Aman wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands aching from the day's work in the fields. The late summer sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the village. His family's farm was modest, and each day was a grind, yet Aman never complained. He had learned long ago that hard work was all they had to survive.
But as Aman stood by the road, watching Vishal glide by on his gleaming new bicycle, a pang of envy settled deep within him. Vishal's father owned the biggest shop in the village, and the boy had all the luxuries Aman could only dream of.
Aman turned to his younger brother, Sanjay, who was playing nearby. "One day, Sanjay, we'll have enough. Enough for a bicycle, maybe more." Sanjay looked up with wide eyes and nodded, trusting his elder brother's promise, though both of them knew the reality was far from certain.
That evening, Aman and his friends gathered as usual by the village well. Vishal arrived late, riding his bicycle with a flourish, as if to remind everyone of his status. "You lot still walking everywhere, eh?" he teased. "Must be tiring."
Aman clenched his jaw but forced a smile. "It's alright, we manage."
"You should try riding sometime," Vishal said smugly. "Unless you're scared."
Aman shot him a look. "I'm not scared of anything."
The boys laughed, but there was an edge in their voices. They were all aware of Vishal's tendency to provoke, and tonight, he seemed particularly intent on pushing Aman. "Oh, really? Then prove it," Vishal challenged. "Go to the old crematorium after dark. Spend just ten minutes there. Alone."
The group fell silent. The village crematorium was a place shrouded in superstition. The elders spoke of restless spirits and cursed souls wandering its grounds. No one went there willingly, least of all after sunset.
Aman hesitated. The logical part of his mind told him to brush off Vishal's dare, but the gleaming bicycle caught his eye again. This was his chance. "If I do it, I get to ride your bicycle," Aman said firmly.
Vishal smirked. "Deal."
The boys trekked to the edge of the village as twilight deepened into night. The air grew cooler, carrying with it a whisper of something ominous. The path to the crematorium was narrow, lined with twisted trees whose branches seemed to reach out like skeletal hands. Aman's pulse quickened, but he couldn't back down now. The bicycle. He had to think of the bicycle.
When they reached the entrance, the others stopped. "Go on then," Vishal said, his voice quieter now, the bravado faltering just slightly.
Aman steeled himself and stepped through the crumbling archway. The grounds were eerily silent, the usual hum of insects absent, as though nature itself was holding its breath. Tombstones and funeral pyres stood in disarray, half-forgotten by time. A thin layer of fog clung to the earth, swirling around Aman's ankles as he walked deeper into the crematorium.
He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes. That's all he had to endure.
But as he approached one of the larger pyres, a chill ran down his spine. A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. He turned sharply - nothing. Just the flickering shadows cast by the weak moonlight. His breath came quicker now, his heart hammering in his chest. There was a sudden rustle behind him. He froze.
"Aman?"
His name, whispered from the darkness. His blood turned to ice. He spun around, expecting to see one of his friends playing a cruel joke, but there was no one. His legs felt rooted to the spot, every instinct screaming at him to run, but fear held him captive.
"Aman? you shouldn't be here."
The voice, disembodied and distant, echoed through the night air. He squinted into the fog, where a figure began to take shape - faint and wavering, like a mirage. It was a woman, her face obscured by shadows, but her eyes, glowing faintly, bore into his.
"Go? leave this place."
Aman's heart raced. The woman's form flickered like a dying flame, and the air grew thick with dread. He backed away slowly, his feet stumbling over the uneven ground. The bicycle no longer mattered. Nothing did except getting out of this cursed place.
He turned and ran, his feet pounding the earth as if his life depended on it. The crematorium seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, he burst through the archway and collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath.
The boys stared at him, their expressions a mix of fear and disbelief. "What happened?" Sanjay asked, rushing to his brother's side.
Aman couldn't speak. His hand, trembling, reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow, but as he did, he felt a sharp pain shoot through his arm. He looked down in horror - his right hand was gone, severed cleanly at the wrist, though there was no blood, no wound. It was as though his hand had simply vanished into thin air.
The others recoiled in shock, their faces pale. "What? what did you see?" Chiru whispered.
Aman shook his head, still in shock, his mind racing. The woman's words echoed in his ears, and for the first time, he truly understood what the elders had always warned about - the spirits, the cursed souls trapped between worlds.
"I saw? something," he finally whispered. "And I should've listened."
Aman returned home that night, his body trembling with exhaustion and fear. As he sat on the threshold of his small house, he stared at the stump where his hand had once been. His mother rushed to him, tears in her eyes, clutching at his arm. She tried to understand, but the words died on her lips as she saw her son's vacant, haunted eyes.
In the days that followed, Aman could barely speak. His once-strong hands, the very hands that had tilled the fields and supported his family, were now useless. He avoided the well where the other boys gathered, avoided the road where Vishal still rode his gleaming bicycle, free of guilt or consequence.
The whispers began soon after. The villagers murmured about what had happened at the crematorium, of how Aman had tempted fate. Some pitied him, while others believed he had brought the curse upon himself. No one dared speak to him directly, but their gazes lingered, full of silent accusations and fear.
Aman's dreams of a future - of freedom, of a better life, of something as simple as riding a bicycle - shattered like glass. He could no longer work the fields, no longer fulfil the promises he had made to Sanjay. His younger brother watched him with wide, disbelieving eyes, no longer full of trust but of worry and confusion. Aman had been his hero. Now, he was just a broken man.
One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon once more, Sanjay came to Aman, clutching a small, weathered ball. "Bhaiya," he whispered, his voice timid. "Do you want to play?"
Aman looked at him, his heart heavy with the weight of everything he had lost. He forced a smile, though the pain in his chest was unbearable. "I? can't, Sanjay," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I can't."
Sanjay's small face crumpled, and he turned away, tears streaming down his cheeks as he ran back to their house.
Aman remained where he was, alone in the fading light. The weight of his choice, the curse of his greed, pressed down on him like a suffocating blanket. He had lost far more than just his hand. He had lost his future, his dreams, and his connection to the world he once knew.
And no one, not even the spirits that haunted his nights, could return what he had lost.
_____________________________THE END_____________________________________________
