Urmila
Her dove-shaped eyes peered into the darkness. The street lamps shone meekly as they fought a losing battle trying to illuminate the road. The storm had subsided leaving several puddles along the road. She skipped past them as gracefully as she could, taking care not to spoil her dress. She had to hurry back. Her mother would be waiting anxiously. Her illness would only have gotten worse.
A few strands of hair hung loosely as black wisps of the night. Tiny beads of sweat glistened across her forehead. Her bangles jingled rhythmically with each step she took, contrasting with the stillness all around. Her one hand fidgeted nervously with the hem of her saree as the other hand gripped the packet containing the medicines. Her cheeks were flushed. It had taken longer than expected.
The city was a huge place, bigger than she had imagined. Finding the doctor and explaining to him, her mother’s illness had been an arduous task. She literally had to run to make sure she could get back home. She had managed to catch the last bus to her village. The intermediate path from the stop to her house in the village on the lonely road surrounded by vast fields would be an intimidating task for even the bravest of hearts, let alone a docile butterfly.
She was clad in a white saree, the only dress she had which was relatively new. She had preserved it with great care, the last gift from her father before he had passed away. It bought back memories of those wonderful days she had spent with her father, free of care, full of hope. Her father had big plans for her, things she was too young to understand.
After his death, everything had changed. Unknown people had appeared at their doorstep, claiming debts her father had scarcely spoken of. Her mother had tried hard, taking up every chore in every household she could think of. It had taken its toll on her leaving her mother paralyzed. Now she had to take up the responsibility. Poverty was a curse she did not deserve. With her mother’s illness, life had only gotten worse. With each passing day, the creditors had grown harsher, their voices louder, their stares longer.
She looked at the sky hoping for a miracle. It was a moonless night. The stars shone brightly. Her father had told her to believe in miracles. She closed her eyes remembering her father. Suddenly a clear voice pierced the silent night “Excuse me, are you going to Dehra?”.
She froze, too scared to look behindd as heavy footsteps approached and stood in front of her. She looked up and saw a young man. He smiled and told her that his bike had broken down and was waiting for someone to accompany him to the closest village.
Her happiness at meeting someone betrayed her innocence. She nodded. He looked at her as she walked past him. His eyes had a faraway look. His mouth twisted into an evil smirk. A few feet ahead the streetlamps were not working. This was almost too easy…
The next day, a little column in the morning paper read:
Horrific Murder On The Road To Dehra
A terrible murder has occurred yesterday en route to Dehra. It was first noticed by the postman in the early hours of the morning, who immediately notified the police. The police suspect it was done by a local gang who had escaped from the prison recently.
However they are baffled about a time when the crime occurred as it had rained heavily last night, but no footprints other than the victim was present at the scene of the crime. The police have released a statement that the victim was a young man approx. 25 years of age, 6 feet in height.
The usually helpful villagers were reluctant to talk regarding the matter. Finally, after much persuasion, a villager whispered "It was Urmila, sahib.." before hurrying away.
After a bit of investigation the reporter found out that a girl named Urmila was murdered on the same road a few years ago, which has led to a belief among villagers that every moonless night, she walks along the same path.
This highlights the sad fact that even in this modern age, such villages cut off from the outside world, live in poverty and ignorance, still shrouded with superstitious beliefs. There will be no hope until the local politicians and administration put some effort into developing the region, both in terms of education and infrastructure failing which, more innocent people like the young man will continue to lose their lives.”
Vidhatha Vivekananda
Programmer. Interested in nature and philosophy.