In 1994, I was in Mangalore for a wedding, staying in a vast, ancient mansion that had stood for generations. During one late evening, as relatives gathered and exchanged stories, an elderly aunt told me a chilling tale, one that had lingered in the shadows of this very house since the years after India’s independence.
The story took place in 1948 or 1949, during another grand wedding. At that time, toilets were built outside the house, requiring guests to step into the night if nature called. On the night of the celebration, a woman—tired from the day’s endless festivities—reluctantly sent her four-year-old daughter outside to the toilet, accompanied by another young woman dressed in a bridal saree. The mother assumed she was a relative, someone who belonged to the family. After all, the house was overflowing with guests.
The little girl returned safely, but by morning, she was burning with fever, her eyes open yet unfocused, her tiny body drenched in sweat. Concerned relatives called for a doctor, but as he examined her, an unsettling conversation unfolded upstairs. Who had taken the child to the toilet? Every woman in the house denied it.
The confusion turned to dread when the girl, in her fevered delirium, described the woman who had held her hand in the night. Her description matched someone who had once lived in the mansion—Choti, the daughter of the house’s patriarch. But Choti had died decades ago.
Whispers spread among the servants, eventually reaching the ears of an old maid named Bindu, who had served the family since she was a young girl. Upon hearing the child’s description, Bindu broke down into uncontrollable sobs, pleading not to be taken to the police.
After much coaxing, the truth spilled from her trembling lips. Thirty years ago, Choti had loved a man deemed unworthy by her family. In a desperate bid to force her parents’ acceptance, she staged an elaborate ruse—stealing her mother’s wedding saree, fashioning a noose from a blanket, and instructing Bindu to alert her parents just in time to find her in mock distress. She believed that their concern would win over their stubbornness. But Bindu, paralyzed by fear of the patriarch’s wrath, delayed too long. By the time she finally knocked on their door, Choti had miscalculated the noose’s pressure. She was already gone.
For years, Bindu lived with the guilt. And then, the visits began. Late at night, Choti would appear at her bedside, still in the stolen wedding saree, whispering hoarsely, “Bring me some warm malt. My throat hurts.” Bindu, terrified, never responded, waiting for the apparition to vanish each time.
Desperate to put an end to these hauntings, she and another servant placed a Hanuman statue at the bungalow’s entrance, performing daily prayers to keep Choti’s spirit at bay. This ritual continued for thirty years—until the recent wedding. With all the servants busy, the prayers had been neglected for just two days. And that was all it took.
The priest summoned to the mansion declared that Choti was not malevolent—this was still her home, after all. Her ghost had simply been drawn back by the wedding, believing it to be her own. However, humans and spirits were never meant to interact, and such encounters often led to illness or misfortune. The only way to restore peace was to acknowledge Choti, not as a ghost to be feared but as a soul to be honored. The priest instructed them to take a piece of her old clothing from an almirah where her mother had stored her belongings and wrap it around the Hanuman statue. From then on, the prayers would not be to ward her off but to respect her memory.
As I listened to this story at the age of eleven, my gaze fell upon the Hanuman statue standing outside the mansion, a tattered piece of cloth wrapped carefully around it. Even then, after so many years, it remained—a silent testament to the past, to Choti’s longing, and to the blurred lines between the living and the dead.
Narrated by: Kashin
Year: 1948 or 1949
Location: Mangaluru, India
Credit: http://www.youtube.com/@Hoezaay