(Silentpur)
Some places do not exist on maps.
They reveal themselves only when a person is suddenly pushed out of the crowded rhythm of life. Silentpur was such a place.
That evening was meant to be ordinary. I had planned nothing more than sleep after work. Then, unexpectedly, a message arrived—two days of leave. No explanation. In a city, such sudden freedom is dangerous; it tempts people into strange decisions.
A friend said,
"Let's go somewhere. There's a place called Silentpur. Very close, yet no one goes there."
Two hours later, we got down from the bus at an unfamiliar crossing. The bus disappeared, and silence rushed in. The sun had not yet set, but light was already gone. The air was damp, as if a long-forgotten marsh was breathing beneath the land.
A narrow dirt road slipped into the forest. We walked without much conversation. Then, from far away, a sound floated toward us—not a song, not a cry, but something suspended between the two. Just then, a bullock cart emerged from the darkness.
The cart driver asked no questions. Neither did we. In Silentpur, questions are unnecessary.
The village seemed trapped outside time. Broken houses. Dry ponds. And yet, in a few windows, faint lights glowed. The night there felt unnaturally long. Sleep refused to come.
At dawn, I went out alone.
By the pond, I saw her.
She was drawing water. There was no surprise on her face—as if she had been expecting me.
"You're from the city, aren't you?" she asked quietly.
I nodded.
"Everyone leaves this place," she said, "but no one ever truly returns."
Her name was Maitreyi. She spoke less than anyone in the village, yet everyone listened to her.
I asked,
"Why does no one live here anymore?"
She smiled faintly.
"They do. Like memories. You can see them, but you cannot touch them."
That evening, I learned about the old woman—the one who had been waiting for her son for twenty-five years. Everyone knew he would never return. Yet no one told her the truth. Silentpur could not endure truth.
At night, a voice came from the old woman's room.
"Has he come?" she asked.
No one answered.
I do not know why, but I said,
"Yes. He has come."
The old woman became calm. As if her waiting had finally ended.
The next morning, we left.
Back in the city, everything returned to normal. Traffic. Noise. Deadlines.
Yet sometimes, late at night, I wonder—
Did Silentpur truly exist?
Or did it appear only once, like a forgotten dream, only to sink back into silence forever?