The Smoke of a Deserted Ghat

Brikshapur was a forgotten village in northern Bangladesh, a place whose name was only found on old maps, but did not exist on Google Maps. One could reach it after a day’s journey, passing a narrow dirt road, tea gardens and an old dam. In the center of the village was a dry ghat, around which the tarred road never reached—only fog and shadow reached.

Beside that deserted ghat, a dilapidated temple had stood for ages, its broken spires were used by ants and bats. And one day, next to that ghat, the bodies of Anjali aunt and Haridhan were found—eyes gouged out, tongues cut out, and their bodies laid in the ground as if they were the elements of some ancient puja.

The incident followed a terrifying series of strange disappearances and forgotten events—thatched houses burning at night, missing children, and mysterious shadowy figures seen in the shadows of bamboo groves, which seemed to grow more numerous as time went by near the ghat. The villagers began to say among themselves—the old water goddess had awakened again.

In those shadows, where people no longer set foot after dusk, smoke occasionally rose from the water—unobtrusively, yet timeless, as if calling out to someone’s soul.

It was cold, and the air carried a damp restlessness that mingled the smell of water and earth.

The road was broken, and leaves hung limply by the side of the road like torn rice. The further the path went, the darker the color of the earth became, and the smoke seemed to sit right on one side of the road. This smoke did not say anything, did not do anything—yet it brought such a touch that it seemed to make the body tremble.

Nevertheless, one day Rahul bravely set foot on that road.

He had taken a leave from the city to Vrikshapur for some research—folk mythology, rural rituals and reforms centered on the water ghats as part of his master's thesis. He enjoyed the first few days of being away from the comfort of the city, coming to this solitude, but then an ancient warning bell rang throughout his body.

On the first night, he heard whispers in the fog. On the second night, he saw the water of the ghat from afar slowly overflowing towards the house, but there was no sign of it in the morning.

On the third night, he accidentally touched an old water chowki near the temple.

That night, he returned to his room and could not close the door—because standing on the other side of the door was the shadow of his mother, who had died three years ago. But that shadow of his mother did not speak. He was holding only a lamp in his right hand—an old, smoldering brass lamp.

The next morning, the villagers found Rahul sitting on the edge of the ghat, his eyes half-open, his body cold—and foaming at the mouth. His diary was kept next to him, the last entry of which was—

“The water is calling me. I have come to know that they are not just old goddesses—they are made of water, they want to return to water. The smoke of the ghat is actually a soul, and when their worship stops, they awaken. I understand. I am too late.”

The villagers burned the diary. Rahul’s body was floated in the river without any full religious ceremony.

Since then, every year on November 2, the smoke can be seen rising from the ghat again. Just as the winter makes the soil soft under the deciduous trees—so does the soft soul awaken. They wait… for another traveler.