The Midnight Thirst
It was one of those sticky summer nights in a small village in Punjab, where even the mosquitoes seemed too lazy to bite. Twelve-year-old Simran lay in bed, twisting and turning, her throat as dry as a wheat field in May. She sighed dramatically, glaring at the ceiling fan that spun so slowly, it seemed more interested in lulling her to sleep than cooling her off.
“Oh rabba!” she grumbled. “Why does this always happen to me at 2:30 in the morning?”
The kitchen, of course, was down the long hallway, and Simran, like every self-respecting kid, hated the idea of venturing into the dark. Sure, her daadi (grandmother) always said, “Good girls don’t need to worry about bhoots (ghosts).” But Simran wasn’t about to take any chances. Especially not after watching that spooky serial on TV last night.
Still, thirst won the battle. She threw off her blanket, tiptoeing out of her room. The hallway stretched ahead like a dark, endless tunnel, the moonlight doing little to help. Shadows flickered on the walls, and the floor creaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
“Simran, be brave,” she muttered to herself, walking cautiously. “There are no ghosts. Just water. You can do this.”
The kitchen was finally in sight, and the tube light flickered just as she switched it on. Typical. These lights always picked the creepiest moments to act up. Ignoring the eerie flickering, she grabbed a steel glass and filled it with water, gulping it down as though it were Amrit (holy water).
That’s when she heard it—*tap tap tap*—coming from the hallway. She froze, eyes wide, the glass clutched in her hand.
“Simran, calm down. It’s probably just the wind… or the neighbors’ annoying dog,” she whispered, half-convincing herself. But then the tapping grew louder, followed by a soft dragging sound.
Her heart pounded as she slowly turned toward the doorway. The hallway looked empty—*but was it?*
Suddenly, a shadowy figure appeared at the far end of the hall. Simran’s stomach did a backflip. The figure seemed to shuffle forward, dragging one leg behind, like it had just come from a wrestling match with a tractor. Simran’s heart raced.
Without a second thought, she bolted for her room, glass in hand, almost tripping over her own feet. She dashed inside, slammed the door shut, and threw herself against it, panting like she’d just outrun a marathon.
“Simran… beta…” came a voice from the other side of the door.
Her eyes widened. It was her mother’s voice. But something wasn’t right. It sounded… off.
“Simran, open the door, puttar. I need to talk to you.”
Simran hesitated. “M-Mummy?”
“Yes, beta, open the door!”
Simran, hands still shaking, reached for the doorknob, but something in her gut told her to stop. Then she heard it—her mother’s voice again, but this time from *down the hall.*
“Simran? Why are you awake at this time?”
Her real mother peeked out of her bedroom, rubbing her eyes. Simran froze. If her mother was there… who was at her door?
Before she could even scream, the door slowly creaked open. Simran braced herself, expecting some hideous monster.
Instead, in waddled her daadi, clutching her aching knee, looking annoyed. “Hai rabba, why did you run so fast? My poor knee is killing me!”
Simran blinked in confusion. “Daadi? It was you?”
Her grandmother scowled. “Of course it was me! I was coming to the kitchen for water, and you dashed off like I’m some bhoot! Honestly, beta, at this age, I need water more than you!”
Simran burst into laughter, her fear dissolving instantly. “Daadi, you scared me! I thought you were a ghost!”
Daadi grumbled, hobbling toward the kitchen. “Ghost? Beta, the only ghost here is my poor leg! Now, go to bed before I scare you for real!”
Simran shook her head, still laughing as she climbed back into bed, daadi’s grumbling fading down the hallway. Next time, she’d bring her daadi water and a knee massager.
By: Tanvir Kaler
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