Chapter 2: The Haunted Playground

We received the call at midnight and rushed to the scene in our police jeep.

The Maruti Gypsy’s red beacon flashed against the colony’s peeling walls as we sped through the silent lanes, the driver muttering curses at stray dogs that refused to move. When we arrived, a handful of sleepy guards eyed us, whispering, “Police aagaye, kuch toh gadbad hai.”

At the park gate, our team paused. The creak of the swing drifted on the humid air, and from a nearby flat came the faint whistle of a pressure cooker, slicing the night. The little girl was still swinging, the elderly woman pushing her with a force that defied her years.

The park, usually alive with laughter in the evenings, felt eerie under the sickly streetlamp. The swing’s chains groaned with each push. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the darkness, and the night’s silence pressed in, broken only by the relentless creak-creak of metal.

No laughter, no whispers. Just the ceaseless ticking of the swing. Pramod shifted beside me, whispering, "Inspector saab, kuch toh ajeeb hai..."

If you closed your eyes, you might imagine a child being pampered. But opening them, you wished you hadn’t. The smell of wet earth from last week’s rain mingled with something metallic—a warning.

I cleared my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Auntyji, bas, ab rok dijiye. Hum aap se kuch baat karna chahte hain.” My words were gentle, out of respect for her age, but my voice betrayed my nerves.

The old woman remained blank, staring ahead, her eyes clouded like a monsoon sky. Her hands kept working, automatic, as if the child was just sleeping. For a moment, it felt like she was caught between two worlds.

Something was wrong. I stepped forward and gently clasped her cold, trembling hand. Her skin was papery, her wrist frail, bangles jangling—a sad echo of days gone by. She shivered at my touch, as if I’d broken a spell.

My colleagues seized the moment, halting the swing. Only then did we see the girl's face clearly under the flickering streetlamp—ashen, lips blue, eyes bulging with terror, a thin trickle of drool on her cheek. I swallowed the nausea, Pramod murmuring, “Bhagwan jaane kya dekha hoga is bachchi ne..."

The old woman began to sway, mumbling, her gaze roaming the park. The air seemed to grow heavier, the city’s sounds fading as if the night itself was holding its breath.

Suddenly, she broke from her trance, cursing and trying to wrench her hand free. Her words tumbled out—half-plea, half-abuse: "Pagal ho gaye ho? Kya kar rahe ho tum log? Yeh meri poti hai!"

"Tum logon ko kya ho gaya hai? Meri poti ko kyu nahi khelne dete?" she cried, clutching the girl’s dupatta with trembling hands, defiance and confusion warring on her face.

She muttered, "Abhi toh dhoop thi... yeh andhera kaise ho gaya?" looking skyward, searching for sunlight that was long gone. The colony lights flickered as if answering her confusion.

I exchanged a glance with Pramod. Were we dealing with dementia, or something more sinister? The old woman’s reality seemed full of cracks.

She saw the girl lying motionless, panicked, and rushed over, hugging her, slapping her face, calling out: "Ananya beta, uth jao! Itna sone ka time nahi hai, chalo!" Her bangles clinked as she rocked the child, her sobs echoing in the empty park. "Sona hai toh ghar chalo, yahan mat so jao!"

"Bas, uth jao, Dadi ko darao mat. Main idhar hoon, dekho..." she pleaded, brushing a stray lock of hair from the girl’s forehead, her voice breaking. When the child didn’t stir, her anguish split the night—"Hey Bhagwan, meri bachi ko wapas de do!" Neighbours peered from windows, whispering prayers. Even the dogs were silent.

She rocked, clutching the girl’s anklet, sobbing, "Main kya kahungi uske papa ko, beta? Tumhare bina toh ghar suna ho jayega!"

Pramod whispered, “Inspector, yeh toh apni hi lagti hai.” I nodded, the tragedy settling over us like a shroud.

The case was too strange. We wrapped the child in a faded sheet from the jeep, Kamala Devi following, clutching her granddaughter’s slippers to her chest, muttering prayers all the way to the station.