There Atashi and Rupsa are headed to work together today, towards Garia Station. Their assignment: door-to-door survey work—finding out who currently lives in each house, and more importantly, who doesn’t anymore.
That phrase— “who no longer lives here”—is a tricky one. Names are supposed to be added and removed from the government’s voter list regularly. People are usually quite eager to get added, but when it comes to removing names, ….? That’s where the system falters. Sometimes, it’s negligence. Other times, it’s just...convenient forgetfulness. People die. People move away. Yet on Election Day, somehow, these absentees manage to quietly cast their votes. This needs to be cleaned up. That’s what Atashi and Rupsa have been entrusted with: reporting the truth to the government.
Today, they arrive at a detached part of Garia called Khal Garia, a quiet, somewhat forgotten neighbourhood that sprouted along an old canal—khāl, in Bengali. No apartment blocks here, just modest single and double-storey homes. The area feels sparsely populated. It's said that some Bengali families from Siliguri bought up land here long ago, hoping to keep a base in Kolkata. A few settled permanently. Others just drift in and out.
Atashi rings the doorbell of a single-storey house. The gate is shut, with a heavy lock dangling from the inside, and the front door is bolted too. Oddly, this means someone is probably within the home. No one responds. She waits. Then presses the bell again. Rupsa mutters, “Try a few more times, maybe we’ll annoy someone into opening the door.” This time, a sound does come—a low, gurgling groan. Not words. Just a deep, horrible groan. Atashi calls out, her voice firm but polite: “Masima, could you send someone out? We’re from the Election Office, just here to verify the voter list!” No answer.
2
Only the groaning. Just then, Monika, a domestic help who works at a few houses nearby, walks over with her hands planted on her hips.
“What’s going on here?” she asks sharply. “Why are you calling out like that?”
“We’re here for voter list updates,” Rupsa replies hesitantly. “We’ve been ringing the bell for ages, no one’s responding.”
Monika snorts , “You folks couldn’t find any other place? You've landed right in Ghost Lane.” “Ghost Lane?” Rupsa asks, eyebrows raised.
“That’s right. Most of these houses are haunted, sisters.” Rupsa stiffens.
“Haunted?” “I’m telling you the truth,” Monika insists.
Rupsa points towards the house, “Even this one?”
“Not yet,” Monika says grimly. “But it’s getting there.”
“What do you mean, getting there?”
“The old lady inside, Shyamali De Sarkar, she’s on her last breath. Could go any day now. After that, who knows? She might decide to hang around.”
Rupsa swallows. “Is anyone else living with her?”
“Her son’s in Bombay. Tried taking her with him once, but she wouldn’t go, had some falling-out with his wife. So now, there’s just one attendant looking after her. She’s out at the market.”
Atashi checks the sheet. Only one name: Shyamali De Sarkar.
“Let’s mark this one off and move on,” she tells Rupsa quickly.
The next house is a two-storey building. Its facade is faded, paint peeling in places. The front door is shut. On the wall, a clutter of nameplates—some bright and recent, others rusted and cracked.
At the very top it is Dr. Pratim Patra. Below that, are three more nameplates. Cross-checking with the list, six names exist in totality, Rupsa identifies.
3
They ring the bell. No response. Ring again. Finally, a throat-clearing sound echoes from above, and a voice calls out: “Who is it?”
“We’re here from the Election Office,” Atashi replies. “Uncle, can you come downstairs?”
A man appears on the upstairs balcony, his face wrapped tightly in a shawl. “What do you want?”
Rupsa holds up the list. “Uncle, we just need to verify a few names.”
“Go ahead,” he replies.
She begins. “Dr. Pratim Patra?”
“Passed away twenty-five years ago.”
“Mallika Patra?”
“Gone. Thirty years.”
“Pratyush Patra?”
“Fifteen years back.”
“Rani Patra?” “Twelve years.”
Rupsa stares. “All of them?”
“If you don’t believe me,” the man says dryly, “come inside and count the garlanded photo frames.”
“No no, just telling us is fine,” Rupsa says quickly.
“Next name—Pradyot Patra?”
“Missing,” the man replies flatly. “Went rock climbing ten years ago. Never returned. Body was never found.”
“What do we note for that?”
“Write whatever suits your paperwork.”
Rupsa hesitates. Takes a breath.
Atashi whispers, “Just one more, Rupsa. Let’s finish up and get out of here. This lane is giving me chills.”
4
“Alright… Jharna Patra?”
The man goes quiet. When he speaks again, his voice has dropped: “She was my wife. Died five years ago.”
Before Rupsa can respond, he adds, “I’m the only one left—Pradyot Patra. I’ll sign for you.”
Rupsa freezes. “But… you just said Pradyot went missing ten years ago.”
The man says nothing. Atashi stares, horrified. “Wait, how do you know we need a signature?”
The man answers slowly, “I know everything. Wait there, I’m coming down.”
With that, the shawl-wrapped figure turns and disappears from the balcony.
Atashi lets out a strangled scream. “Rupsa, RUN! The ghost’s coming! We’ll get the signature from someone else. The Ghost must want to twist our heads. We’re not to die in Ghost Lane!”
They sprint off, the voter list flapping in Rupsa’s hand like a pale flag leaving the silence of Khal Garia behind them, and whatever still lingered inside that house.