The mid-morning sun filtered through dusty windowpanes, casting a golden hue across the cluttered desk of Arjun Iyer. He sat motionless, his coffee untouched, as his eyes scanned the letter for the fifth time.
It wasn't typed. It wasn't even recent.
The parchment, browned with age, was stiff and carried the faint scent of turmeric and camphor. The letter was written in an elegant hand inked in Tamil, using precise strokes. His professor, Dr. Murali, had handed it over that morning with an unreadable expression.
"You're ready, Arjun. This… is your fieldwork."
Arjun had laughed at first. Fieldwork was supposed to be a month in some tribal forest in Chhattisgarh, or maybe an urban slum in Madurai. That's what his seniors did. But this?
Ramapuram?
He had never heard of it.
He turned the parchment over. No map. No coordinates. Just a seal. A curious design: a tree with seven roots and a triangle at the center, encircled by birds in flight. Above it, the Tamil words read:
> "யாரும் மறக்க வேண்டாம். யாரும் பதிக்க வேண்டாம்."
> (Let none forget. Let none record.)
Arjun frowned. For a place that didn't want to be remembered or recorded, it sure was making a dramatic entrance into his life.
He picked up his phone and dialed Dr. Murali's number. No answer. Again. And again.
A note lay on his professor's desk, scribbled in haste:
"Ramapuram is not on Google Maps. You'll need to follow the old railway line from Thanjavur until it ends. From there, walk east. Take only what you need. The village will find you before you find it."
Arjun exhaled. He was beginning to feel like Indiana Jones minus the whip and confidence.
Three Days Later – Thanjavur Junction
He hadn't told his mother everything. She thought he was on a research trip to Coimbatore. Arjun didn't lie often, but this wasn't exactly a standard assignment.
Thanjavur Station buzzed with usual chaos children running behind food vendors, older women haggling over flower garlands, temple priests moving silently in their saffron robes.
He carried a modest backpack field journal, water bottle, pocket recorder, spare clothes, and a copy of the Rigveda for bedtime reading. He wore a simple kurta-pyjama combo, hoping to blend in. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of jasmine.
His rickety local train ended its journey on a single-track line by late evening, at a broken platform surrounded by fields.
No station name.
No ticket counter.
No people.
Just an old rusted sign hanging lopsided on a bent pole. The Tamil lettering was faded, but it faintly read:
> "திரும்பி பார்க்காத இடம்"
> (The Place You Do Not Turn Back From)
"Creepy," Arjun muttered. He glanced at the map again, but there was nothing beyond this point. Not even a dirt road.
He took a deep breath, tightened the straps on his backpack, and began walking east.
The Forest Road
The pathway narrowed as he walked gravel turned to grass, and grass to red soil. Every now and then, he'd hear a rustle in the bushes or the distant cry of a peacock. The jungle loomed larger with each step. The trees here weren't like those in city parks they were ancient, gnarled, with thick trunks that seemed to hum when the wind passed through.
As twilight deepened, the jungle grew quiet. No birds. No insects. Just the sound of his own footsteps and the occasional crackling of dry twigs beneath his sandals.
Then he saw it.
A small wooden sign nailed to a tree. Freshly painted. Simple Tamil script:
> "ராமாபுரம் – 3 கி.மீ"
> (Ramapuram – 3 km)
Who maintained this sign? There was no sign of settlement, no sound of humans, not even the scent of cooking fires.
But something deeper stirred in his chest. A sense of belonging. Or maybe it was anxiety dressed up as intuition.
The First Glimpse of Ramapuram
By the time he reached the outskirts, night had fallen.
There was no gate. No welcome arch. Just a stretch of meadows opening into a slow-moving river, lit by the glow of hundreds of fireflies. The air felt cooler here, charged as though the place was breathing with him.
And then he saw the light.
Faint, flickering, coming from clay lanterns hanging on wooden posts. A cobblestone path led from the riverbank up a gentle slope, where thatched houses peeked between banana trees.
Arjun stepped forward and immediately stopped.
A figure stood at the edge of the path. An old man, skin like wrinkled leather, eyes glowing with a strange kind of mischief. He held a staff carved with symbols Arjun didn't recognize.
"You took your time," the man said in Tamil, his voice raspy but not unfriendly.
Arjun blinked. "You were expecting me?"
"Of course. You're the one with city feet and village blood."
Arjun hesitated. "I'm here for research. My professor sent me"
"We know," the man interrupted, turning slowly. "Come. We have rules. One: you do not ask where the village is. Two: you do not record without permission. And three: if the river speaks to you, you listen."
"I'm sorry?" Arjun blinked again.
But the old man was already walking up the slope, staff tapping the stones rhythmically. Arjun had no choice but to follow.
Inside the Village
Ramapuram wasn't big maybe forty or fifty houses at best. But everything about it was unusual.
There were no electric lights. Yet every home had a lantern that glowed brighter than any oil flame. No wires. No switch. Just light.
There were no cars. Not even bullock carts. Yet everyone moved as though time ran slower here. Effortlessly. As if the place had mastered the art of stillness.
A group of women sat under a neem tree, weaving mats with silver thread. A child climbed a tree backward. Yes, backward hands first, legs dragging behind. Arjun rubbed his eyes.
"Just part of their game," the old man said without turning. "It's Shadow Day."
"What's Shadow Day?" Arjun asked, both fascinated and confused.
"It's the one day in the lunar cycle where children imitate the impossible. It reminds adults that belief bends truth."
That was either profound or ridiculous. Arjun couldn't decide.
They reached a circular hut larger than the rest, its roof domed with black tiles and its walls painted with concentric circles of red and white.
"This is where you'll stay," the man said. "You'll meet Meenakshi in the morning. She'll show you around."
"Who is Meenakshi?"
"The river's favorite. And perhaps yours too," he chuckled.
Arjun stepped into the hut. It was cool inside, almost unnaturally so. The floor was packed with fine clay, soft to the touch. A cot of woven banana fiber stood in the corner, beside a wooden shelf with some earthen pots, a copper tumbler, and oddly an old pocket watch ticking perfectly.
He sat down, unsure what to do. His phone had no signal. His GPS app showed a blank screen. He looked at the watch. The second hand ticked… then stopped… then ticked backward once, before correcting itself.
Strange.
From the doorway, the old man added one final note:
"If you dream tonight, do not ignore it. The village speaks first through dreams."
And with that, he was gone.
Nightfall & The Dream
Sleep didn't come easily.
He lay on the cot, eyes on the ceiling, listening to crickets. Occasionally, he'd hear something like a flute in the distance or was it a bird? The sounds of Ramapuram were unfamiliar, yet soothing.
Then it happened.
He slipped into sleep without realizing, and suddenly, he was standing by the riverbank under a full moon.
Only, it wasn't water.
The river was a mirror.
And when he looked down, he saw not his reflection but a younger version of himself, playing under his grandfather's mango tree in Chennai. That same grandfather who used to hum strange lullabies in Tamil—ones that no one else in the family remembered.
From behind him, a voice whispered:
"You came looking for stories. But stories are looking for you."
He turned around and saw seven figures in cloaks, each holding an object: a scroll, a stone, a flame, a bell, a mirror, a feather, and a small sapling.
They stepped forward together and in unison, said:
"Ramapuram remembers. But only what you choose to forget."
Morning Light
Arjun awoke with a jolt.
The sun was streaming in. Birds were singing. Somewhere outside, a conch shell blew.
He sat up, the dream still vivid.
A knock at the door.
He opened it to find a girl in a bright green half-sari, eyes like burnt copper, holding a basket of banana fritters.
"You must be Arjun," she smiled. "I'm Meenakshi. Come. It's time to meet the village."