The distant hum of the train faded into the stillness of the landscape as Dr Anya Patel stepped onto the cracked platform of a forgotten village. The cool morning breeze ruffled her hair, and the sun, still climbing the sky, cast long shadows over the crumbling buildings that lined the road ahead. For years, she had read about this place—its tragic history buried in archives and whispered about by elders who remembered, yet refused to speak of it. Now, standing on the soil that had borne witness to an untold horror, she felt a pull deeper than mere professional curiosity.
Her fingers brushed against the aged photograph in her coat pocket. The faces in the photo—sombre and worn—had haunted her ever since she found it in the back of a dusty university archive. Those eyes seemed to reach out to her, demanding recognition, begging for their stories to be told. Among them was a face that tugged at something buried in her past: her grandmother.
Her grandmother had never spoken of the war, the conflict that had torn their homeland apart. Growing up, Anya had sensed a quiet sadness in her, a heaviness that lingered in the space between them. But questions about the past were always met with silence. And then, she was gone, leaving only fragments of stories behind—fragments Anya had tried to piece together.
The road was silent now. The villagers she had come to meet, those few who remained, lived on the edge of this place, where time seemed to stand still. Her footsteps echoed against the walls of abandoned houses as she walked further into the heart of the village, her breath catching in her throat. There was something eerie, unsettling, about the stillness, as if the village itself was holding its breath, waiting.
Her thoughts returned to the photograph. The photograph that had led her here. Why had some faces been blurred, erased from the frame? And why did it feel like those who were left behind had been forgotten, erased from history itself?
Anya knocked on the door of the first house she saw with a flicker of life—a small, humble dwelling with smoke rising from its chimney. The door creaked open, and an old man bent with age squinted at her through the dim light.
“You’re not from here,” he said, his voice raspy but alert.
“No,” she replied, trying to steady her voice. “I’m a historian. I’m here to learn about this village. About what happened… many years ago.”
The old man’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing. “There’s nothing here for you, just ghosts,” he muttered, turning to shut the door.
“Please,” Anya urged, stepping forward. “My grandmother lived here once. I think… I think she was part of something… something important. I need to know the truth.”
The door paused in its arc. The old man’s gaze softened, and after a long silence, he opened the door wider, motioning her inside.
RAJAT CHANDRA SARMAH
GUWAHATI, ASSAM, INDIA
07/09/2024
mail ID: rajatchandrasarmah@gmail.com
musingofrajat.wordpress.com 