It was the witching hour, 1:00 am, in Raghurajpur, a village famed for the art of pattachitra, when my grandma, along with a fellow villager, embarked on a bone-chilling journey. Their destination: the Kali Puja nearby, but their path, a shortcut through the jungle, was shrouded in an inky blackness, pierced only by their flickering oil lamp. The air hung heavy, thick with the cloying scent of decay and the unsettling silence broken only by the occasional rustle in the unseen undergrowth.
Looming ahead, a dilapidated palace, a skeletal silhouette against the starless sky, whispered of a bygone era of opulence. It was here, amidst the crumbling grandeur, that they spotted a flicker of light in the distance. Relief washed over them – perhaps other devotees on their way to the puja.
But as they drew closer, a surge of primal terror coursed through their veins. The light emanated not from a fellow pilgrim, but from a creature of nightmare. A monstrous entity, a giant fireball with no eyes, pulsed with an unnatural light. Its grotesque form, a hideous fusion of molten rock and flickering flame, sent shivers down their spines.
Transfixed by the horrifying apparition, my grandma became a petrified statue. Time seemed to lose all meaning as she stood there, bathed in the creature's blinding light. It was then that her friend, hidden behind a gnarled tree, made a desperate gamble. With a grimace of repulsion, they doused the Jokha, as these creatures were called, with their own urine.
A bloodcurdling shriek, unlike anything heard by man or beast, erupted from the creature as it recoiled. It lashed out in its fury, but its fiery tendrils dissipated harmlessly before reaching them. With a final, earsplitting growl, the Jokha vanished into the inky depths of the jungle.
Shaken to their core, they stumbled back towards the village, their hearts hammering a frantic tattoo against their ribs. But amidst the terror, a glint of gold caught their eye. Nestled beneath a crumbling stone, lay a cache of coins, a forgotten treasure guarded by the Jokha.
The urge to claim their spoils was strong, but a primal instinct for survival held them back. The Jokha might have retreated, but they knew the legend – these creatures were fiercely protective of their treasures. Taking anything would surely unleash its wrath once more.
Leaving the riches undisturbed, they fled back to the village, the chilling memory of the Jokha forever etched in their minds. They returned home, not as triumphant treasure hunters, but as survivors, forever haunted by the night they encountered the guardian of the damned.
*A True Story Shared By A Reader
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