Dusk has fallen, and just outside the city that never sleeps, lies a sleepy little hamlet. Large houses with expensive lawns and exotic flowering plants set to show off colonial beauty, adorn the well-designed streets. It’s a picturesque scene, inviting the onlooker to take in the beauty. Look, but don’t touch. But stare at it long enough, and you start to see the darkness that seems persistent around the edges. Darkness that pulls your vision into its depths, like a black hole.

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Perhaps that is the reason Mavali was deserted but for its residents. The reason their smiles are tinged with a strange sort of tension at the edges. Why sunset seems to bring along a gloom of a different sort. With the last rays of the sun, a heavy silence blankets the community, masking even the tiniest whisper. Darkness, except for the sparingly distributed streetlights, is absolute.

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Shalv Sircar waits in this gloom, the glowing edge of his cigarette reflected eerily on his glasses, like a three eyed creature in the dark. Balancing his shotgun over one arm, he carefully reaches into his pocket and pulls out an old fashioned Nokia. The greenish glow lights up his face, revealing a well groomed white moustache, and a face that is drawn over sharp cheekbones, skin loosening, but still taut for his age. A fedora sits neatly on his head, and his tartan jacket is well worn, but of good quality.

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Sircar holds the phone up to his ear, listening to the ringing on the other side. A click, and a voice nervously answers.

“Sorry sir. Vehicle broke down. I don’t think I will make it today.”

Sircar clucks, but doesn’t take his irritation out on the other person. “Fine. Make sure it’s fixed by tomorrow, do you hear?” A pause, and then he continues, “bring me the bill. I’ll pay it.”

The other voice thanks him profusely, and he is about to hang up, when the voice speaks again.

“Sir, perhaps you can skip it today? You… alone…”

“Oh, leave off. I’ll be fine.”

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Sircar hangs up over the protestations of the other person, and takes a deep puff of his cigarette, before turning towards the bridge that connected this hamlet to the external world. An age-old thing that was magically upright, with tar peeling off, and rust settled in. Nothing in the Mumbai air escaped an accelerated rate of decay, not even humans.

The bridge creaked ominously, though empty, and Sircar hesitates a bit, before firmly planting his feet on the tar, and setting off towards the darkness that felt more like a portal to another world. Perhaps it really was another world, thought Sircar to himself, as he flicked the cigarette to the ground, and stopped to light another one. A wind nearly blows the match out, but he manages to keep it alight long enough to succeed in his task.

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One foot after another. It was Sircar’s self-assigned task each night to circle the road that ran a ring around this hamlet. Murders, rapes, robberies – everything was on the rise these days, and the heavily wooded area just outside of Mavali was a perfect cover for criminals to lie in wait. Why, he might be murdered on any night for his golden wedding ring, or because it fulfils the fantasy of some psychopath looking for bloodshed.

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But still, Sircar went, night after night, shotgun ready and loaded. He had never once, in all the years he lived here, had reason to discharge it, but long ingrained training ensured it was ready for action at the slightest hint of danger.

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Only the sound of his feet crunching the gravel was audible, although there was a quality to it, like it was being muffled. Whatever wind had blown before, there was only stillness now. A bead of sweat broke out under his fedora, and trickled down his face, a result of his brisk, but not deliberately hurried pace. Sircar sighs. His duty is very lonely sometimes, but none in his community dared join him on these late night jaunts.

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“Oh leave it Sir, you’ve fought wars. We’re not cut from the same cloth.”

The words from the association president still ring in his ears.

“Bunch of cowards,” he murmurs to himself, and stubs out another cigarette, coughing lightly.

He really should cut down on the cigarettes. What was it now? Three packs a day? He’d kind of lost count.

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Lost in these inconsequential thoughts, he finds himself at nearly the end of his rounds, when he pauses in his steps.

The hairs on the nape of his neck stand up, and Sircar swallows, shotgun now held firmly in his hands. Gooseflesh rise on his arms, and another bead of sweat breaks out, although this time, it is more due to the sudden pounding of his heart. Sircar steps forward, the entrance to the bridge nearly within his reach. He picks up the pace, but his legs feel sluggish.

Someone is behind him.

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Sircar doesn’t react. He continues walking. He just needs to get to the bridge. His foot slips a little on some loose rock, but he doesn’t pause for even half a second. He can see it now, barely two dozen feet from his position. The streetlight that flickers in the swarm of insects seems like a lighthouse, leading him to safety.

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He is still being followed, but even Sircar doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Sometimes danger is only waiting to be identified to descend upon you. His smoker’s lungs are giving out a little, and his breath comes out in gasps. Just as he reaches the light post, a voice calls out to him from behind.

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“Saab …. Beedi….”

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The words are drawn out, raspy and hoarse, yet slithering. Sircar is frozen on the spot, the very quality of the speech stunning him into inaction.

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“Saab… Beedi…”

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The words are repeated, but closer now, and Sircar turns slowly into the unnaturally engulfing darkness, towards this voice that seems to knock all the air out of his lungs. His eyes see nothing, but all his other senses are on high alert. He stares into the abyss, for there is no word more appropriate, and feels, rather than sees, the form approach.

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A guttural sound, eerie, a cross between a groan and a growl, sounds like it is right next to him, and Sircar is jolted into action. He hastily sticks his free hand into his pockets, searching, and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, throwing them into the darkness, away from him. His heart pounds in his ears, but slowly the feeling of suffocation leaves him, and the gooseflesh leaves his arms, though the hair on the back of his neck remains raised.

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Sircar turns back towards the lamppost, momentarily resting against its solid form, before hastening back across the bridge, refusing to turn around, lest he name & claim the unknown danger.