The Night Ride That Never Ended
Delhi has a strange way of breathing after midnight.
The chaos softens, but never disappears. The distant hum of traffic lingers like a restless spirit, stray dogs claim the empty streets, and the flickering streetlights seem to whisper stories no one dares to repeat in daylight.
It was one such night—cold, silent, and heavier than usual.
Raghav checked his phone again. 1:47 AM.
He stood alone near a dimly lit road in South Delhi, cursing his luck. No cabs. No autos. The kind of hour when even the city feels like it has turned its back on you.
A faint breeze passed, carrying with it a smell he couldn’t quite place—damp earth… or something older.
Just when impatience began turning into unease, an auto-rickshaw emerged from the darkness. Its headlight flickered weakly, as if struggling to stay alive.
Raghav waved it down.
The auto slowed, then stopped with a slight jerk. As he stepped closer, he noticed something odd.
A woman was already sitting inside.
She was draped in a pale saree, her face partially hidden in the shadows. Her posture was stiff—unnaturally still.
Raghav hesitated.
“Bhaiya, Lajpat Nagar?” he asked the driver.
The driver nodded slowly. “Baith jaiye. Share kar lo.”
Raghav glanced once at the woman. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
Something about her presence felt… wrong.
Still, the night offered no better options.
He got in.
The auto started moving.
For a few minutes, only the rattling sound of the engine filled the silence. Raghav tried to distract himself by checking his phone, but the network had dropped.
He cleared his throat.
“Late ho gaya aaj,” he said casually, trying to start a conversation.
The driver gave a faint smile. “Haan saab, raat ka time hi aisa hota hai.”
Raghav nodded, then glanced sideways at the woman.
She hadn’t moved.
Not even slightly.
Her face was turned toward the road, but her eyes… her eyes seemed fixed on something far beyond it.
There was no blinking. No expression. Just a hollow stillness.
A strange chill crept up Raghav’s spine.
A few minutes later, the auto slowed down near a deserted stretch of road.
Without warning, the woman shifted.
It was the first time she moved.
Her motion was slow, almost mechanical.
The auto stopped.
She stepped out.
No words. No payment. No acknowledgment.
She simply began walking forward into the darkness.
Raghav turned to the driver, expecting him to call her back.
But the driver said nothing.
Did nothing.
He just… watched.
For a brief moment, Raghav thought he saw fear in the driver’s eyes—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
The auto started again.
Now it was just the two of them.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Raghav couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Bhaiya… aapne paise nahi liye unse?”
The driver didn’t answer immediately.
His grip on the handle tightened.
Then, in a low voice, he said, “Aapne unke pair nahi dekhe?”
Raghav frowned.
“Pair? Kya matlab?”
The driver didn’t respond.
Instead, he slowed the auto and pulled over to the side of the road.
“Yahin utar jaiye,” he said.
Raghav felt irritation rising. “Arre par—”
“Utariye.”
There was something in his tone this time. Not anger.
Urgency.
Raghav got down, confused and slightly annoyed.
As he reached for his wallet, he said, “Aapne unse paise nahi liye, mujhse le rahe ho?”
The driver finally turned around.
His face looked pale.
“Aap samjhe nahi…” he whispered.
Raghav frowned. “Kya?”
The driver leaned slightly forward, his eyes fixed on Raghav’s feet.
“Aapne unke pair nahi dekhe…”
A pause.
Then, almost trembling—
“Kaise the?”
Raghav felt a sudden unease.
He instinctively looked down at his own feet.
Then, half-joking, half-curious, he said—
“Are suno… kahin aise toh nahi the…?”
He twisted his foot slightly, demonstrating.
Heel forward.
Toes backward.
The driver’s face froze.
His eyes widened.
For a split second, neither of them moved.
Then—
Without a word, the driver started the auto.
The engine roared louder than before.
And before Raghav could say anything—
The auto sped away.
Raghav stood alone on the empty road.
A strange silence settled around him.
He laughed nervously.
“Pagal aadmi…” he muttered.
But the laughter didn’t last.
Because slowly—
Very slowly—
A thought began to form.
The driver had looked at his feet.
Not at the woman’s.
His.
The streetlight above flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
And in that brief darkness—
Raghav felt it.
A presence.
Close.
Too close.
He turned.
There was no one.
But the air had changed.
Colder.
Heavier.
Like something unseen was watching.
Waiting.
The next morning, a local newspaper carried a small, almost unnoticed report:
“Unidentified body found near Lajpat Nagar road. Authorities suspect late-night accident. Victim’s identity unknown.”
But what made the report strange—
What made it unforgettable—
Was a single line buried at the end:
“Witnesses claim the body’s feet were found twisted in an unnatural direction.”
Even today, some auto drivers in Delhi refuse to pick passengers late at night from certain roads.
And if you ever ask them why—
They will only say one thing:
“Raat ko sab sawariyaan insaan nahi hoti.”
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