With nearly 200,000 kilometres of highway across India, it’s not uncommon that quite a few of them hold a reputation of being haunted.
Every state, and there are 29 of them, boast of at least a handful of highway stretches where locals will discourage you from travelling late at night, or stopping for gas, or offering lift to strange lonely women walking by the side of the road dressed in white sarees.
In other parts, superstitious practices have taken grip, mostly to please the gods that protect travellers, but also to placate the angry spirits.
You are told it is essential that you stop by the large mound at the fifth turn down the Kasara Ghat and offer your prayers before driving on, or you are told that you must keep driving on the Eastern express highway, even if you hear your name being called out, or a simple advise of not carrying any meat in your vehicle when driving the Kashedi road which may incite unexpected hungry guests into your car.
After a while, it gets hard to separate the real stories from the many myths. As they get repeated, nevertheless, over and again around the campfire tales, generation after generation, many details are altered, enhanced, blurred… till you can’t remember the important things… things that could save your life, such as; when driving down the long, dark and lonely stretch of Bhatta Road, was it a woman dressed in white that you had to watch for, or a young bride in red bridal attire?
As hard as I tried hard to remember the story my grandma had told me of the haunting on this road, the details alluded me. After a while I stopped trying to remember and pulled myself backward to further sink into the passenger seat of my friend’s extremely sturdy, made for Indian roads Bolero that could easily seat an extended Indian family. But today, it was carrying just the four of us, my childhood buddies Hitesh who was driving, and Bobby and Sunny who were dozing in the middle seat, and our luggage took up some of the space in the seats at the very back.
The four of us were on our way back from the wedding of another one of childhood friends, the reception for which had been held in a remote farm house deeper into the rural heartlands of India. The newlyweds were obsessed with connecting with their tribal roots, away from the urban hustle their families had embraced few generations ago.
I have to admit that despite my previous reluctance to travel so far for the wedding, it was a beautiful ceremony, and the drive to the farmhouse was scenic. We had started early in the morning, stopping often to take in the breathtaking sites of the hill we passed through, and grabbing quick bites of local cuisine accompanied with piping hot spiced tea, at regular intervals.
However, now, at nearly 2am, that same route seemed macabre, without any street lights or quaint little food and tea stalls, and with the intimidating dark shadows of the hills against the horizon. The drive, which promised to be long, brought back memories of every tale I had heard or read of highway ghosts in India. I was certain there was a similar take about this very road we were on, but tired and exhausted from long day of festivities, I couldn’t recall the story attached to the famous Bhatta road.
I turned to Hitesh to ask him if he remembered the story; mainly to keep a conversation going with him to help him stay awake and alert as he drove us through the winding ghats in the middle of an exceptionally dark night.
“I think the story goes that a lady in white or maybe in red…the spirit of who died in an accident here or maybe she raped and killed… or something as such, will ask you for a lift, and if you stop for her, you’re dead,” he said, just as uncertain and casting a wide net that encapsulated 80 percent of highway urban legends of India.
“No one who’s stopped their vehicle for her has lived to tell the tale,” he added for good measure.
“If no one lived, then how do we know this story,” Bobby said from the backseat, followed with a wide yawn, waking up from his nap.
“Exactly,” replied Hitesh, leaving us confused, whilst distractedly looking at something in a distance.
I turned to look in the direction Hitesh’s eyes were fixed at, and straight ahead in the distant noticed a small gathering of a few people at the far end of the highway, where the road seemed to meet the horizon. “Who are these people,” I wondered out loud.
No one answered my rhetoric question, but all of us, including Sunny who had woken up with our chatter by now, were fixedly staring at the road.
As we got closer, the group grew clearer in our visions—about three people, two men, and one woman who seemed to be overdressed for her surroundings. Even from afar, her massive pink lehenga (a bridal outfit) and garish gold jewellery were hard to miss. It was a bridal party!
Or at least a part of it that seemed to have been separated from the larger celebrations. But what were they doing on this otherwise isolated road? With thick forests on one side and an extensive deserts stretching for miles on the other side of the road, it hardly seemed like an appropriate place for any hitchhikers, let alone a bride and her wedding party.
“It seems like they’re asking for a lift,” Hitesh said. “They seem lost. Maybe we should stop and help them,” the ever-generous soul added.
“No way man! Haven’t all the highway ghost stories taught you anything?” remarked Bobby. “Lingering the spirits with unfulfilled desires, brides who died on their wedding nights, haunt such roads and stop travellers seeking revenge or justice or whatever
“But it’s not a single woman as in those stories. It looks like a family of four people who seem to need our help,” Hitesh tried to reason.
Sunny added in agreement with Bobby. “They could possibly be dacoits. This part of the world is known for these things,” he said.
“Oh come on you don’t really believe in that stuff,” Hitesh retorted.
We had less than 45 seconds to decide whether we would stop for the lost bride and her family, and everyone turned to me to weigh in. As the eldest in our group I often ended up being the person breaking up deadlocks.
I voted we show compassion to likely lost travellers. I wasn’t sure I believed the ghost stories, but I certainly was sure they were not dacoits. Something about the way they stood there, helpless and scared, told me they were truly lost.
We pulled over next to the man who had his thumb out at us. I noticed a wave of relief wash on their faces as we stopped. The men were also dressed in fineries, expensive clothes and jewellery; this was definitely a wedding party. “Thank you for stopping,” the oldest of them said to Hitesh. “We were taking my daughter here to her wedding in the next village, but our car broke down a few miles down the road. We have been walking for hours but not a single vehicle has passed us,” he said.
I thought it was odd because although the road was largely isolated, quiet a few cars and trucks passed us by and I was sure there was no other detour along the way. They should have seen the family by the side of the road.
Our Bolero was large enough to fit the three of them in the very back seats, behind Bobby and Sunny. Being the gentleman he is, Hitesh even offered my driver-side seat to the bride but she declined and chose to join her wedding party at the back.
None of them spoke much after the initial thank yous. Even though we tried to strike up a conversation, some more excitedly than others (re: Bobby), but the family answered in grunts and sighs. I don’t blame them, after the journey they’ve had, that too on her wedding day.
After a while, everyone slipped into a silence, punctured only by Bobby’s intermittent snores and the soft jingling sound coming from the back made by the bride’s bangles every few minutes. It was kind of nice and calming, lulling me to sleep.
But just as I was about to doze off, I felt Hitesh nudged me. I turned to him only to see an absolute look of terror on his face which has been drained of all colour.
Before I could say something, he hushed me with one finger on his lips, and the other hand struggling to keep the steering wheel steady.
After a few seconds of what seemed like he was trying to catch his breath, he muttered very softly, I could barely catch his words, “Don’t look back!”
The rebel in me was tempted to turn around and look behind me immediately, but the fear dripping in each syllable of Hitesh’s warning had chilled my bones.
I was frozen, and looked at him for more explanation. But he kept his eyes fixed on the road, wide open, and filled with a terror that I struggle to describe in words here. I followed his gaze and there on the side of highway, getting closer by the second, stood a group of three villagers, among them a bride in pink lehenga, thumbs out. As we drew closer, I could see their faces; it was the same three villages who we had picked up, and were supposedly sitting in the back seat.
Extreme shock and horror swept through my body, as I watched them them smiling eeriely, lips stretching from ear to ear.
I was terrified but I couldn’t look away. And just as we passed by them, i heard the sweet soft sound of bangles jangling in the back of our vehicle.