The village of Kherwadi did not appear on most maps. It lived instead in the pauses between highways, in the dust that settled after buses passed without stopping. People arrived here only by mistake—or by inheritance.
When Anaya returned after twelve years, the road bent strangely, as if trying to remember her. Milestones had their numbers scratched out. A crow watched from a broken signboard and did not move when her scooter coughed past.
Her grandmother's house waited at the end of the lane, shutters closed like tired eyelids. And behind it, rising higher than memory, stood the banyan tree.
The banyan had always been there. It was older than the well, older than the temple bell. Its roots fell like ropes from the sky, thick as arms, digging into the earth where secrets preferred to sleep.
Anaya cut the engine. The air felt heavier near the tree, thick with a smell like wet iron.
"Don't go near it," her grandmother had warned, long ago. "It listens."
Anaya smiled at the memory and unlocked the door.
Chapter 2: The House That Spoke at Night
The house groaned as if waking from a long illness. Dust floated in columns of evening light. Anaya swept, unpacked, and cooked dal from habit rather than hunger.
That night, the house did not sleep.
At first it was only the wind pressing its mouth to the windows. Then came the tapping—slow, patient—against the back wall.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Anaya sat up. The sound came from the direction of the banyan.
She told herself it was a branch. Roots scraped stone. Old houses made old sounds.
But then she heard her name.
Not spoken. Breathed.
"Anaya…"
It slipped under the door and curled around her ankle like smoke.
She did not answer.
Chapter 3: What the Village Knew
Morning brought neighbors. They arrived with steel tiffins and eyes that refused to settle.
"You came alone?" asked Mrs. Kale.
"Yes."
A pause. A look toward the banyan.
"Good," someone said too quickly.
At the tea stall, Anaya learned the rules