It
was the last night of the monsoon month of Shraban. There was no moon in the
sky, only a handful of stars peeking through gaps in the clouds now and then,
as if some invisible eyes were keeping watch over the village from far away.
There was no fog, yet the air carried a damp heaviness, as though nature itself
were holding its breath, waiting for something.
At
the edge of Rahimganj village, where the paddy fields end and the forest
begins, stood a very old house. The villagers called...
