they want me silent, I’ll make the world louder.”
But outside her window, across the street, a white SUV sat idling. Its headlights were off.
And she knew the hunt had only just begun.
Part 7 – The Silent Threat
Ranchi mornings had a strange way of feeling both alive and suffocating. The streets outside the hotel teemed with rickshaws, vendors shouting prices, office clerks rushing with steel tiffins. Yet from her window, Meera only saw the white SUV. It hadn’t moved since dawn.
She sipped the bitter hotel tea, her notebook open on the table, trying to steady her hand. Biru sat cross-legged on the bed, drawing on scraps of paper with crayons the receptionist had given him. His lines were jagged, frantic: trees, masks, and drums. She tried not to look too long.
By mid-morning, she walked to an NGO office she knew from her Delhi days—Jeevan Nyaya, a small organization that worked on tribal land rights. Its signboard was peeling, its walls damp, but the receptionist’s eyes brightened when she introduced herself. Within minutes, she was ushered to a modest room where a man in his forties sat behind a desk stacked with files.
“Advocate Kunal Deshmukh,” he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm, his voice steady. “Your editor called me. Said you had something urgent.”
Meera laid the journal and photographs on his desk. His expression changed as he flipped through them.
“This…” He tapped the page with Sen’s last entry. “…this is dynamite. If you publish, they’ll try to destroy you. If we take it to court, they’ll try to destroy me too.”
“Then we do it together,” Meera said. “The world must know.”
Kunal studied her, then nodded. “We’ll draft a petition. But you must be careful. These people don’t fight with law—they fight with fear.”
That evening, she returned to the hotel lighter, as if the burden was finally shared. She opened her laptop, connected to Wi-Fi, and uploaded her draft article to a secure folder. But when she opened the document again, her chest tightened.
The file was blank.
Every line she had written—the whole draft—gone. In its place, three words blinked in bold black letters:
LEAVE IT BURIED.
Her throat closed. She yanked the laptop shut, breath coming fast. Someone had been inside her system. Not the hotel staff, not random hackers—them.
A knock rattled the door. She jumped.
“Room service,” a voice called.
She hadn’t ordered anything. She motioned Biru to stay quiet, pressed herself against the door, and peered through the peephole. A man stood with a tray. But the tray was empty.
She didn’t open. After a long silence, the footsteps retreated.
That night, she barely slept. Every car horn outside, every shuffle in the corridor felt like a warning. Around midnight, her phone—her new prepaid one—buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
It read: You are being watched.
She deleted it, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Two days later, the inevitable happened.
She was crossing Albert Ekka Chowk, Biru’s small hand in hers, when she felt it—eyes boring into her back. She turned. Among the rush of people, two men stood too still, too clean. Sunglasses, identical shirts. One of them smirked when he saw her notice.
She quickened her pace, pulling Biru along. They followed.
Through the market, into narrow lanes, past vegetable sellers shouting over cauliflowers and chilies. Every turn she took, they mirrored. Finally, she ducked into a crowded tea stall, crouching behind crates of glass cups. Biru clung to her.
The men walked past slowly, scanning the crowd. One leaned to whisper into a phone. The other glanced back once, lips curling into that same smirk.
They didn’t need to catch her. They just needed her to know: escape was impossible.
That evening, she returned to Kunal’s office shaken. He looked up from his papers, concern flickering.
“You’re being tailed,” she said flatly.
He nodded. “Of course. They’ve been here too. Left a dead crow on our doorstep this morning.”
Biru whimpered at the words. Kunal put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “They want us frightened. That means your story is real.”
As she left, she noticed something pinned to the NGO’s gate. A newspaper clipping, old and yellowed, with a photograph of Officer Sen. A red cross was drawn across his face.
Her stomach turned.
Back at the hotel, she found the room door ajar. Her pulse hammered as she pushed it open.
Everything was in place—the bed, the bag, the journal. Nothing stolen this time. But on the pillow lay a single wooden mask.
Carved with hollow eyes, painted black with streaks of red.
She dropped it instantly, bile rising in her throat.
Biru clutched her arm. “Didi, they know we’re here.”
Meera forced herself to breathe, forced her shaking hands to pick up the mask, to look it in the eyeholes. Her fear hardened into fury.
“They want silence,” she whispered. “Then we will make noise.”
But as she spoke, the lights flickered, and the power cut out, plunging the room into darkness.
From the corridor came the steady sound of footsteps—closer, closer—until they stopped right outside her door.
And then, softly, a single knock.
Part 8 – Allies and Betrayal
The knock lingered like a heartbeat against the wood. One. Two. Then silence. Meera stood frozen, clutching the mask in one hand, Biru’s wrist in the other. She forced herself to whisper, “Don’t move.”
Minutes crawled by. No more sounds, no retreating footsteps. At last she edged toward the door, heart hammering, and peered through the peephole. The corridor was empty, though the faint smell of cigarette smoke still hung in the air. Whoever it was, they wanted her to know they could reach her anytime.
By morning, the mask lay at the police station desk. The constable on duty flipped it in his hands, uninterested. “Probably a prank, madam. Ranchi boys, you know.”
Meera’s voice was sharp. “This is not a prank. People are missing. A forest officer was killed. Do your job.”
The constable smirked. “Do your job, madam. Write stories. Leave policing to us.”
Fury boiled in her chest, but she knew arguing was pointless. Outside the thana, the white SUV idled again, its windows blackened.
She returned to Kunal’s office with dark circles under her eyes. He listened, jaw tight, as she described the mask and the police’s indifference. “They’re bought,” he said grimly. “Half the local force is on mining payroll.”
Meera leaned across the desk. “Then it’s us. We go national. We go loud. I’ll take this to Delhi.”
Kunal hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll arrange safe passage for the boy. You must leave tonight.”
For the first time, Meera allowed herself hope. Maybe she wasn’t alone. Maybe justice could still claw its way through the mud.
But hope was always the sharpest trap.
That evening, as she packed, the phone rang. Anil, her editor. His voice was taut. “Meera, don’t travel tonight. I just got a call—from Delhi itself. High levels. They know what you have. I’ve been warned to kill the story. If you don’t stop, they’ll…” He trailed off.
“They’ll what?” she pressed.
Silence. Then: “They’ll bury you. Like they buried Sen. Please, don’t make me print your obituary.”
He hung up.
She sat on the bed, staring at the journal, the photos, the mask she had retrieved despite herself. Every proof of truth weighed like a curse.
Biru touched her arm. “Don’t stop, Didi. If you stop, they win.”
She smiled faintly, though her eyes burned. “I won’t stop.”
The next day, as she walked to meet Kunal, the city heat pressing down, something felt wrong. The street was too quiet. Shops shuttered, dogs absent.
She turned the corner—and froze.
A crowd had gathered near the NGO office. People murmured, craned necks. Police tape fluttered in the breeze.
Her legs carried her forward on their own, dread pounding through her skull. The building’s entrance was charred, black smoke stains curling up the walls. Firefighters doused the last embers. And on the steps, covered by a sheet, lay a body.
Someone whispered, “Advocate Deshmukh. Poor man. Hit-and-run first, then this fire. Must have been his bad karma.”
Meera staggered back, bile rising in her throat. Bad karma, they said. She knew better. Kunal had stood beside her less than twelve hours ago. And now he was ash.
Biru clutched her hand, his voice tiny. “They killed him, didn’t they?”
Meera swallowed hard, forcing her tears down. “Yes. Because he helped us. Which means we’re closer than ever.”
But inside, despair gnawed. Another ally gone. Another proof of how deep the shadows stretched.
That night, as she typed from her hotel, she felt the weight of eyes again. She looked out the window. Across the street, not one but two SUVs now. Men smoking, laughing softly. Watching.
She typed anyway, words tumbling out like blood from a wound. They silence lawyers, they silence officers, they silence children. But silence is not victory. Silence is the proof of guilt.
She hit save, backed the file onto two pen drives, slipped one under the mattress.
Then, exhaustion broke her.
When she woke at dawn, the laptop screen was still glowing. Her file was open. And new words had been typed at the bottom, words she had not written:
“You are next.”
Her stomach turned to ice. She snatched the pen drive, stuffed it into her shoe, and shook Biru awake. “Pack. Now. We leave before they close the net.”
But as she stepped into the corridor, suitcase dragging behind her, a figure stepped from the shadows.
Prakash.
The same guard who had once guided her through the sal trees, now in city clothes, his smile cruel. “Running again, madam?”
She froze, Biru pressed against her leg.
Prakash leaned close, voice low. “You should have listened in the forest. Shadows travel far.”
And with that, two men emerged from the stairwell, blocking her path.
Part 9 – The Last Broadcast
Prakash’s eyes gleamed in the dim corridor light, his smile thin as a blade. “No trains for you today, madam. Only silence.” The two men behind him tightened their stance, shoulders squared, cutting off the exit.
Meera’s fingers clenched around Biru’s wrist. Her mind raced. She had proof hidden, words ready, but what use were they if she vanished like Sen, like Kunal, like the Holloways?
She forced herself calm. “If you kill me, others will come. My editor already knows.”
Prakash chuckled. “Your editor has already folded. The story’s dead. You’re the only one left keeping it alive.” His gaze flicked to Biru. “Unless you want the boy to carry it. But shadows like fresh blood.”
Meera’s body tensed. She couldn’t let them touch him. Not Biru.
And then, luck—or perhaps the forest itself—intervened. A housekeeping cart rattled into the corridor, pushed by a weary woman humming to herself. The men stiffened, stepping back just enough. In that heartbeat, Meera yanked Biru’s arm and darted into the stairwell.
Shouts exploded behind her. Feet thundered down the steps. She ran, lungs burning, shoving through the lobby and into the chaos of Ranchi’s morning streets.
Hours later, she sat in a cramped tea stall near Doranda, sweat soaking her kurta, Biru sipping milk shakily beside her. She had one contact left—someone Anil had once introduced at a journalist conference. Rafiq, a community radio host known for his stubborn streak.
She dialed his number from a borrowed phone. He answered on the third ring, voice wary. “Who is this?”
“Meera Joshi. I have a story. A dangerous one. I need your mic.”
Silence. Then: “If half the rumors are true, you’re mad to call me. But I like mad people. Come tonight. Small station, outskirts. But know this—once your voice is out, there’s no pulling it back.”
“That’s the point,” she said.
The station was a peeling two-room structure tucked behind a bus depot, its signboard faded to almost nothing. Inside, equipment buzzed with old age—tape decks, mics patched with tape, a flickering console. Rafiq was a wiry man with kind eyes and a permanent smell of cigarette smoke.
“You get fifteen minutes,” he said. “After that, they’ll triangulate and shut me down. Maybe worse.”
Meera nodded, throat dry. Biru perched beside her, eyes huge. The journal and photos lay on the desk. For once, there was no running. Only speaking.
The red light blinked. Rafiq gave a nod. The mic hissed alive.
“This is Meera Joshi,” she began, her voice shaking but steadying with each word. “I am a wildlife biologist. And I am here to tell you the truth about the sal forest of Netarhat.”
She read Sen’s entries, her voice raw: Not spirits. Men in masks. Orders from above. If I don’t return, this book is my truth.
She described the pit, the prison beneath the trees, the threats, the mask left on her pillow. Every word spilled like fire, burning away the silence. Biru added his voice, trembling but fierce: “They took my uncle. They tried to take me. They are not gods. They are men.”
For a fleeting moment, she believed. Believed that truth could outrun shadows.
The crash came suddenly—doors splintering, boots storming in. Masked men, drums slung like trophies. Rafiq shouted, “Keep talking! Don’t stop!” before they slammed him aside.
Meera clutched the mic, voice breaking. “They are here now. They are trying to silence me. But the forest remembers, and so do I. If you hear my voice—tell the world.”
Hands wrenched her away. The mic toppled, static flooding the room. She kicked, clawed, screaming Biru’s name.
The last thing she saw before a sack was shoved over her head was Biru being dragged toward the door, his small voice shrieking, “Didi!”
Then darkness.
Somewhere, in a hundred scattered homes, radios crackled that night. Truck drivers on highways, farmers in huts, students in hostels—they heard a woman’s voice naming the shadows, calling them men. They heard the struggle, the chaos, the screams.
And then, silence.
When the sack was pulled off, Meera blinked into firelight. The drums were beating again, steady, triumphant. She was back in the forest. Kaal Van loomed around her, trees like black sentinels.
Prakash stood before her, mask hanging from his hand. His smile was crueler now.
“You wanted the world to hear?” he said softly. “They heard. And soon they will forget. But the forest doesn’t forget, madam. The forest swallows.”
Behind him, Biru struggled in the grip of two men, his eyes wide with terror.
Meera’s throat tightened. She had lit the match. But would she live to see the fire spread?
Part 10 – The Forest Remembers
The drums thundered in the clearing, echoing through the sal trunks like the pulse of the earth itself. Firelight licked the masks of the men encircling her, hollow eyes glinting red. Meera’s wrists were bound, the rope biting her skin. Biru struggled against two of them, his cries sharp, desperate.
Prakash stepped forward, mask dangling from his hand, machete gleaming. “Your voice carried, madam. For a night, people will whisper. But by morning, it will fade. The forest will keep its silence.”
Meera met his gaze, defiance burning through her fear. “The forest doesn’t belong to you. And silence is never forever.”
He chuckled, circling her slowly. “Brave words. Sen said the same. He rots under these trees now. You’ll join him.”
The men dragged her toward the pit—the same bamboo-covered hole where she had found coal sacks. But now it had been emptied, turned into a grave. Smoke rose from its depths.
Biru screamed, “No!”
Meera’s chest heaved, but she forced herself steady. She still had one weapon left—the recorder. She had hidden the second pen drive in Biru’s pocket before they were caught. If he escaped, the truth would live.
She locked eyes with him, willing courage into his small frame. Run when you can. Don’t look back.
Prakash raised his machete. The drums quickened, frenzied, masking the sound of Meera’s heart hammering.
And then—the forest itself answered.
A roar split the night. An elephant herd crashed into the clearing, tusks gleaming, trunks raised. The ground shook under their charge. Men scattered, drums tumbling. Fire pits overturned, sparks leaping into the dry leaves.
Chaos erupted.
Meera threw herself sideways, rolling into the undergrowth. Biru bit the hand that held him and darted free, sprinting toward her. She ripped the ropes against a sharp stone, skin tearing, and pulled him close.
“Run!” she shouted.
They bolted through the chaos, masked men screaming, elephants trumpeting, flames spreading fast. Behind them, Prakash bellowed, voice raw. “You can’t escape! The shadows will always follow!”
Meera didn’t look back.
They stumbled through the sal grove until the firelight faded, until only moonlight guided their steps. Finally, breathless, they collapsed beside a stream. Meera clutched Biru, her chest heaving.
He trembled, eyes wide. “Didi… will they come again?”
She brushed his hair back, her voice hoarse. “Maybe. But the world has heard now. We’re not shadows anymore—we’re voices.”
Two weeks later, in Delhi, the city buzzed with the story that refused to die. Community radio had carried her words farther than anyone expected. Journalists picked it up, NGOs amplified it, opposition parties demanded inquiries. The Netarhat Shadows became a headline splashed across papers, a scandal whispered in Parliament corridors.
Meera stood on a stage at a press conference, Biru beside her, holding Sen’s journal in her hand. Cameras flashed, questions flew. She spoke not of spirits but of greed, of men who hid crimes behind folklore. Her voice carried steady, unbroken.
Some scoffed. Some threatened lawsuits. But others listened. The forest had finally spoken through her.
And yet, on her first night back in her Delhi flat, when the city had gone quiet, she woke with a start. The window was open though she had locked it. On the table lay a mask—black, red streaks, hollow eyes staring.
Her stomach clenched. She stepped forward, heart pounding, fingers trembling as she picked it up. A note was tied to its strap.
Two words, written in ash: “Still here.”
She dropped it instantly, her breath ragged.
From far away, or perhaps only in her mind, she thought she heard it again—the slow, deliberate roll of a drum.
Not from the sal forest this time. From somewhere closer.
The shadows had not died. They had only moved.
