In a small and quiet village surrounded by green fields and whispering bamboo groves, there once lived a young boy named Balai. He was a simple village boy with bright eyes and a restless heart. Among all his hobbies and interests, fishing was his greatest passion. From a very young age, Balai loved to sit by the water for hours, holding his fishing rod with patience and hope. Fishing was not just a pastime for him; it was his joy, his adventure, and sometimes even his escape from the ordinary rhythm of village life.
Beside the village flowed a large and mysterious canal. The canal was wide and deep, its water dark and still during most of the year. During the monsoon season, it would swell and roar with muddy currents, but in winter it became calm and silent, almost like a sleeping serpent stretched across the land. The villagers often warned their children not to wander near the canal after sunset. There were stories—old stories—about something that lived in those waters.
Long ago, there had been a girl in that very village named Siuli. She was known for her beauty and gentle nature. Her laughter was soft like the sound of anklets, and her long hair flowed like black silk down her back. Siuli was deeply in love with a young man named Dipak. They had grown up together, sharing dreams of a simple life filled with happiness.
But fate had other plans.
Dipak's family arranged his marriage with another girl named Tuli, who came from a respectable household. Soon after the marriage, Dipak left the village with Tuli and moved to the city in search of a better life. In the city, he found work as a laborer in a factory. Though life was hard, he never returned to the village.
When Siuli heard the news of Dipak's marriage and departure, her heart shattered. The pain of betrayal and loneliness consumed her. She could not bear the sorrow. One night, overwhelmed by despair, she walked silently to the large canal beside the village. The moon reflected on the dark water as she stepped forward, and without another thought, she threw herself into the canal.
The villagers found her body the next morning.
After her death, strange events began to occur. People whispered that Siuli had become a Petni—a restless female spirit. According to village folklore, a woman who dies with unfulfilled love or deep sorrow sometimes returns as a Petni. It was said that Siuli's spirit now lived in the canal. From then on, unmarried young men who wandered near the canal at night would sometimes disappear without a trace.
The villagers believed the Petni was taking revenge.
Years passed, and the story became a legend told by elders to frighten children. Balai had often heard the tale from his grandfather. His grandfather would warn him, "Never go near the canal on a full moon night. The Petni roams freely when the moon is full."
One particular day, it was the night of the full moon. The sky was bright, washed in silver light. The air was cool, and the world seemed strangely still. Balai, however, was too excited to think about old stories. He had heard that fish were easier to catch during the full moon.
Ignoring his grandfather's warning, Balai took his fishing rod and a clay pot and headed toward the canal.
That night, luck was on his side. Within a short time, he caught many large fish—big rohu and shining carp that struggled fiercely before surrendering. Balai was thrilled. He placed all the fish carefully inside his pot and continued fishing.
After a while, he felt a strange chill in the air.
Suddenly, he noticed something unusual. The pot where he had kept his fish seemed lighter. Confused, he walked toward it. To his horror, the fish were gone.
Standing near the canal, illuminated by the pale moonlight, was a terrifying figure.
It was a woman with long, tangled hair that covered her face. Her skin was pale and lifeless. Her mouth was smeared with fresh blood, and sharp teeth glistened under the moonlight. Her eyes burned with hunger and rage.
It was the Petni.
Balai's heart pounded in fear. He realized that the spirit had eaten all his fish. The sound of chewing echoed in the silent night. It was a dreadful sight—one he would never forget.
At that moment, Balai remembered something his grandfather had once told him.
"Petnis do not eat Tangra fish or Koi fish," his grandfather had said. "Their sharp spines and bones hurt the spirit."
Gathering his courage, Balai quickly cast his line once more. By some miracle, he caught a Tangra fish. Its body was slippery and its sharp spines were strong.
Without wasting time, he placed the Tangra fish inside the pot deliberately and stepped back, pretending not to notice anything.
The Petni moved closer. Her movements were unnatural—almost floating above the ground. She reached into the pot and grabbed the Tangra fish greedily, swallowing it whole.
Within seconds, the night was pierced by a horrifying scream.
The Petni shrieked in agony. The sharp spines of the Tangra fish hurt her throat and insides. She clawed at her neck and howled, her voice echoing across the water and fields. The calm canal rippled violently.
This was Balai's chance.
Terrified but determined to survive, Balai dropped his fishing rod and ran as fast as he could toward his home. He did not look back. The screams faded behind him as he sprinted through the narrow village paths.
Breathless and trembling, he finally reached his house. He rushed inside and locked the door tightly. His family found him shaking with fear. When he told them what had happened, the elders realized that the old stories were true.
From that day onward, Balai never went fishing on a full moon night again.
The villagers became even more cautious. The legend of Siuli, the heartbroken girl who became a Petni, was told more often than before—not just as a ghost story, but as a reminder of love, loss, and the dangers that linger in forgotten waters.
And as for the canal, it remained there—silent, deep, and mysterious—its dark waters hiding secrets that only the moon truly understood.