The Jinn Tales My Grandmother Told — Truth or Just Stories?

The Jinn Tales My Grandmother Told — Truth or Just Stories?

Every night after dinner, my cousins and I would gather around our Dadi Amma, her back resting against a giant pillow, her silver hair glistening under the ceiling fan.

And then it would begin — the stories.

Not about fairies or kings.

About Jinns.

“Don’t leave your shoes upside down,” she’d say, “or they’ll follow the scent.”

“Never call someone’s name after midnight — especially if you think you hear them outside.”

“Don’t ever burn peepal tree leaves. They don’t like that.”

We’d gasp.

Laugh.

Shiver.

And fall asleep in groups, too scared to be alone.

She told us about the well behind her village, where a woman once heard her name whispered back — in her own voice.

She told us of her own wedding night, when the oil lamp went out and the tray of sweets floated gently down the corridor, untouched by hands.

Back then, I thought she was just being dramatic.

Until one night, she stopped mid-story.

Her face turned pale.

“There’s one story I never tell,” she whispered. “Because it’s not finished yet.”

We begged her to share.

She refused.

That was the first night I saw her eyes water.

Years passed.

We grew up. Became busy. Dadi Amma passed away in her sleep at the age of 91. The house felt emptier than ever — not because she was gone, but because her presence lingered.

One winter evening, while cleaning the old attic, I found a cloth pouch tucked inside her wooden chest.

Inside: a handwritten notebook.

“قصے نہیں… سچ” was scribbled on the cover. (Not stories… truth.)

My hands shook as I flipped through the pages.

Names I remembered from her stories.

Locations she never shared with us.

Dates, even weather descriptions.

One entry read:

> “24 March 1963 – The jinn woman came to our home again. She asked for sugar. I gave her salt by mistake. My mirror cracked that night.”

Another entry:

> “3 December 1974 – My sister woke up with burnt feet. She said she saw a man of smoke. He vanished when the azan started.”

These weren’t bedtime tales.

They were a log.

I sat alone in that attic for hours, trying to decide:

Had she truly seen these things? Or had she simply believed them?

Then came the moment that changed everything.

In the final pages of the notebook, I found this line:

> “My grandson will read this one day. He’ll hear the knocks too. I’ve seen it.”

That night, as I lay in bed, unsure whether to laugh or cry…

I heard it.

Three soft knocks on my window.

I live on the third floor.

No balcony.

No trees nearby.

No explanation.

I didn’t open the curtain.

I didn’t sleep.

And I haven’t opened that notebook again.

But I kept it.

Because whether her stories were truth or fiction, they carry a kind of power that outlives both the teller and the listener.

I still don’t know what I believe.

But I don’t sleep with my shoes upside down anymore.

And I never call out if I hear someone say my name at night.