Ramlal didn't return to the field that day.
He stood on his porch, arms folded, praying, as he watched the scarecrow from a distance. The red thread around its wrist moved leisurely in the morning breeze, teasing him.
He had seen the thread previously. Years ago. His grandmother had formerly tied a similar thread to the house's gates as part of a village ceremony. She had spoken of a binding spell to trap the unrested souls. She had told him, "Never untie the thread." Never relocate it. Once linked, the spirit is chained. "But only barely."
He sat down on an old wooden seat and lighted a bidi. His hand trembled when he struck the match.He wanted to think.
By lunchtime, he had called his nephew.
Deepak arrived soon before twilight, riding in on his rusted bicycle, perplexed yet intrigued.
"Kaka, what's going on?" Why is there such an urgency?" He asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Ramlal did not respond right away. Instead, he took Deepak to the edge of the field. The scarecrow stood tall and unmoving, its straw hat creating a long shadow across the dry ground.
"That thread wasn't there before," Ramlal said. "And look at the blood." "On its hand."
Deepak squinted. "It may be paint. Or even an animal—"
"It's blood," Ramlal stated confidently. "And someone tied that red thread last night."
Deepak uttered a halfhearted laugh. "Do you believe someone crept in only to tie a thread? Perhaps the wind pushed it onto—."
"Last night, I heard footsteps. Dragging steps. Then they knocked on the door. "And the scarecrow moved."
Deepak's smile faded.
Ramlal pointed to the ground. "There were footsteps. This leads to the scarecrow. But nobody walks away."
Deepak was silent now, his gaze shifting between the scarecrow and his uncle.
Ramlal continued, "I need your assistance. Bring the temple oil light from your home. The person blessed during Holi. Don't tell anyone else. "Especially not the priest."
Deepak hesitated. "You think it's a spirit?"
"I believe," Ramlal remarked, staring at the departing light, "something that should've remained buried has returned."
By evening, Deepak had returned with the brass oil light, its flame flashing wildly as he went.They set it near the window and sat in silence, waiting.
Hours have passed.
The wind outside was calmer than it had been the previous night. But the silence was disconcerting.
It started again around midnight.
Knock.
A pause.
Knock, knock.
This time, it's louder. More forceful.
Ramlal and Deepak remained still. The knocking continued. Then—scratching. Long and slow, like fingernails on wood.
They exchanged glances.
Deepak muttered, "Should we look?"
Ramlal nodded once and approached the door, snatching a sickle from the wall. Deepak held the oil lamp with both hands.
They opened the door.
No one was present.
To be continued......