The Game Under the Tree

 

The next few months blurred together for Ravi. His work took him across the country—Delhi, Bangalore, Kolkata, and back to Mumbai, only to leave again. The endless cycle of airports, hotels, and client meetings left him exhausted, but in a way, grateful. The constant motion kept his mind occupied, away from memories of Meher and the keychain he'd thrown into the sea.

It was a Tuesday night when he finally returned home after a grueling two-week trip. The flight had been delayed, and by the time his taxi pulled up to his building in Marine Drive, it was well past 2 AM. The street was deserted, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the sodium lamps.

Ravi paid the driver and stepped out, his suitcase wheels scraping against the rough pavement. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made breathing feel heavy.

As he approached his building, something made him pause.

There, beneath the old banyan tree that stood between his building and the neighboring one, was a child. A boy, no older than seven or eight, wearing what looked like a school uniform—white shirt, navy blue shorts. He was crouched down, drawing something in the dirt with a stick.

At 2 AM.

Ravi frowned. "Hey," he called out gently, taking a few steps toward the tree. "What are you doing out here so late? Where are your parents?"

The boy looked up, and even in the dim light, Ravi could see his face clearly—pale, with large, unblinking eyes. The child smiled, a strangely knowing smile that sent a chill down Ravi's spine despite the warm night.

"Play with me," the boy said, his voice soft but clear.

"It's very late," Ravi replied, glancing around for any sign of an adult. "You should be home."

"Please," the boy insisted, standing up now. "Just one game. No one plays with me anymore."

Something about the way he said it—the loneliness in those words—tugged at Ravi's heart. But before he could respond, he heard a voice behind him.

"Sir? Sir, are you okay?"

Ravi turned to see his taxi driver, who hadn't driven away yet, leaning out of his window with a concerned expression.

"The child," Ravi said, pointing toward the tree. "I was just—"

"What child?" the driver interrupted, his concern deepening into something like fear. "Sir, there's no one there."

Ravi's blood ran cold. He whipped back around to look at the tree. The boy was still there, still watching him with those unblinking eyes, still smiling that unsettling smile.

"You don't see him?" Ravi asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The driver got out of his car now, walking up beside Ravi. He looked at the tree, then at Ravi, then back at the tree. "Sir, there's nothing there. Are you feeling alright? You look very tired."

"I can see him," Ravi insisted, though even as he spoke, doubt crept into his voice. "Right there, under the tree."

The driver's face went pale. He took a step back. "Sir, listen to me. I've been driving this route for fifteen years. That tree—" He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "They say a child died there. Long time ago. Some people claim they see him at night. But I never believed it until now."

"What happened to him?" Ravi asked, unable to take his eyes off the boy, who continued to stand there, waiting.

"I don't know the full story," the driver said, his voice shaking. "But please, sir, don't go near that tree. Just go inside. Whatever you're seeing, it's not... it's not right."

Ravi wanted to argue, wanted to insist that the child was real, that he could see him as clearly as he could see the driver. But something in the driver's genuine terror made him hesitate.

He looked back at the boy one more time. The child's smile had widened now, revealing teeth that seemed just a little too sharp, eyes that seemed just a little too hollow.

"Play with me," the boy repeated, his voice now carrying an echo, as if coming from somewhere far away.

Ravi grabbed his suitcase and hurried toward his building, not daring to look back. Behind him, he heard the taxi speed away, tires screeching against the asphalt.

As he fumbled with his keys at the entrance, he heard it—a child's laughter, high and clear, cutting through the silence of the night. But when he finally turned around, the space beneath the tree was empty.

The Sleepless Night

Ravi didn't sleep that night. He sat by his window, curtains drawn, staring at the banyan tree below. The street remained empty, but every shadow seemed to move, every sound seemed amplified.

He tried to rationalize what he'd seen. Exhaustion. Jet lag. His mind playing tricks after months of stress and travel. But the driver had reacted to something. The driver had known about the child.

As dawn broke and the first light of morning began to chase away the shadows, Ravi made a decision. He needed to know what had happened beneath that tree. He needed to know who that child was.

And why, after all these years, he was still waiting for someone to play with him.

The Investigation

The next morning, Ravi sought out Mr. D'Souza, the elderly watchman who had been working in the building for over three decades. If anyone knew the history of the neighborhood, it would be him.

He found the old man sitting in his usual spot near the entrance, sipping chai from a steel glass.

"Mr. D'Souza," Ravi began, pulling up a plastic chair. "Can I ask you something about the tree next door?"

The watchman's expression immediately changed. The warmth drained from his face, replaced by something guarded. "Why do you want to know?"

"I saw something last night. A child."

Mr. D'Souza set down his chai, his hands trembling slightly. "You saw Arjun."

"Arjun?"

"The boy who died. It was 1998, I think. Maybe 1999. Long time ago." The old man's voice was distant, as if pulled back into a memory he'd rather forget. "He lived in the building next door. Seven years old. Bright boy, always playing outside."

"What happened to him?"

Mr. D'Souza hesitated, his eyes drifting toward the tree. "It was late evening. He was playing hide and seek with his friends. He hid behind that tree, waiting for someone to find him. But they didn't. The other children got called home for dinner, and they forgot about him."

Ravi felt a chill despite the morning warmth.

"He waited and waited," the watchman continued. "When it got dark and no one came, he must have gotten scared. They found him the next morning. Heart attack, they said. A seven-year-old boy. Can you imagine? The doctors couldn't explain it. Some said it was a heart condition no one knew about. But others..."

"Others?"

"Others said he died of fear. That something in the dark scared him so badly his little heart just stopped."

Ravi sat back, processing this. "And people see him?"

"Not many. Only late at night. Always the same—asking someone to play with him. My nephew saw him once, five years ago. He was so terrified he moved to Pune and never came back."

"What does he want?"

Mr. D'Souza looked at Ravi with grave eyes. "What do you think? He's still waiting for someone to find him. Still playing that game of hide and seek. He doesn't know he's dead, or maybe he knows but can't accept it. Either way, he's trapped there, under that tree, waiting for someone to finish the game."

The Return

Ravi couldn't shake the story. All day at work, he found himself distracted, thinking about little Arjun, alone and waiting under that tree for over twenty-five years.

That night, despite every instinct screaming at him not to, Ravi found himself standing at his window again at 2 AM, looking down at the banyan tree.

And there he was. Arjun. Standing in exactly the same spot, looking up at Ravi's window as if he'd known he would be there.

This time, Ravi didn't hesitate. He grabbed his keys and went downstairs.

The boy smiled as Ravi approached. "You came back."

"I came back," Ravi confirmed, stopping a few feet away from the tree. "Arjun, right?"

The boy's smile faltered for just a moment, surprise flickering across his pale face. "You know my name?"

"I do. And I know what happened to you."

Arjun's expression changed then, the childish facade cracking to reveal something older, sadder. "They forgot about me."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I waited so long. In the dark. I was so scared." Tears began to roll down the boy's cheeks, though his voice remained eerily calm. "And then... and then I wasn't scared anymore. Because I wasn't alone in the dark."

Ravi felt his pulse quicken. "What do you mean?"

"There was someone else under the tree with me. In the dark. She found me first."

"She?"

Arjun nodded, and for the first time, Ravi noticed that the boy's shadow seemed wrong—too long, too dark, moving independently of the child.

"She's been here much longer than me. She's the one who made my heart stop. She was so angry that no one played with her, so when she found me hiding, she decided I should stay. Forever."

The temperature dropped suddenly, and Ravi's breath became visible in the air. The shadow beneath the tree began to shift and grow, taking shape.

"She's here now," Arjun whispered. "She wants to play too."

The Truth Beneath

From the darkness beneath the tree, something emerged. A girl, older than Arjun, maybe twelve or thirteen, in a white dress that looked like it was from another era—decades older. Her face was beautiful but wrong, skin too pale, eyes too dark, smile too wide.

"Another player," she said, her voice like wind through dead leaves. "It's been so long since someone came willingly."

Ravi's instinct was to run, but something kept him rooted to the spot. "Who are you?"

"I am Kavya. I died here in 1952. Murdered by my uncle, who buried me beneath this tree." Her smile never wavered. "No one found my body. No one looked. So I waited. And waited. And when I realized no one was coming, I decided that anyone who came to this tree alone at night would play with me. Forever."

"Arjun isn't playing willingly," Ravi said, surprising himself with his steady voice. "He's a child. He was scared. You're keeping him here."

Kavya's expression darkened. "He chose to hide here. Just like you chose to come here tonight."

"I came because Arjun asked me to," Ravi said. "But I'm not playing your game."

"Oh, but you are," Kavya said, taking a step forward. "The moment you saw Arjun, the game began. The moment you came down here at night, you joined. And now—"

"Now you let Arjun go," Ravi interrupted.

Kavya laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I'll take his place."

Silence fell over the street. Even the distant sounds of the city seemed to fade away. Arjun looked up at Ravi with wide, hopeful eyes.

"You would do that?" Kavya asked, circling Ravi now like a predator. "Trade yourself for a ghost? For a child you don't even know?"

"Yes," Ravi said, though his heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. "But only if you promise to let him go. Let him move on. No more games for him."

Kavya stopped in front of him, studying his face. "Why? Why would you sacrifice yourself?"

Ravi thought about his life—the endless travel, the empty apartment, the keychain he'd thrown away, the girl who'd forgotten him. What did he really have to lose?

"Because someone should have looked for you," he said quietly. "Someone should have cared enough to find you. And someone should have stayed with Arjun that night. I can't fix what happened to either of you. But I can make sure Arjun doesn't spend eternity trapped in a game he never wanted to play."

For a long moment, Kavya said nothing. Then, slowly, her smile faded, and for just an instant, Ravi saw the frightened girl she must have been—murdered, buried, forgotten.

"You would really stay?" she asked, her voice smaller now, almost human.

"Yes."

Kavya looked at Arjun, then back at Ravi. "No one has ever offered to stay before. Everyone runs. Everyone screams. Everyone tries to escape."

"I'm not running."

Another long silence. Then Kavya nodded, just once. "Very well. I accept your trade."

The Unexpected Twist

As soon as the words left Kavya's mouth, something extraordinary happened. The darkness beneath the tree began to glow with a soft, golden light. Arjun gasped, his form becoming more solid, more real.

"What's happening?" Ravi asked.

An old woman's voice, warm and ancient, echoed through the night. "A willing sacrifice, offered with genuine compassion, breaks the oldest of curses."

The light grew brighter, and within it, Ravi could see a figure—an elderly woman with kind eyes, dressed in traditional clothes.

"Who are you?" Kavya whispered, fear in her voice for the first time.

"I am the guardian of lost souls," the woman said. "I have watched over this tree for generations, waiting for someone to show true selflessness. Kavya, you were wronged in life, and your anger kept you trapped here. But this young man's willingness to sacrifice himself has broken the cycle."

The guardian turned to Arjun. "You are free, child. Go to where children laugh and play without fear. Your game is over."

Arjun looked at Ravi, tears streaming down his face. "Thank you," he whispered. And then, like mist in the morning sun, he faded away, a smile of pure joy on his face.

The guardian turned to Kavya. "And you, child, have carried your pain for too long. It is time to rest."

"But I'm angry," Kavya said, though her voice was weak now. "I'm so angry."

"I know. But anger cannot sustain you forever. And your uncle paid for his crimes long ago. It is time to let go."

Kavya looked at Ravi one last time. "You were willing to stay. No one has ever..." Her voice broke. "No one ever cared."

"I care," Ravi said. "And I'm sorry for what happened to you."

Something in Kavya's face softened then, the centuries of rage melting away to reveal the frightened girl underneath. "Thank you," she whispered. And then she too faded into the light.

The guardian turned to Ravi. "You have a good heart, young man. You were willing to give up your life for a stranger. That is rare in this world."

"I just... it felt like the right thing to do," Ravi said, still trying to process everything that had happened.

"Sometimes the right thing requires the greatest courage." The guardian smiled. "You are free to go. Live your life well. And know that two souls are finally at peace because of your kindness."

With that, the light faded, and Ravi found himself standing alone beneath the banyan tree. The air was warm again, the oppressive darkness gone. The street looked normal, peaceful even.

He looked up at the tree, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he saw two figures—a boy and a girl—waving at him from somewhere beyond, smiling genuinely for the first time in decades.

And then they were gone.

The Morning After

Ravi woke up in his bed the next morning, sunlight streaming through his windows. For a moment, he wondered if it had all been a dream—the exhaustion-induced hallucination of an overworked mind.

But when he looked out his window at the banyan tree, he knew it had been real. The tree looked different somehow—lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from its branches. Birds were singing in its leaves, something he'd never noticed before.

Mr. D'Souza stopped him as he left for work. "Sir, I heard you went to the tree last night."

"I did."

The old watchman searched Ravi's face. "And?"

"He's gone. They're both gone. At peace now."

Mr. D'Souza's eyes widened. "You mean—"

"It's over. The tree is just a tree now."

The watchman placed a hand on Ravi's shoulder, his eyes glistening. "Whatever you did, thank you. I've felt that sadness for years. It's gone now. I can feel it."

As Ravi walked to catch his cab, he felt different too. Lighter. The months of traveling, the heartbreak over Meher, the sense of drifting through life—it all seemed to shift into perspective.

He had let go of Meher by throwing that keychain into the sea. Last night, he had helped two lost souls let go of their pain. And in doing so, he realized, he had learned something important about himself.

Life was about connection. About showing up for others, even when it scared you. About caring, even when it cost you something.

He pulled out his phone and called his mother, something he hadn't done in weeks. When she answered, the joy in her voice made him smile.

"Ma," he said, "I'm coming home this weekend. And I'm staying for a while."

As the cab pulled away, Ravi looked back at the building one last time. The banyan tree swayed gently in the morning breeze, its leaves catching the light.

Beneath it, in the space where two souls had been trapped for so long, there was nothing now but peaceful shadows and the promise of a new day.

Sometimes, Ravi thought, the greatest hauntings aren't from ghosts. They're from the parts of ourselves we keep trapped—the fears we won't face, the pain we won't process, the connections we won't make.

And sometimes, letting go and showing up for others is the only way to free ourselves.

The taxi turned the corner, and the tree disappeared from view. But Ravi knew he would never forget the lesson learned beneath its branches on that strange, terrifying, beautiful night.

Some goodbyes are quiet. Some are thrown into the sea. And some require you to face the darkness and offer your light to those who need it most.

All of them, in their own way, set you free.