Title: The Man Who Negotiated with Yama

Genre- funny, 

Rajesh opened his eyes and found himself in a long queue. The air smelled of burnt toast, distant screams echoed around, and a large digital board flickered above his head: "Welcome to Yampuri – Your Final Destination!"

Confused, Rajesh turned to a frail old man in front of him. "Excuse me, is this the line for passport renewal?"

The old man laughed. "Son, this is the afterlife. We’re waiting for Yama, the Lord of Death, to decide where we go next. Heaven or Hell!"

Rajesh gulped. "Oh no… I hope my good deeds outweigh my bad ones. I did donate to charity once… even though it was my wife’s money. That counts, right?"

Before the old man could reply, the line moved forward, and suddenly, Rajesh found himself face-to-face with Yama, the fearsome god of death. He was huge, muscular, and had a mustache that could house two pigeons. He peered into his giant Book of Deeds.

"Rajesh Kumar!" Yama boomed. "Let’s see… You have stolen office pens, eaten your friend’s fries without asking, and—oh my!—you forwarded WhatsApp messages without verifying them! Tsk, tsk. Very shameful."

Rajesh smiled nervously. "But, Lord Yama, I have done good things too! I watered plants, helped my neighbor find his lost dog—granted, I was the one who let it out accidentally. But still, effort counts!"

Yama sighed. "According to my calculations, 62% of your deeds are bad, 38% are good. That means… you are going to Hell!"

"WHAT?!" Rajesh gasped. "No, no, no. There must be a mistake! I demand a recount! This is fraud! I want a lawyer!"

Yama raised an eyebrow. "This is Yampuri, not a democracy. Off you go!" He waved his hand, and two demons came forward, ready to escort Rajesh to the flaming pits of Hell.

Rajesh panicked. "Wait! If you send me to Hell, I will come back in my next birth and EXPOSE all the secrets of Yampuri to the world! I’ll write a bestselling book: ‘Hell and Beyond – A Survivor’s Story.’ Just imagine the scandal! Do you want that, Yama ji?"

Yama paused. The demons hesitated. Even Chitragupta, Yama’s accountant, peeked up from his bookkeeping.

"Fine," Yama said, rubbing his temples. "You want to negotiate? Let’s do this. If you can prove that your good deeds are extraordinary, I’ll reconsider."

Rajesh beamed. "Of course! For instance, I once gave up my seat on the bus for an old lady."

Yama nodded. "Commendable."

"Thank you! And once, I let my wife choose the movie instead of arguing for an action thriller. That’s practically sainthood, don’t you think?"

Yama stroked his mustache. "Hmm… Unusual, but not enough. Anything else?"

Rajesh hesitated, then whispered, "I followed all traffic rules. Even when no one was watching."

Yama’s eyes widened. Chitragupta gasped. The demons exchanged nervous glances.

"A mortal who obeys traffic rules… voluntarily?" Yama muttered. "This is unheard of."

Rajesh puffed his chest. "See? I’m a role model for humanity!"

Yama sighed. "Fine. Because of this rare honesty, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll send you to Heaven for one week. If you don’t like it, you can choose Hell instead."

"Done!" Rajesh cheered.

A golden elevator descended from the clouds, and Rajesh stepped in gleefully, waving at the demons smugly. The doors shut, and up he went.

---

One Week Later…

The golden elevator pinged open, and Rajesh stormed out, fuming. "YAMA! SEND ME TO HELL! NOW!"

Yama raised an eyebrow. "What happened? Didn’t you like Heaven?"

"LIKE IT?! IT’S BORING!" Rajesh wailed. "Everyone just sits around on clouds playing the harp! No spicy food, no Wi-Fi, and worst of all—NO GOSSIP! It’s like an eternal yoga retreat!"

Chitragupta snorted. "So, you’d rather go to Hell? The land of boiling oil, fire pits, and endless torture?"

Rajesh waved a hand. "At least it sounds more lively! And I hear they have chaat stalls run by ex-politicians. Send me there immediately!"

Yama smirked. "As you wish. But remember, there’s no coming back."

Rajesh nodded. "Anything is better than listening to divine flute music 24/7."

With a snap of Yama’s fingers, Rajesh was whisked away to Hell. He arrived at a boiling cauldron and waved at the demons. "Hey guys! So, where’s the chaat stall?"

One demon smirked. "Right this way. But first, sign this waiver. The spicy golgappa challenge is only for the brave."

Rajesh grinned. "Now THIS is the afterlife I was looking for!"

Here's your funny story about negotiating with Yama in the afterlife! Let me know if you want any tweaks or additional humor.

The Ghost in the Algorithm

Mira sat in her dimly lit bedroom, eyes glued to her laptop screen. The blue glow reflected off her glasses as she scrolled through the dark corners of the internet. As a cybersecurity analyst, she had seen all kinds of digital horrors—hacked databases, deepfake scandals, and rogue AI gone wrong. But nothing had prepared her for what she was about to encounter.

It started with an email.

Sender: Unknown

Subject: You Shouldn’t Have Looked

Mira frowned. The email contained nothing but a link, a URL that looked like a scrambled mess of characters. She had a strict rule: never click suspicious links. Yet, something about it intrigued her. Curiosity won. She copied the link, ran it through multiple security checks, and found nothing. No malware, no phishing threats—just an empty, anonymous webpage.

Against her better judgment, she clicked.

The screen went black.

Then, a single line of white text appeared:

Hello, Mira.

She shivered. Her system didn’t have any permissions enabled for sites to access her name. How did it know? Before she could react, more text appeared.

You have been chosen.

A distorted audio file began playing—a voice, broken and glitchy, whispering in a language she didn’t recognize. Her speakers crackled as a faint static hiss filled the room.

And then—her screen flickered.

Her webcam light turned on.

Mira's breath caught. She disabled all external access to her camera. Yet, the tiny green light glowed defiantly.

She yanked the USB cord from her external webcam. The light remained on.

The screen flashed again, showing a live feed of her own room—taken from a strange angle. The footage wasn’t from her laptop’s camera. It was from somewhere behind her.

Her heart pounded as she turned slowly.

Nothing.

She grabbed her phone and turned on the flashlight, scanning the corners of her room. Just her bookshelf, her bed, her closet—everything was as it should be.

Then her phone buzzed. A new notification.

Unknown Number: Look Again.

Mira’s hands trembled. She refused to turn back. Instead, she slammed her laptop shut, unplugged it, and powered off her phone.

Silence.

For a long moment, she sat in the dark, listening to her own breathing. She wasn’t paranoid—this was real. Someone had hacked her system. They were watching her. But how?

She forced herself to take deep breaths. This was just another cybersecurity challenge. She had dealt with breaches before. First step: regain control.

She powered her laptop back on.

The screen was different.

No desktop icons. No boot screen. Just a blank black background with one folder labeled: Don’t Open.

Mira swallowed.

A cruel trick. A psychological game.

She opened her command prompt to wipe the system—except it was already running a script. Lines of code scrolled down her screen at rapid speed. She recognized some of it—deep web protocols, cryptographic hashing—but other parts made no sense. It was as if someone had rewritten the very fabric of her operating system.

And then, the folder opened on its own.

Inside was a single video file: Mira.mp4

She hovered over it, debating whether to open it. But before she could decide, the file launched itself.

A grainy, night-vision recording played.

It showed her.

Asleep in her bed.

Mira's pulse hammered in her ears. The timestamp showed it was recorded last night.

She watched as, in the video, her sleeping figure twitched. The blanket moved slightly, as if something unseen was tugging at it. Then, in the footage, she sat up—except she didn't remember waking up.

The recorded version of herself turned toward the camera.

And smiled.

Not a normal smile. A stretched, eerie grin that split her face unnaturally wide. Her eyes were pitch black.

The Mira in the video leaned closer to the camera and whispered in a distorted voice:

"You let me in."

The screen went black.

Mira slammed her laptop shut, her breath ragged.

This wasn’t hacking. This wasn’t a virus.

Something else had entered her system.

Her room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in. She needed to leave. She grabbed her keys and phone, rushing out into the hallway of her apartment complex. The cool air calmed her racing heart.

Her phone buzzed again.

A new message. A video attachment.

She didn’t want to open it.

But her finger moved on its own.

The video showed live footage—her apartment door.

From the inside.

Mira’s blood ran cold.

The camera moved, panning across her empty bedroom, finally stopping in front of her closet.

The door was slightly open. A sliver of darkness beyond it.

And then—

A pale hand reached out.

The screen glitched. The video looped, showing the same scene again and again.

Then, another message appeared.

You can’t run. I’m already here.

The lights in the hallway flickered.

Mira turned, heart pounding, as a shadow moved at the far end of the corridor.

A figure stood there—its face just like hers.

It smiled.

The last thing Mira heard before everything went dark was her own voice whispering:

"You shouldn’t have looked."

The Paradox of Life

In the quiet village of Sitapur, nestled between the hills and the river, lived an old man named Baba Ramesh. He was known for his wisdom, though he owned nothing but a small hut and a few clay pots. People from far and wide came to seek his advice, for he had a way of turning life’s troubles into lessons.

One day, a wealthy businessman named Arjun Mehta visited Baba Ramesh. Arjun was troubled despite his riches.

“Baba,” Arjun said, “I have everything—money, power, and success. But I am not happy. Life feels empty.”

Baba Ramesh smiled and asked, “What do you seek in life?”

“Happiness, peace, and purpose,” Arjun sighed.

Baba Ramesh nodded. “I will tell you a story.”

The Two Travelers

“Once, two travelers set out on a journey to the same destination—a beautiful valley said to hold the secret of life. One was a rich man, the other poor.

The rich man rode a fine horse, carrying food, gold, and a map. The poor man had nothing but a walking stick.

On the way, a storm struck. The rich man sought shelter in a cave, fearing the storm would ruin his silk clothes. The poor man walked through the rain, feeling the water on his skin, tasting its freshness.

When they reached the valley, the rich man was exhausted and irritated. His food had spoiled, and his gold was heavy to carry. The poor man, however, arrived with nothing but a heart full of joy, having embraced every moment of the journey.

Both reached the same place, but only one truly lived the journey.”

Arjun frowned. “Are you saying my wealth is useless?”

Baba Ramesh chuckled. “Not at all. Wealth is like the horse—it can make your journey easier, but if you hold on too tightly, it can also weigh you down.”

The Paradoxes of Life

Arjun was thoughtful. “So, what is the secret to happiness?”

Baba Ramesh picked up a clay pot and filled it with water. Then, he overturned it, letting the water flow away.

“Life is a paradox, Arjun. The more you try to hold on to things—money, power, even happiness—the more they slip away. But when you let go, when you give, life fills you with abundance.”

Arjun was silent, absorbing the lesson.

Baba Ramesh continued:

“To find yourself, you must lose yourself in service to others.”

“To gain respect, you must be humble.”

“To be strong, you must accept your weaknesses.”

“To be truly free, you must let go of control.”

The Final Lesson

Arjun stayed with Baba Ramesh for a few days, observing his simple life. Despite having little, the old man smiled more than anyone he had ever met.

One evening, Arjun asked, “Baba, if life is about letting go, should I give away all my wealth?”

Baba Ramesh laughed. “No, my son. Wealth is not the problem. Attachment is. If you can own riches without them owning you, you are free.”

Arjun finally understood. He returned to his city, but he was no longer the same man. He worked, earned, and helped others, realizing that true joy came not from what he had but from how he lived.

And so, he found what he had been searching for all along—not in his wealth, but in his wisdom.

Villains Are Created, Not Born

The courtroom was silent as the judge read the verdict. The air was thick with judgment, anger, and betrayal. Raghav, a 28-year-old man, stood in the defendant’s box, accused of multiple crimes. He showed no remorse, his cold eyes scanning the crowd. His mother sat in a corner, tears streaming down her face.

The media had already painted him as a monster. “A born criminal,” they called him. But no one asked why. No one cared about the boy he once was, the struggles he faced, or the wounds society inflicted upon him.

The Innocence That Once Was

Raghav was not always a criminal. He was once a bright, hopeful child. He loved books, enjoyed painting, and dreamed of becoming a teacher. His father, a laborer, worked tirelessly to provide for the family, but money was always scarce. His mother, a kind woman, tried to shield him from the hardships of life.

One evening, when he was ten, his father met with an accident at the construction site where he worked. The company refused to take responsibility, and his family was left helpless. Within weeks, his father passed away, leaving them in crushing poverty. His mother worked as a maid, struggling to feed him.

The world, however, was not kind to poor children. His classmates mocked his tattered clothes. The shopkeepers shooed him away as if he were a thief. When he walked past the rich neighborhoods, people clutched their wallets tightly, as if his mere presence threatened them.

He never understood why society looked at him with disgust. Did he choose to be poor? Did he deserve this cruelty?

The First Crack in His Soul

One night, his mother fell ill. She needed medicine, but they had no money. Desperate, he approached a local shopkeeper for help. The man laughed. “If you want money, earn it like the rest of us,” he sneered.

Helpless, Raghav did something that changed his life forever—he stole. It was a small act, just a strip of medicine, but when he was caught, the entire neighborhood branded him a thief. No one listened to why he did it. They didn’t see a desperate boy, only a criminal in the making.

Soon, people stopped giving his mother work. He was expelled from school. The world had decided—he was a villain, even before he knew what it meant.

Falling Into Darkness

Thrown into the streets, Raghav had no choice but to survive. He met others like him—children abandoned by society, rejected and scorned. They taught him the rules of the street: steal or starve, fight or perish.

At first, his hands trembled when he picked a pocket. But with time, he hardened. When people treated him like a criminal, he became one. The world only respected the powerful, so he vowed never to be weak again.

By the time he turned eighteen, he was no longer just a petty thief. He had joined a local gang. They offered him protection, food, and most importantly—respect. He climbed the ranks, learning that power came not from kindness, but from fear.

A Monster of Society’s Making

One night, he saw the same shopkeeper who once humiliated him, now old and weak. The man, who once denied him medicine for his dying mother, now begged for mercy as Raghav’s gang raided his store.

For a moment, the innocent boy inside Raghav surfaced. He wanted to forgive. He wanted to help. But then, he remembered the hunger, the insults, the years of rejection. He hardened his heart and walked away, leaving the man to his fate.

By the time the police caught him, he was beyond redemption in society’s eyes. No one remembered the boy who once dreamed of becoming a teacher. No one cared about the pain that shaped him.

The Final Judgment

As the judge pronounced the life sentence, the courtroom erupted in whispers. Some called it justice. Others felt relieved. But no one questioned how a bright, kind boy had turned into a feared criminal.

As Raghav was led away, he looked at his mother one last time. Her eyes were filled with sorrow, not just for him, but for the world that had failed him.

Villains are not born. They are created by the cruelty, neglect, and injustice of society. If we had listened, helped, and shown kindness, maybe Raghav’s story would have been different. But now, it was too late. Society had made its monster, and now it wanted to erase him.

Bhoot Bungalow ka Reality Show

After their YouTube channel Bhoot Bungalow ka WiFi became a massive hit, Ramesh had a crazy idea—India’s first ghost reality show!

“Bhai, agar insaan Bigg Boss dekh sakte hain, toh bhoot bhi dekh sakte hain!” he told Suresh.

With Narayan the foodie ghost, Raghunath Mishra the professor ghost, and their landlord-turned-ghost sponsor, they launched Bhoot Bungalow ka Reality Show, a haunted house competition where ghosts had to survive challenges—without vanishing into thin air!

The Contestants

1. Narayan Bawarchi – The ever-hungry ghost, who haunted the kitchen.

2. Raghunath Mishra – The strict professor ghost, who haunted the study room.

3. Champa Aunty – A gossip-loving ghost from the 1800s, who still believed in matchmaking.

4. Colonel Zalim Singh – A headless army ghost who took PT drills very seriously.

5. Tiwari Baba – A tantrik-turned-ghost who still tried to exorcise others.

6. Phirki Bai – A lost-at-Kumbh-Mela ghost who kept mistaking everyone for her family.

Episode 1: The Grand Haunting Entrance

The show began with a dramatic introduction. Ramesh, dressed like a cheap Bollywood horror movie host, welcomed everyone.

"Yeh hai duniya ka pehla bhoot reality show, jisme contestants bina darwaza khole andar aate hain!"

The ghosts phirrrr floated inside, except Colonel Zalim Singh, who shouted, "Jai Hind!" and marched in.

Champa Aunty immediately started interrogating Narayan. “Beta, shaadi ho gayi ya abhi bhi ladkiyon ke DMs me ghoom raha hai?”

Narayan groaned, “Aunty, main bhoot hoon, online dating app pe bhi nahi hoon!”

Meanwhile, Tiwari Baba attempted to exorcise Phirki Bai, chanting mantras. Phirki Bai smacked him with a floating chappal. “Arey baba, main bhoot hoon, tu bhi bhoot hai! Kya exorcism kar raha hai?”

Episode 2: The First Task – Scare the Human

The first challenge was simple: Scare the human guest, Manoj Pandey, a brave but confused real estate agent.

Narayan tried throwing floating samosas at Manoj, but instead of getting scared, he took a bite and said, "Mast hai!"

Raghunath Mishra whispered "Teri CBSE answer sheet galat check hui thi", which made Manoj faint.

Colonel Zalim Singh shouted, "Front roll, back roll!" and made Manoj do PT for an hour.

Winner: Raghunath Mishra, because exam trauma is the real horror.

Episode 3: The Midnight Kitchen Battle

Since ghosts don’t need sleep, a fight broke out in the kitchen at 2 AM. Narayan wanted to make paneer butter masala, but Champa Aunty demanded kadha for her "bhoot ki immunity".

Phirki Bai, in her usual confused state, took out salt instead of sugar, ruining the ghostly tea. Tiwari Baba tried to purify the meal by throwing holy water on it, causing everyone to poof disappear for five minutes.

The midnight kitchen was declared a disaster.

Episode 4: The Diary Room Confessions

Just like every reality show, contestants had to enter the "Diary Room" to share their feelings.

Narayan: “Mujhe sirf ek plate chicken biryani chahiye, phir main elimination se khud nikal jaunga.”

Champa Aunty: “Yahan ladkiyon ka koi future nahi hai. Saare ladke ya toh bhautiko hai ya Colonel jaise pagal!”

Colonel Zalim Singh: “Mujhe ek laddu chahiye, phir main army se resign kar dunga.”

Phirki Bai: “Koi mujhe bata sakta hai, main yahan kyun hoon?”

The Grand Finale: The Ultimate Scare Battle

The last challenge was to scare Mohanlal the Milkman, a man known for his fearlessness.

Narayan turned into a floating samosa. No effect.

Raghunath Mishra whispered, "Beta, school ki fees double ho gayi hai," but Mohanlal laughed.

Tiwari Baba chanted “Shakti aayi hai, chali jayegi!” but Mohanlal just said, "Baba, aap retire ho jao."

Colonel Zalim Singh, tired of everything, removed his own head and said, “Doodh ka bill nahi diya toh sirr kaat dunga!”

Mohanlal screamed and ran.

Winner: Colonel Zalim Singh!

The Prize?

Instead of money (because, well, ghosts), Colonel got one year’s supply of free laddus and the title "Bhoot Bungalow ka Boss".

Final Scene: As the ghosts celebrated, Ramesh turned to Suresh and whispered, "Bhai, agla season mein aliens bulayein?"

And thus, Bhoot Bungalow ka Reality Show became a legend—where horror met comedy, and ghosts fought for the ultimate prize: attention and food!

Bhoot Bunglow ka WiFi

     Genre- Horror Comedy     

              It all started when Ramesh, a struggling YouTuber, decided to move into the infamous "Bhoot Bungalow" to make a viral ghost-hunting video. The rent was dirt cheap, the location was isolated, and most importantly—it had free WiFi. "Bhai, haunted hai toh kya hua, signal toh full aa raha hai!" he convinced his friend Suresh.

             The landlord, an old man with suspiciously glowing eyes, handed them the keys and muttered, “Ek baat yaad rakhna—raat ko kitchen mat jaana.”

"Accha, bhoot diet pe hai kya?" Ramesh joked.

           The duo set up their cameras and started streaming live. “Aaj hum kholenge is bhoot bungalow ke raaz!” Ramesh announced, while Suresh, his cameraman, shivered in fear.

As they explored the house, strange things began happening. The lights flickered, a chair moved on its own, and someone whispered, "Biryani laaya?"

“Biryani? Bhoot bhi foodie hota hai kya?” Suresh whispered, clutching Ramesh’s shirt.

          Ignoring the warning, they tiptoed into the kitchen. A half-eaten samosa floated in the air and vanished. The fridge door opened, revealing a ghostly hand reaching for a packet of Amul butter.

“Bro, yeh bhoot bhookha hai,” Ramesh whispered, gulping.

           Suddenly, a translucent figure in a lungi and banyan appeared. He looked less like a fearsome ghost and more like a sleep-deprived uncle. “Arey, kyun pareshaan kar rahe ho?” the ghost grumbled.

           Ramesh and Suresh screamed and ran to the door, but it slammed shut. “Relax! Main full violent bhoot nahi hoon, bas foodie hoon,” the ghost explained. “Naam hai Narayan. Pehle yahan ka bawarchi tha, ab bas yahi reh gaya.”

Suresh, now slightly less terrified, asked, “Matlab, tum sirf khaane ke chakkar mein haunt kar rahe ho?”

Narayan sighed. “Haan bhai, jeevan mein sirf do cheezein important hoti hain—swadisht khana aur sahi WiFi.”

Ramesh’s eyes widened. “WiFi ka password doge?”

Narayan smirked. “Ek plate paneer butter masala laao, phir bataunga.”

            The two friends sprinted to the nearby dhaba and returned with steaming food. Narayan devoured it like a true Indian uncle at a wedding buffet. Finally, he revealed the holy grail—"Password: CholeBhature123".

“Yeh toh viral ho gaya!” Ramesh grinned, already editing the video.

             Thus began a unique partnership—Ramesh and Narayan started India’s first Ghost Mukbang YouTube channel, where Narayan reviewed food from different restaurants. The channel exploded overnight.

But one night, things took a turn. Narayan, sipping on lassi, looked concerned. “Mujhe lagta hai… is ghar mein sirf main nahi hoon.”

Suresh dropped his camera. “Matlab?”

“Ek aur bhoot hai… woh violent hai!” Narayan shuddered.

Just then, the lights flickered, and a deep, eerie voice boomed—"Mujhe bhi biryani chahiye!"

“Abe, yeh toh puri bhoot canteen hai!” Suresh wailed.

              The room turned ice-cold as a shadowy figure emerged. It was a tall ghost in a kurta, looking like a disgruntled professor. “Main Raghunath Mishra hoon. Yahan lecturer tha. Ab bas biryani aur shaanti chahiye.”

Ramesh, sensing an opportunity, grinned. “Aap bhi YouTube pe aayenge?”

Raghunath adjusted his invisible spectacles. “Haan, par sirf Hyderabadi biryani ki review karunga.”

And so, the channel grew. From Bhoot Mukbang to Bhoot Foodie Reviews, they took the internet by storm.

            One day, even the landlord returned—floating. “Arey, yeh mera hi ghost hai, mujhe bhi feature karo!”

              And thus, Bhoot Bungalow ka WiFi became the hottest YouTube channel in India, proving that ghosts, like humans, only need good food, fast internet, and a little bit of fame.😁

The Man Who Came from 1850

             The night was unusually quiet, the kind that makes one feel as if the world had stopped breathing. Ethan Carter sat in his small apartment, a cup of coffee in hand, scrolling through old books he had collected over the years. History fascinated him—especially the mysteries that remained unsolved.

Then, the knock came.

           A slow, deliberate knock, as if the person on the other side was unsure whether they should be there at all. Ethan hesitated before answering. When he finally opened the door, a man stood there, drenched in rain, his clothes out of place—too formal, too antique. A long coat, a vest, boots caked in mud. His face was lean, his eyes carrying something Ethan couldn't quite place—something lost in time.

"Can I come in?" the man asked.

There was something about him—an eerie familiarity that made Ethan step aside without questioning.

               The man entered, glancing around as if everything was foreign to him. His fingers brushed the fabric of the couch, the smooth surface of the television screen, the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Then he turned to Ethan.

"I need your help," he said. "I think I’ve traveled too far."

Ethan frowned. "Traveled?"

"Through time," the man said. "I was supposed to arrive in 1890, but I miscalculated. The machine malfunctioned. I ended up here."

              Ethan let out a short laugh, thinking it was a joke. But the man’s expression didn’t waver. And then he did something that sent a shiver down Ethan’s spine—he pulled out a small, metallic device from his pocket, something that looked far too intricate for the 19th century. It had gears, tiny glowing symbols, and a soft humming sound.

"This is what brought me here," the man whispered.

Ethan sat down, his mind racing. "You’re saying… you’re from the past?"

"From 1850."

A long silence filled the room.

            The man’s name was James Whitmore, a scientist from London who had been part of an underground experiment—one that history had no record of. He had spent years working on a theory that time could be traversed, that the past and future were not set in stone but fluid, waiting to be shaped. But something had gone wrong.

Now, he was here—alone in a world that had moved too fast for him to catch up.

         "I had a family," James murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "A wife. A son. I only meant to be gone for a few hours." He looked at Ethan, desperation in his eyes. "Help me go back."

Ethan exhaled. "I don’t know how."

James tightened his grip on the device. "I only need to repair it. But I need something from my time. Something that doesn’t exist now."

Ethan had never felt more helpless. He wanted to believe James. But if he was telling the truth… how did one help a man return to a time long gone?

The days passed. James struggled to adjust. He marveled at the city but grew distant whenever he saw families together. The loneliness in his eyes was haunting.

One evening, as Ethan watched him stare at an old black-and-white photograph from a history book, he asked, "What if you can’t go back?"

James closed his eyes. "Then my son will grow up thinking I abandoned him. My wife… she’ll wait for me until she realizes I’m never coming back." His voice broke. "They’ll think I didn’t love them enough to stay."

Ethan swallowed the lump in his throat. He had never seen someone carry such an unbearable grief—one that stretched across time itself.

Then, one night, the device flickered to life.

James worked on it relentlessly, using whatever tools he could find. Ethan helped where he could, though most of it was beyond his understanding. And then—just like that—the machine hummed louder, its symbols glowing brighter.

"It’s ready," James whispered.

They stood in Ethan’s small apartment, both knowing what this meant. If James left, there was no guarantee he would make it back to 1850. He could end up somewhere else—or nowhere at all.

James looked at Ethan. "Thank you. You were the first person in this world to believe me."

Ethan nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

James pressed a sequence on the device. A soft hum filled the room, and then—just before the light engulfed him—he whispered, "If I don’t make it… tell them I tried."

And then—he was gone.

Ethan stood in the silence that followed, staring at the empty space where James had been. The room felt colder, as if a part of time itself had been erased.

For weeks, Ethan searched history books, records—anything that could confirm whether James had returned. But there was nothing. No mention of his disappearance. No records of his experiment. It was as if he had never existed.

And then, one day, a letter arrived.

The envelope was old, the ink slightly faded. But the date at the top made Ethan’s heart stop.

October 12, 1851.

With trembling hands, he unfolded the letter.

"Ethan,

I made it back. Not to the exact moment I left—but close enough. My wife knew me. My son… he still remembers me. I wanted you to know—your belief in me saved my life. If you ever find yourself lost in time, remember—there will always be someone willing to believe in you.

James Whitmore."

Ethan stared at the letter, his mind spinning. How had it reached him? How had it survived all these years?

Then, at the bottom, in small handwriting, was a final note.

"Look under the floorboard by the fireplace."

Heart pounding, Ethan moved to the fireplace, pried open the loose floorboard—and there, buried beneath the dust, was the device.

But it was broken. Rusted. As if it had been there for centuries.

Ethan sat back, his breath shaky.

James had made it back.

But had he left the device there for Ethan?

Or… had Ethan left it there for James?

The question lingered, unanswered, lost in time.

It's remained the Mystry Weather Ethan  Time travelled or James.........

The Mystery of Banyan Tree Part-3 (Ending)

The Silent Companion

            Days passed, and Amit tried to convince himself that it was over. The village had stopped whispering about him, his grandmother had returned to her usual prayers, and the nights were… quiet.

Too quiet.

The absence of whispers should have comforted him, but instead, it felt like something was waiting. Watching.

And then, the voice came back.

Not as whispers from the tree.

But inside his own head.

"Amit… you see me, don’t you?"

It was subtle at first—a faint murmur in his thoughts. But then, it started slipping into his daily life.

When he looked into the mirror—his reflection smirked a second too late.

When he walked past dark corners—his shadow moved the wrong way.

When he closed his eyes—someone else was staring back.

The Disguise

         One night, as Amit sat on the veranda, his grandmother stepped out, her frail form illuminated by the lantern’s glow.

"You should sleep, beta," she said softly.

Something in her tone made Amit uneasy.

He frowned. "Daadi, you went to sleep hours ago."

She smiled. "I woke up."

His stomach twisted. Something was… off.

The way she stood—too still. The way her shadow stretched unnaturally behind her.

But it was her eyes that sent ice through his veins.

They were too dark.

Too empty.

Like the ones he had seen under the banyan tree.

"Amit," she said again, stepping forward. "Come inside, beta."

Amit gripped the arms of his chair. His grandmother never called him beta twice in one sentence.

His throat went dry.

He knew the rule.

Don’t speak. Don’t acknowledge. Don’t respond.

But fear, confusion, and exhaustion cracked his resolve.

"Who… are you?" he whispered.

And just like that, everything changed.

The Revelation

             His "grandmother" smiled wider. Unnaturally wide.

"You finally spoke to me, Amit."

Her voice twisted, overlapping with others, a chorus of forgotten souls.

Amit staggered back. "No… this isn’t real."

She stepped closer. "But I am real. I’ve been waiting, Amit. Waiting for you to answer."

His mind screamed to run, to wake his real grandmother, to flee the village, but his body felt frozen.

"Wh-what do you want?" he stammered.

The thing wearing his grandmother’s face tilted its head. "You. Just like the others."

Amit’s breath caught. "The others…?"

Her smile faded. "The ones who answered before you."

Then, the lantern flickered—and she lunged.

The End

Amit woke up in his bed, gasping. His grandmother sat beside him, her old, wrinkled hands trembling as she clutched his.

"You spoke to it," she whispered.

Amit’s heart pounded. "Was it… real?"

Her eyes welled with tears. "I told you never to respond."

He sat up, dizzy. His mind felt… different.

Like something was inside it.

Watching.

Waiting.

From that day on, Amit was never the same. The whispers didn’t return.

Because they didn’t have to.

Now, they lived within him.

The Mystery of Banyan Tree Part-2

The Lingering Fear

           Days turned into weeks, yet Amit couldn’t shake off the eerie feeling of being watched. Every night, the whispers returned, growing bolder, more insistent. He followed his grandmother’s advice—never acknowledging them, never responding.

But the village had changed toward him. The elders avoided him. Children whispered behind his back. Even Riya and Deepak hesitated to meet his eyes.

"Amit," Riya said one evening, lowering her voice, "people think… the tree marked you. That you’re cursed."

Amit scoffed. "You don’t believe that, do you?"

Riya hesitated. "I don’t want to, but…" she trailed off, eyes darting to something behind him.

Amit turned sharply. The narrow alley was empty.

But he swore—just for a second—he saw a shadow move.

The Ritual

          His grandmother sensed his growing fear.

"You cannot live like this," she said one night, rubbing turmeric on his forehead. "There’s a way to break its hold, but it is dangerous."

Amit leaned forward. "Tell me."

Ramlal Kaka was summoned. He arrived after dark, carrying a bundle wrapped in red cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a small, rusted iron trident.

"You must go back to the tree," he said gravely. "Bury this at its roots before sunrise. Do not speak. Do not listen. Whatever happens—do not look back."

Amit swallowed hard. "And if I fail?"

His grandmother’s silence was answer enough.

The Return to the Banyan

At midnight, Amit approached the tree once more, the trident clutched tightly in his hand.

The night was unnaturally still. Even the crickets had gone silent.

As he neared the tree, his body tensed. He could feel it. A presence. Watching. Waiting.

His fingers dug into the earth, trying to bury the trident. The soil was cold, damp—as if freshly disturbed.

Then, a whisper.

"Amit… you came back."

His breathing hitched, but he didn’t stop digging.

The whispers turned into voices. Then into cries. Wailing. Pleading.

"Help us."

"They left us here."

"We suffer."

Amit shut his eyes. Don’t listen. Don’t acknowledge.

Something cold brushed against his shoulder.

He clenched his jaw. Ignore it.

The cries turned into screams. The ground beneath him trembled. The air thickened, pressing against his chest.

Then—silence.

Amit exhaled shakily. Had he done it?

Then, just as he turned to leave—

A hand shot out of the soil.

Pale. Thin. Clutching his wrist.

And then—he looked up.

A face. Twisted in agony. Eyes hollow. Lips moving soundlessly.

Amit wanted to scream, but no sound came.

The whispers roared inside his head.

Then everything went black.

The Awakening

             Amit woke up in his grandmother’s house, his body drenched in sweat. His grandmother sat beside him, her face lined with worry.

"You almost didn’t come back," she whispered, pressing a talisman into his hand.

Ramlal Kaka stood in the doorway. "The tree won’t call you anymore."

Amit swallowed. He should have felt relieved.

But something was wrong.

The whispers were gone.

But the voice in his head?

It had stayed.

And it was laughing.

The Mystery of Banyan Tree Part-1

           In the heart of Madhya Pradesh, where dense forests swallowed the sunlight, lay a village named Chanderpur. It was an ancient settlement, untouched by modernity, where traditions ran deep and superstitions deeper. But one place in the village was feared above all—the old banyan tree on the outskirts.

It was said that anyone who heard whispers beneath that tree at night never returned the same. Some lost their voices, some lost their minds, and some… were never seen again.

The Return

            Amit, a 26-year-old journalist from Bhopal, scoffed at such superstitions. He had returned to Chanderpur after nearly a decade, visiting his ailing grandmother. The village had not changed—narrow lanes, mud houses, and oil lamps flickering in the night. But the stories had only grown darker.

"Daadi, do people still believe in that banyan tree nonsense?" Amit asked as he helped her with dinner.

His grandmother, frail yet sharp, looked at him with worried eyes. "Amit, never mock what you don't understand. That tree… it watches. It listens."

Amit chuckled, shaking his head. "It's just an old tree, Daadi. Nothing more."

That night, as he lay in bed, he overheard murmurs from his grandmother and their neighbor, Ramlal Kaka.

"The boy shouldn't stay out after dark," Ramlal whispered.

"He won't believe until he sees," Daadi replied grimly.

Amit smirked. He decided he would prove them wrong.

The Dare

             The next evening, he met his childhood friends, Deepak and Riya, both still living in Chanderpur. Over tea, he brought up the banyan tree.

"Still haunted?" he teased.

Riya frowned. "Amit, don’t joke. Last month, a man named Shankar went missing after walking past that tree. His wife swears she heard him scream, but no one found him."

Deepak nodded. "Even those who return… they change. My uncle stopped speaking entirely after he spent a night near it."

Amit laughed. "So if I spend an hour there, will I vanish?"

Riya paled. "Don’t, Amit. Please."

But it was too late. Amit had made up his mind.

The Banyan’s Curse

At midnight, armed with a flashlight and his phone, Amit approached the ancient banyan tree. The air was thick, heavy, as if the night itself were watching him. Crickets chirped, but beneath their sound, he thought he heard… whispers.

His laughter faltered. "Wind through the leaves," he told himself.

The tree’s roots coiled like serpents, and its massive trunk seemed to pulse with an unseen heartbeat. He stepped closer, placing a hand on the rough bark. It was warm. Too warm.

Then he heard it.

A whisper.

Soft, broken.

"Amit…"

His blood ran cold. He spun around, flashing the light. Nothing.

His breathing grew ragged. "It’s just in my head."

Then, from the darkness, a voice.

"Amit… help me…"

His pulse pounded. "Who’s there?" he called, stepping back.

From behind the tree, something moved. A figure. Shadowy. Wrong.

It looked human but wasn’t. Its eyes were hollow pits, its skin stretched unnaturally, mouth open in a silent scream. It took a step forward, its feet barely touching the ground.

"Amit… don’t… leave…"

Amit stumbled back, heart hammering. The air around him grew freezing, his breath visible in the warm summer night. The whispers multiplied, surrounding him, echoing in his ears.

Then he felt it.

Cold fingers brushing against his neck.

He screamed.

The Escape

Amit bolted, running blindly back to the village. The whispers chased him, slithering into his mind.

He crashed into his grandmother’s house, slamming the door shut. His body trembled as he gasped for air.

Daadi rushed to him. "You went to the tree, didn’t you?"

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

She grabbed a small pouch of black ash and smeared it across his forehead, chanting in a language he didn’t understand. Slowly, the whispers faded, the cold lifted.

"Who… was it?" Amit finally managed to ask.

His grandmother’s face darkened. "The lost ones. The ones who never returned."

The Truth

             The next morning, Ramlal Kaka arrived, his face grim. "The tree marked him," he told Daadi.

Amit, still shaken, demanded answers.

Ramlal sighed. "Years ago, before you were born, that tree was used for… punishments. People accused of crimes were hung from its branches. Many were innocent, but their cries went unheard."

His voice grew lower. "They say their souls never left. They whisper, calling out, seeking justice, or revenge. And once they call your name…" He met Amit’s eyes. "They don’t stop."

Amit’s blood ran cold.

"Is there a way to break it?" he whispered.

Daadi hesitated before answering. "You must never acknowledge the whispers again. No matter what they say, no matter how real they sound—ignore them. If you respond, they will claim you."

Amit nodded. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t over.

The Final Whisper

             Days passed, but Amit couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. At night, he’d hear faint murmurs outside his window, always just beyond understanding.

One night, as he lay awake, the whisper returned.

Soft. Gentle.

"Amit… let me in…"

His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, repeating Daadi’s warning in his mind.

The voice grew urgent. "Amit, please… I’m cold… I’m lost…"

Tears pricked his eyes. It sounded so human. So real.

He clenched his fists. Don’t respond. Don’t respond.

          The whisper lingered. Then, after what felt like an eternity, it faded.

Morning arrived, and Amit knew he had survived.

But as he left his room, his grandmother’s face told him everything.

She had heard it too.

And she knew… the whispers would never stop.

The Mystery of Ghumnam Junction

              The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels against the tracks was almost hypnotic. Rohan sat by the window, watching the scenery shift as he traveled from Kolkata to Assam. It was a long journey, but he didn’t mind. He had his book, some snacks, and the comforting hum of the train to keep him company.

A few hours into the journey, the train slowed down and came to a stop at a dimly lit station. The signboard, barely visible in the flickering yellow light, read "Ghumnam Junction."

Rohan had never heard of this station before. He checked his phone to see their current location, but strangely, there was no network. Shrugging it off, he decided to step out and grab something to eat. The air outside was eerily still. A small vendor's stall stood at the corner, selling snacks and tea.

"Chai?" the vendor asked in a hoarse voice.

Rohan nodded, handing over some money. As he sipped the tea, he noticed something odd—no one else had gotten off the train. Usually, at such halts, passengers would step out to stretch their legs or buy food. But here, everyone remained seated inside, peering out of the windows with an unsettling stillness.

Even stranger, no one boarded the train either.

A shiver ran down Rohan’s spine. It felt as if he was the only one who could see this station. He quickly finished his tea, grabbed a pack of biscuits, and hurried back inside the train. As soon as he stepped in, the whistle blew, and the train started moving again.

He sank into his seat, his mind racing. Had he just imagined everything?

When he reached home in Gangtok, he told his friends about Ghumnam Junction. They laughed.

"There's no such station on that route, Rohan!"

"You must have been dreaming."

He felt unsettled. That night, he searched the internet for Ghumnam Junction. Nothing. Not a single mention of such a place. His unease deepened.

Four days later, he had to return to Kolkata. The journey felt ordinary, yet tension coiled in his chest as the train approached the spot where he remembered Ghumnam Junction. He kept looking out the window, waiting for the train to slow down.

But it never did.

The train passed smoothly through a stretch of dark wilderness—no station, no flickering lights, no vendor with hoarse whispers. Ghumnam Junction simply did not exist.

Cold fear gripped Rohan. Where had he been that night? If the station wasn’t real, then where had he stopped? Who had served him tea?

The thought haunted him for years. He never found an answer. But sometimes, in the dead of night, he would wake up with the taste of that tea still lingering on his tongue.