The Sharma’s had come to Udaipur for a wedding. Between the rituals and music, one plan stood out—buying jewellery from a small rural village, where women handcrafted ornaments.
The village lay beyond a thick forest. Locals whispered the same warning:
“Leave before eight. After that… the forest decides who leaves.”
The driver, Raghav, grew pale as the sun dipped. But the Sharma’s lingered. By the time they left, it was well past eight.
Inside the forest, the headlights began to stutter. The same trees loomed again and again, as though the bus circled endlessly.
Finally, Raghav stopped, whispering: “We wait till midnight. It’s the only way.”
One by one, the family drifted into uneasy sleep. But the kids were restless. Four of them—Aditya and Kabir, and their cousins Riya and Meera—whispered about exploring the forest with their drone and torch.
The twins, Aarav and Arjun, decided to stay back. “We’ll get caught. You go,” Aarav muttered, curling up against his brother.
So, while the bus slept, the other four quietly opened the emergency door and slipped into the forest with the torch, drone, and a notebook to trace their path. Half an hour later, Priya, Aditya’s mother, stirred awake. The seats were empty. Panic spread through the bus.
The twins confessed: “They went into the forest.”
The family erupted into chaos. Some demanded to search, but when they asked Raghav to lead them, he trembled.
“This place… eats people. I’ve seen it. I will not go in.”
At last, they tied a rope to the nearest tree, venturing into the forest with phone flashlights—only for the phones to flicker dead in their hands, as though drained by something unseen.
Back in the woods, the four children were already lost. The torch went out. The drone’s screen blurred with static. The forest grew impossibly silent, save for the crunch of their own footsteps.
In a clearing, they spotted an old white van. Its headlights were dim, almost glowing. Inside sat a man—motionless, eyes closed. His skin was pale, his beard long, his traditional outfit eerily spotless.
“Ask him for help,” Aditya whispered.
“No!” Riya hissed. “Something’s wrong with him.”
Before they could argue, the man’s eyes snapped open. He stepped out, his voice deep and hollow:
“Children… what are you doing here?”
Their story spilled out between trembling lips. The man listened with an expressionless face, then nodded.
“Come. I’ll take you to your family.”
Shivering, they climbed in. Aditya quickly scribbled the number plate: 9695.
The van moved soundlessly, tires making no noise on the dirt.
“Uncle… why do people fear this forest?” Kabir asked, trying to be brave.
The man’s gaze lingered on him too long before he answered:
“Because once, a family tried to leave. Their daughter died here. The mother’s screams filled these woods until she too stopped breathing. The father… could not live with himself. Since then, the forest likes to keep families… together.”
The air inside the van turned ice cold. None of the children spoke again.
Moments later, the van rolled to a stop. The bus was there. The family cried out, rushing to embrace the missing children.
The Sharma’s wept with relief, thanking the man over and over. He simply said, “Follow my van. I’ll guide you out.”
The bus followed. The van’s dim red taillights cut through the black forest until suddenly—bright highway lamps appeared.
But when they looked again, the van was gone.
Still, the family reached their hotel alive. In daylight, it all felt like a nightmare. At breakfast, the children huddled around Aditya’s laptop, loading the drone footage.
The forest flickered on screen. Then—the van.
“Zoom in,” Meera whispered.
The number plate: 9695.
Aditya’s notebook slipped open. The same number.
But the van looked different. Not clean. Not intact.
Rust covered its sides. Windows shattered. Paint peeling. The grill bent as if from an old crash.
And yet—the same number plate.
The children froze. The footage continued. When the man stepped out, his body cast no shadow. The van moved on its own, headlights glowing like hollow eyes.
The final frame made their blood run cold.
The drone, before cutting to static, had caught the van again. Not in the forest.
Parked.
Rusted.
Broken.
Right outside their hotel.
A faint horn honked below.
The notebook slipped from Aditya’s trembling hands.
9695.
 |
| Ravinder Singh |
Dr. B R Ambedkar faced extreme hardships in his life. Denied basic rights, education, and respect, he still rose to become the Father of the Indian Constitution. His life teaches us that circumstances do not define one’s destiny.
Success is not about the advantages or privileges one has. Reservation, wealth, or freedom from discrimination may make life easier, but they cannot replace determination, focus, and mental strength. Even those with every opportunity can face challenges if they lack clear goals and sincere preparation.
It is important to remember history. For generations, many communities were denied dignity and access to basic rights from drawing water from wells to entering temples and educational spaces. These injustices affected countless lives and left deep scars. While society has come a long way, it is essential that we never forget these wrongs and remain committed to creating a fair and inclusive environment for everyone.
Every person faces obstacles, bias, or setbacks in their journey. The difference between those who succeed and those who struggle is not their background but their will to rise above challenges.
Ambedkar’s journey reminds us that external conditions are secondary to inner strength. All you need are clear aims, self belief, and sincere preparation. With these, no obstacle is too great and no dream is too distant.
This article is not meant to discourage or differentiate anyone. It is a message to the youth that neither reservation nor discrimination should stop you from pursuing your dreams. It is also a reminder to society to never forget the injustices of the past and to work together for a more compassionate and supportive future.
Your dreams matter believe in yourself, keep moving forward, and let determination guide your path.
An Article by Udhari Arundhati, B.A. II Year.
