Chapter 6: Jinnat Pul Beckons

“Mr. Rohan, how much longer until we arrive?” The mother in the back seat, perhaps seeing I’d been silent too long, asked cautiously.

Her voice broke through my thoughts, soft and hesitant, like someone who’s afraid of disturbing a sleeping snake. I checked the GPS, fingers sticky with sweat. The road ahead shimmered in the afternoon heat, and the smell of dust and frying onions from a distant dhaba drifted in through the half-open window.

“Not far, about half an hour,” I said, glancing at the GPS. Our destination today was Rajpur district, Jinnat Pul, Neemsagar Hill Cemetery. Though called a cemetery, it was really just a patch of abandoned graves.

The name itself sent a chill down my spine. Rajpur was famous for its mangoes and its haunted tales—every old man at the tea shop had a story about Jinnat Pul, about lost souls and unclaimed spirits. The Neemsagar Hill Cemetery was notorious—children were warned not to wander too close, and the few gravediggers left refused to work after sunset. The sky outside was turning the dusty orange of late afternoon, shadows stretching long over the fields.

I had taken the mother and daughter by train to Rajpur. We tried to get a taxi, but as soon as the drivers heard the address, none would even open their doors. With no other choice, we rented a car ourselves.

At Rajpur station, the porters refused to help with the luggage when they heard the name Neemsagar. The auto-wallahs made excuses—“Petrol nahi hai, saheb, woh jagah pe main nahi jaunga.” Finally, I booked a self-drive car, and we loaded up quietly, not meeting anyone’s eyes as we left the crowded market behind and took the winding road up the hill.

I glanced at the passenger seat, where I had placed the tools I bought: shovel, petrol, axe, crowbar... and that soul-beating whip I’d dug out from under the almirah.

The metal of the crowbar was hot to the touch, and the neem whip gave off a faint, bitter scent that reminded me of childhood summers in the village. The tools lay heavy on the seat, clanking with every bump in the road. The whip, coiled and silent, seemed to carry its own weight, a reminder of everything I had lost—and everything I was willing to do to protect what little remained.