The ghat of cremation...

 Part 1: The Whisper of Yedsi Ramling Ghat

Prologue: Burnt Alive

Midnight. Hatgaon village, Hingoli district.

Screams tore through the night—inhuman, unbearable. The kind that snatches sleep from even the most exhausted. Not from an animal. These were human screams. Desperate. Writhing. Drenched in suffering.

A stray dog whimpered and ran for cover as the air turned dense, saturated with the metallic tang of burning flesh.

Bhau Kale, known for his gambling and liquor-fueled rants, staggered home drunk from Kalamnuri’s weekly market. A shortcut through Yedsi Ramling Ghat saved time—and he had taken it a dozen times.

But tonight, something was different.

Fog poured unnaturally over the path like spilled milk. The wind howled, yet the trees remained still. The shadows danced even though no one moved.

Halfway across the ghat, he saw it—

A bonfire.

But not a festive one. The fire was angry, spitting blue and black smoke. Around it, five cloaked figures danced in jerky, unnatural rhythms.

Someone was on the pyre.

Alive.

Bound in ropes, the man screamed through a cloth gag. The flames began nibbling at his feet. His eyes—bloodshot—pleaded silently as the fire engulfed his legs.

The cloaked figures chanted in a language Bhau had never heard. Their heads twitched. One of them raised a copper bell and rang it without moving his hand.

Another pointed straight at Bhau.

The chant halted.

All five turned their burnt faces.

Their mouths opened unnaturally wide, hollow and black. One voice—layered with many—spoke:

“Don’t let the flame die… your turn will come.”

Bhau dropped his bottle. Ran. Screamed.

The smoke followed him like a curse. It moved like a beast. It howled.

By the time he reached the steps of the Ramling Temple, his legs gave out.

Next morning, Bhau Kale was found sitting against the temple wall, nails dug into the stone, eyes wide open. His jet-black hair had turned ghost white.

He never spoke again.

Only once did he scribble something on the temple wall with charcoal:

“The fifth flame will burn again.”

Flashback: One Week Earlier

Vinayak More, a stern Public Works Department officer, was dispatched to oversee a controversial road construction through Yedsi Ramling Ghat. Local contractors from Hingoli had avoided the contract for years. Even the bribery-loving officers politely backed off.

But Vinayak was different—practical, logical, immune to superstition.

He brought with him a twelve-man crew, all from nearby villages—Washimbe, Limbala, Pusegaon, and Hatgaon. The men grumbled about the location, but Vinayak assured them extra pay and faster completion bonuses.

The first two days passed without incident.

But something felt... wrong.

Even at midday, the ghat was unusually silent. The birds never chirped. The breeze never rustled leaves. The shadows were always wrong—stretched longer than they should be.

On the third day, they reached a strange clearing.

A massive, centuries-old banyan tree, blackened as if it had once burned for weeks, dominated the space. From every branch hung copper bells, dull but intact.

The air around the tree was thick, like breathing through wet cloth.

As soon as the crew entered the clearing, the bells began to ring.

No breeze. No movement. But a soft, synchronised chime echoed.

Sopan Jadhav, the youngest labourer, said nervously:

“Saheb… no wind. But the bells—they're calling.”

Vinayak laughed it off, but his laughter didn’t last long.

That night, Sopan vanished.

His bedroll was untouched. His shoes neatly placed. No signs of struggle. But a faint trail of ashes led from the tent to the banyan tree.

There, at the roots, lay Sopan’s helmet, melted and misshapen, reeking of burnt flesh.

The Dream

That night, Vinayak dreamt of fire.

He stood beneath the banyan tree. The ground cracked open, revealing five burning pyres arranged like a pentagon. Chained to each pyre were screaming men, all burning. Shadows danced around them—figures with no faces, only mouths—screaming chants:

“Don’t let the flame die! Don’t let the flame die!”

One figure walked toward Vinayak. Its face morphed into his own.

He awoke in cold sweat.

His fingernails were blackened with soot. In his palm: a copper coin etched with five flame symbols.

Seeking Shivaji

Shaken, Vinayak took a day off to visit Shivaji Kendre, an expert on local folklore in Hingoli. A quiet man with an encyclopedic knowledge of forgotten history.

When Vinayak showed the coin, Shivaji froze.

“Do you know what this is?”

He pulled out an old, brittle book.

“In 1665, a plague ravaged Hatgaon. Five infected villagers, still alive, were forcefully burnt at Yedsi Ramling Ghat. One of them—Bhondya Sutar—was the village cremator. Before dying, he screamed a curse:

‘The fifth flame was never complete. Till it burns again, my soul shall feast.’”

Vinayak shivered.

“You’ve dug into a wound best left closed.”

Things Spiral

Back at the site, strange events multiplied.

A worker found tiny bones buried under the campfire.Another claimed the fog whispered his name.Tools disappeared, reappearing hours later covered in blood.

And every night—the bells rang.

Vinayak couldn’t sleep. He saw Sopan in his dreams—eyes hollow, skin burnt, whispering:

“Don’t let the flame die…”

The Spirit Awakens

That evening, fog rolled in early.

A drumbeat echoed from the banyan tree. The bells didn’t ring—they screamed.

Vinayak, in a trance, walked to the tree. The others called him, but he couldn’t hear them.

He saw five shadows waiting. One held a torch. Another held a copper bell.

He took the bell, rang it once, and the earth beneath him trembled.

He collapsed.

When he woke up, he was lying on a platform of firewood, surrounded by chalk drawings, blood stains, and a voice inside his head:

“The fifth flame must rise… or more shall fall.”

And then he saw it—Sopan’s figure, now charred beyond recognition, standing silently behind the banyan.

It raised its hand and pointed at him.

The bells began to ring once more.

Part 2: The Story of the Blackened Tree

Vinayak More could not sleep that night. The dream had been too real. His hands still smelled like smoke. His heart was heavy with fear, and his mind was full of questions. He kept looking at the copper coin in his hand—the one that appeared after the dream. It had five tiny flames engraved on it.

By morning, the sky had turned a dull grey, as if it, too, felt the weight of something dark approaching. Vinayak came out of his tent and looked around. The workers were packing their things in silence. No one laughed or talked. Everyone looked afraid.

“I’m going to Hingoli,” Vinayak announced.

Nobody asked why. They understood.

The Visit to Shivaji Kendre

In Hingoli town, Vinayak once again went to visit Shivaji Kendre, the old history teacher. His house was small, full of dusty books and photographs of old temples and forts. Shivaji welcomed him in and asked him to sit.

Vinayak placed the copper coin on the table.

“Look at this,” he said. “It appeared in my hand after I saw a nightmare. It was not a normal dream. I saw fire. Pyres. And Sopan. He was standing in the middle of the flames.”

Shivaji looked carefully at the coin.

“You have entered a cursed circle, Vinayak,” he said slowly. “These flames are not normal. These are symbols of a terrible story that is still alive.”

He opened an old diary. Its pages were yellow and delicate.

“Long ago, in the 1600s, a plague spread across Hingoli district. People were afraid. The sick were thrown out of villages. Many were burnt alive before they even died. One place where this happened often was Yedsi Ramling Ghat.”

Vinayak leaned forward.

Shivaji continued, “Five men were burnt alive in one ritual. They were not dead. The villagers tied them, lit the fire, and watched them burn. One of those men was Bhondya Sutar, the man who usually prepared dead bodies for cremation. He was not even sick. But he was accused falsely.”

“Before he died, Bhondya shouted, ‘I helped you burn hundreds. Now you burn me alive? My soul will not rest. The fifth flame will rise again. The ritual will be completed one day.’”

Vinayak felt cold. He said, “You mean this coin is part of that curse?”

Shivaji nodded. “This coin, these dreams, the burning tree—they are all part of Bhondya’s unfinished ritual. The five flames represent five souls. Until the last flame rises, the land will never be at peace.”

Back at the Ghat

That evening, Vinayak returned to the site. His steps were slower. His eyes kept checking the shadows. The wind had picked up, but it was not cold—it was strange, like a whisper moving through leaves.

When he reached the banyan tree, he stopped.

There were now five ash circles around the tree. Each circle had something in the middle:

A burnt piece of cloth.A half-melted helmet.A pile of small bones.A wooden mask with a crack.A copper coin just like his.

The air around the tree was thick, almost alive. Vinayak could feel the tree watching him.

The Drums and the Voice

Just as the sun began to set, a deep drum beat began from the forest.

Dhak... dhak... dhak...

The sound was slow but powerful. The bells on the tree began to ring again—softly at first, then louder.

Vinayak looked behind him. From the forest path came a figure.

It was Shivaji Kendre.

But something was wrong.

Shivaji’s eyes were closed. His feet moved slowly but firmly. His arms were stretched out. His lips were moving silently.

“Vinayak,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. “The spirits have followed you. They want the last ritual to be done.”

Vinayak stepped back. “What ritual?”

“Five lamps. Five souls. One unfinished death. You must find the five original lamps used in the first burning. Only lighting them again, one by one, can stop the curse.”

Suddenly, Shivaji fell to the ground. He had fainted.

Vinayak rushed to him and called the ambulance. Shivaji was taken to the hospital. Doctors said he was unconscious, but stable.

That night, Vinayak sat near the fire at the camp. The other workers had returned, but nobody wanted to talk about Sopan. Everyone acted like he never existed.

Talking with the Workers

Vinayak called two trusted workers to sit with him—Sangram Raut and Mahadev Mane. He told them the story of Bhondya, the curse, the five flames.

Sangram looked around nervously.

“Sir, this is black magic. Why are we still here?”

Mahadev added, “We should leave before something happens to us too.”

Vinayak said, “I can’t leave. Not yet. We have disturbed something. We must fix it.”

Suddenly, the firewood cracked loudly. All three men stood up.

Then, they heard it—a voice from the darkness of the forest.

“Don’t let the flame die... the fifth pyre waits...”

The voice was slow, burnt, and dry. It was Sopan’s voice.

But he was dead.

The Search Begins

The next morning, Vinayak went to the Ramling temple. He met the old pujari, who had found Bhau Kale years ago.

Vinayak showed him the coin.

The pujari’s face turned pale.

“This coin belongs to the fifth ritual,” he whispered. “It is said that five special lamps were made to complete the sacrifice. Each lamp is cursed. But they are hidden.”

“One is buried near the river. One under the temple. One under the blackened tree. One in a dry well. And the last one... inside the body of a person who saw the fire but survived.”

Vinayak gasped. “You mean Bhau Kale?”

The pujari nodded.

Vinayak decided to find the lamps. He first went to the old dry well near the hill. It was covered in stones and bushes. He removed the stones and looked inside.

At the bottom, something shined faintly.

He used a rope to go down. It was risky, but he reached the bottom. He found a small brass lamp, still blackened with soot. He took it carefully.

As soon as he picked it up, the bell on the tree rang once—by itself.

He climbed up and rushed back.

The Second Lamp

The next day, Vinayak went to the riverbank. It was dry now, but locals believed it once flowed with holy water.

He used a stick and started digging near an old rock. After an hour, he found something hard.

Another lamp, just like the first.

This time, when he touched it, he saw a vision.

He was standing in the past. Five men were tied. One man was crying. Another was praying. Bhondya was silent, looking at the villagers.

Then fire.

He dropped the lamp in fear. When he picked it again, the vision was gone.

Return to Bhau Kale

Vinayak visited Bhau Kale, who was still alive but mentally unstable. He had not spoken in years.

Vinayak showed him the coin. Bhau didn’t move.

Then he whispered, “The last flame... inside me...”

And then something unbelievable happened.

Bhau opened his mouth, and a small blackened lamp fell out—like it had been hiding in him for years.

Vinayak stood frozen.

Now he had three lamps.

Only two remained.

Part 3: The Spirit of the Unburnt Flesh

It was early morning when Vinayak More came to Yedsi Ramling Ghat. His breath looked like smoke in the cold air. In his hands, he held a red cloth bundle with the three strange lamps. Each lamp was found after a scary incident. He had not slept at all the night before. In his dreams, he saw the faces of the dead. The lamps felt like they were alive. They made small sounds, like whispers.

The ghat was silent. Thick fog moved like ghosts. The old banyan tree looked bigger than before. It had been burnt in a fire many years ago, but it still stood tall. The bells tied to its branches by villagers did not move. Everything felt frozen.

Vinayak sat down and slowly opened the red cloth. As soon as the three lamps touched the ground, the bells started ringing slowly. It felt like the tree and the ghat remembered the lamps.

Suddenly, the ashes under the tree began to move. They rose up in small spirals. A strange wind began to blow. Then a voice came from all around him.

“You have found us… but not all of us.”

Vinayak’s heart beat faster. He looked around but saw no one.

Then came a scream. It was not a normal scream. It was the sound of a man burning alive. The scream came from inside the jungle. It was far away, yet too close.

He stood up quickly. He wanted to run. But something moved behind the tree.

Not an animal.

A shadow. A figure.

Before he could look properly, it disappeared.

Scared and confused, Vinayak went back to Hingoli. He rushed to the hospital where Professor Shivaji Kendre was still unconscious. The old man looked pale and weak.

Vinayak held his hand gently. Suddenly, the professor’s fingers moved. His lips opened and he whispered in a dry, weak voice:

“The fourth… inside the roots… the one who was never burnt…”

Vinayak was shocked. He remembered the fourth victim—Rama Shevale. People had said Rama ran from the fire but was thrown back into it. Maybe his body did not burn fully? Maybe something was left?

That night, Vinayak returned to the ghat with Mahadev and Sangram. Both men were afraid, but they knew they had to help. If the fourth lamp was still under the tree, they had to find it.

The old tree looked darker than before. They started digging.

The ground was hard. It felt like the soil did not want to let them dig. Every time their shovel hit the ground, the bells on the tree rang louder.

Then Mahadev’s shovel hit something.

It was a bone. Old. Black. Empty.

Then more bones—ribs, skull, and burnt cloth.

Finally, they found a wooden box. It was covered in ash and had iron locks.

Strange shapes were carved on it—flames, chains, and a face that looked like it was screaming.

Vinayak opened the box.

Inside was the fourth lamp. It was not made of metal like the others. It was made of stone. The lamp had cracks, and a human face was carved on it with its mouth wide open.

As soon as he touched the lamp, the ground began to shake. The ashes flew into the air.

A deep voice said:

“The fourth… has returned… I smell flesh…”

Mahadev got scared and ran.

Sangram did not move.

His eyes turned white.

He said in a different voice, “He’s behind you…”

Vinayak turned around slowly.

And there stood a burning figure between two trees.

It was red like fire. Its skin looked like it was made of flames. It had no face, only smoke. Its chest was open, and glowing bones could be seen inside.

It was Rama Shevale.

The man who was not fully burnt.

After that night, Sangram changed. He didn’t talk. He just sat on the ground and drew strange signs with his fingers.

Vinayak called a local priest.

The priest looked at Sangram and said, “This is not just a ghost. It is a curse.”

They made a circle using ash and began chanting prayers.

Sangram screamed.

But the voice that came out was not his own.

“I wasn’t burnt fully… I was alive… My bones were buried, now I will bury yours!”

A black handprint appeared on his chest. It looked like it was made of ash.

After one hour of prayers, Sangram fainted. When he woke up, he didn’t remember anything.

Only one lamp was left now.

Vinayak went to Ramling Temple. The pujari (priest) was waiting. He took him behind the temple, through a hidden path, down into a dark cave.

The air was thick and smelled bad. At the end was a small platform. A clay pot was placed there, tied with red thread.

“This pot was buried by Bhondya Sutar himself,” the pujari said. “It was never to be opened.”

Vinayak opened the thread and looked inside.

There was the fifth lamp.

It was black. Heavy. No flame. Just an eye carved on it that looked like it was watching him.

He touched it.

Suddenly, thunder roared.

All the temple bells rang.

The sky became dark.

He ran out of the temple as heavy rain poured.

That night, he came back to the ghat with all five lamps.

He placed them near the black tree.

The wind stopped.

The air became still.

The bells on the tree rang slowly and together.

Then the ashes rose and turned into fire.

Five flames appeared.

In each flame stood a spirit:

A farmer with burnt hands.A soldier with no face.A child with empty eyes.A priest with a broken skull.Bhondya Sutar—his eyes were red, and his mouth was covered in ash stitches.

They walked forward.

Bhondya opened his mouth.

A strange voice came out:

“The fifth flame has risen. The final ritual begins. Someone must die…”

Vinayak looked down.

The ground under him cracked open.

A black hand came out.

It grabbed his ankle.

It pulled him down.

And the earth swallowed him into darkness.

Part 4: The Truth of Bhondya Sutar

Darkness. Silence. Cold.

Vinayak opened his eyes. He was lying in a deep, wet pit under the old ghat. The air was thick, smelling like old blood and fire. His body hurt. The stone walls around him were rough and covered with strange red symbols. He tried to get up but felt dizzy. The air was too heavy to breathe.

Five lamps floated in the air, glowing with a faint, sick yellow light. Their light did not give warmth. Instead, it made the air feel colder.

Suddenly, he saw a man sitting in the corner. Thin, pale, with long dirty hair. His back was towards Vinayak. He was humming a tune, slow and broken.

The man turned.

It was Bhondya Sutar.

But he wasn’t a ghost. He looked alive… yet dead. His eyes were red, with no eyelids. His lips were stitched with black thread. His skin was full of burn marks, cracked like dry land.

“You brought the flames back,” he said, voice like burning wood. “Now you must see what you’ve awakened.”

Vinayak’s voice trembled, “What are you?”

“अहं अन्तिमः अग्निहोत्री  - I was the last Agnihotri. A fire protector. But they betrayed me. They burned me alive thinking I was evil. I screamed. My soul stayed here—between death and life. I became what they feared.”

He stood up slowly. Bones cracked with each movement.

“They killed a wandering saint for gold. But the saint was guarding the cursed fire. When he died, the curse entered the land. I tried to trap it in five lamps… but before I sealed the last, the people of Yedsi killed me.”

Bhondya looked up. “Now the curse is free again… because of you.”

Suddenly, the pit shook. The stone walls bled. Real blood. It dripped from the symbols.

The five spirits appeared again around Vinayak—burnt, angry, twisted.

Bhondya pointed at Vinayak. “You touched all five flames. Now the curse lives in your blood. It will eat your memories. Turn your voice into screams. It will make you burn from the inside.”

Vinayak screamed and tried to run, but the pit had no exit.

Bhondya opened his stitched mouth wide. A black smoke came out, rushing toward Vinayak.

Then—

A rope dropped from above.

Sangram’s voice echoed, “Vinayak! Hold the rope!”

Vinayak grabbed it as the smoke wrapped around his legs. Sangram pulled with all his strength. Just before the smoke touched Vinayak’s face, he was pulled out.

They rolled onto the ground outside the pit. Behind them, Bhondya’s voice thundered, “You can run, but you’ve already burned!”

Back in Hingoli, Professor Shivaji Kendre had woken up. He was weak, but his mind was sharp. He listened to everything.

“You touched all the lamps?” he asked.

Vinayak nodded.

“Then part of the fire is inside you now. It will try to control your body. We must end the curse before the full moon ends.”

“How?” Sangram asked.

Shivaji opened an old, rotting book. Pages were stained with brown ink and what looked like blood.

“This is the Flame Seal. An ancient ritual. We need the ashes of the five spirits. We must place them in a circle around you, Vinayak. Only then can we burn the fire inside you without killing you.”

That night, they returned to Yedsi Ramling Ghat. The tree looked like a dead giant. The bells moved without wind.

They dug the ashes. Each handful felt warm, like something was breathing inside.

They placed the five lamps in a circle. Shivaji began chanting in a forgotten language.

The air changed.

It became heavy. Too heavy. Like the ghat itself was watching.

The spirits rose.

One by one, they screamed. The farmer’s hands crawled on the ground. The child laughed with no eyes. The priest’s broken skull turned and stared. The soldier dragged his jaw along the stone.

Bhondya came last.

He stood outside the circle, smiling.

“You think you can stop this?” he hissed. “You’re too late.”

Vinayak felt fire inside his chest. It burned his veins. His mouth filled with the taste of ash.

“Keep chanting!” he cried.

Shivaji’s voice grew louder. He threw ash at the spirits. Sangram poured holy water on the lamps.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning hit the tree.

The lamps cracked.

The spirits screamed, twisting in the air.

Bhondya rushed forward.

Sangram took out a knife. He cut his own palm and spilled blood into the fire.

A huge blast threw them all back.

Everything went silent.

The ghat was empty again.

The tree was split. The lamps were gone.

And the five spirits… turned into dust and disappeared into the wind.

But below the ghat, deep under the broken pit…

A red ember still blinked.

Waiting.

Part 5: The One Who Carries the Fire

The tree had fallen. The lamps were broken. The spirits were burnt away in white-blue flames. Everyone thought the curse had ended.

"सत्यं भयंकम् न कदापि गर्जति। शान्त्या सह पुनरागच्छति।"

But real horror doesn’t shout. It returns in silence.

Vinayak tried to return to normal life. He stopped visiting the ghat. He even threw away the old clothes he had worn that night. But peace didn’t come.

He started hearing strange sounds at night. Not from outside—but inside his own ears. Whispers. Breathing. And sometimes, someone calling his name in a low, slow voice.

He thought it was just stress. But then, the burn marks started to appear.

First, on his fingers—black lines, like someone had drawn on him with charcoal. Then, on his back—a round mark like a sun, the same symbol they had seen near the bodies.

His mother noticed his skin was warm all the time. "Tu thoda vegla distoy aajkal," she said one morning. "Your eyes don’t look like yours."

At night, his dreams got worse. He saw fire. He saw people running and screaming. He stood still in those dreams, watching them burn, unable to help.

And always… at the end… a hand on his shoulder.

A voice:

"You are the sixth lamp."

He woke up every time, sweating and cold.

Shivaji Kendre called him one evening.

"Come now. It’s serious. Bring Sangram."

At his small home in Hingoli, an old woman from Bhombardi village sat quietly. A sadhu from Basmat had burn scars on his hands. A junior government officer from Kalamnuri looked pale, shivering.

All had seen things.

The sadhu said, "A boy was found burnt inside a locked hut. The door was bolted from the inside. No oil lamp, no fire nearby. But his body was black."

The officer said, "A man walked into a dry well in broad daylight. People saw smoke rising from inside. His body was never found."

The old woman whispered, "My daughter sat quietly one morning. Her eyes were open. She was smiling. But her heart had stopped. There was a circle of ash on her floor."

All three incidents had one thing in common:

The symbol of the black flame. Drawn near the body. Like someone—or something—was leaving a sign.

Vinayak’s condition got worse. Animals avoided him. When he touched water, it turned warm. Once, he saw his reflection in the well—but it wasn’t his face. It was Bhondya’s face, smiling.

He screamed and fell back. Sangram rushed over.

"We need to act fast," Sangram said. "Or we’ll lose you."

That evening, Shivaji brought out an old page from the same cursed book.

"There’s one final way," he said. "But it is not safe."

"Tell us," Vinayak said.

"You must return to the Bhombardi Ghat," the professor said. "Where the first murder happened. Where the fire was born. On Amavasya night. That land still holds the true flame."

"And what do we do there?" Sangram asked.

"Draw a circle of salt and ash. Sit inside it with a final lamp. You must pass the fire from your body into the lamp. If it works, the curse ends."

Vinayak asked, "And if it doesn’t?"

Shivaji looked at him carefully.

"Then the curse doesn’t just stay inside you… it spreads."

They left the next day.

Bhombardi Ghat was hard to reach. The path was covered with wild grass. No one visited it anymore. Old villagers still said, "Don’t go near that land. Even the air is wrong there."

The ghat had no river left. Just a dry, cracked bed of earth. Trees around it looked dead, though it was monsoon. A strange smell came from the soil—wet, but burnt.

They made the salt and ash circle near a broken step.

Vinayak stepped inside. He held a lamp made from the soil of the ghat. It was dry, black, and cold. The sky above was dark.

Shivaji began chanting.

आत्मन् स्वस्वरूपं प्रकाशय मा शयम्।
त्वमेव चिन्मात्रं शुद्धं मुक्तं नित्यमविकृतम्॥

Sangram sat still.
The night was too quiet — like it had been emptied.

Then the wind came.
Hot. Dry. Smelling of ash.

He closed his eyes for just a second.

A sharp, burnt stench stabbed his nose.
He opened his eyes.

And froze.

An upside-down face hung inches from his own.

Half of it was burned — skin peeling, jaw melted, one eye missing.
The other eye — wide open, dry, staring straight into him.

Its lips were torn. The teeth inside were black, some broken.
Smoke hissed out from the cracks in its skin.

It twitched.
Then let out a faint, wet crackle — not a word, not a breath, just... death trying to speak.

Sangram couldn’t scream.
His throat locked.
Something warm trickled down his neck.
Not sweat.

Then a deep voice echoed from the woods:

"Don’t remove, be remained."

And Bhondya appeared. But this time, not alone.

He brought others with him. Ghosts. Burnt souls from past fires. Some were men. Some women. Some children. Their faces were gone—only smoke came from their heads.

"Give him to us," Bhondya said. "He carries the flame. We carried it once. Now it’s his turn."

Vinayak stayed inside the circle. But the flame inside the lamp began to flicker.

His body felt like it was burning.

Then he saw a figure among the ghosts. His grandfather. His face melted. He whispered:

"Let go."

Vinayak screamed. His body bent backward. His mouth opened. Smoke came out.

Shivaji shouted, "Hold the lamp! Don’t drop it!"

The ghosts began circling the salt ring. But they couldn’t step inside. Bhondya roared in anger.

"Give it to me!"

Vinayak shouted back:

"I’m not your lamp. I’m your fire’s grave!"

And he threw the lamp into the soil outside the circle.

There was a huge flash.

White fire burst from the ground. It hit the ghosts. One by one, they screamed and turned to dust.

Bhondya ran into the fire.

"This is not the end!" he shouted.

Vinayak stepped out of the circle.

"No," he said. "It is now."

He walked straight into the fire with the last lamp burning in his hand.

When Sangram and Shivaji opened their eyes, Vinayak was lying on the ground. The lamp was broken. The circle was gone. But the sky was clear. The wind was soft.

Vinayak was alive.

But his eyes… were not the same.

They were calm.

Too calm.

Like someone who had seen everything.

Back in Yedsi, a small boy played near the broken banyan tree.

He found a strange coin in the soil.

He picked it up.

It was warm.

A little red spark blinked on its edge.

Part 6: The Last Flame of Yedsi Ramling Ghat

Yedsi village was quiet. Too quiet.

After the fire at Bhombardi, things seemed peaceful. Vinayak had returned home. He smiled. He spoke gently. He helped his mother in the fields. But the peace was like the stillness before a storm.

One evening, a small boy named Ganya played near the burnt tree at Ramling Ghat. He found a coin under the ashes. It was black, with red lines. Curious, he put it in his pocket.

That night, Ganya cried in his sleep. His body was hot. He spoke strange words.

The next morning, he did not wake up.

He was alive—but his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. His hand clutched the coin tightly.

The village began to talk again. “The fire has returned,” someone whispered. “This time, it wants the children.”

Sangram heard about Ganya and rushed to Shivaji’s house. Vinayak was already there. He was sitting calmly, sipping tea.

“The coin…” Sangram said, “It came from the ghat.”

Vinayak did not react.

Shivaji looked into Vinayak’s eyes. Something had changed. They looked deeper, older.

“You’ve seen something,” Shivaji said.

Vinayak nodded. “I see the fire in my dreams. But it’s not chasing me anymore. It’s waiting. Waiting at the ghat.”

That night, three cows died without any injury. Smoke was found near their mouths. A girl fell into a well but was pulled out unharmed. She said a hand made of ash tried to drag her down.

People began to avoid the ghat again. Bells that had stopped ringing for years began to ring once more.

One evening, Vinayak returned to the Ramling Ghat alone. The tree was black, broken, yet it looked alive. Wind passed through its burnt branches, making a sound like whispering voices.

He stepped onto the ashes.

Suddenly, the earth beneath his feet felt hollow.

He dug slowly and found a trapdoor made of stone.

He opened it.

Inside was a narrow stairway, going deep under the ghat.

The underground room was old. Walls were covered in soot. There was no light, but the walls glowed faintly red.

In the center was a wooden box. Inside it lay a scroll—tied with a thread made of hair.

Vinayak opened it. The letters were written in old Marathi. The handwriting was shaky. It was the diary of Bhonya Sutar.

"ती ज्वाळा माझ्याकडे प्रथम आली नाही. येडशी रामलिंग मंदिराच्या पुजाऱ्यांनी ती शोधली. मृत्यूवर नियंत्रण मिळवण्यासाठी एका विधीमध्ये त्यांनी झाडाखाली लपवलेली मोहोर तोडली. त्यांनी जे सोडून दिलं, ते दैवी नव्हतं—ते भुकेलं होतं. अशी ज्वाळा जी अंत्यसंस्कार न झालेल्या आत्म्यांवर ताव मारते. पहिल्या पाच मृत्यू हे बळी होते. माझं कुटुंब सहावा बळी ठरलं."

"I was not the first to hold the flame. The priests of Yedsi Ramling temple found it. During a ritual to control death, they broke a seal hidden beneath the sacred tree. What they released was not divine—it was hunger. A flame that fed on souls denied final rites. The first five deaths were sacrifices. My family was the sixth."

Bhondya’s rage was not madness—it was grief soaked in centuries of silence. The people thought he was a monster, a cursed soul who whispered to flames. When they dragged him from his hut and set him on fire, they believed they were killing evil. But Bhondya didn’t scream. He chanted. He wept flames. What they didn’t know was that he had stood between them and something far worse. They didn’t know that the fire inside him was not his—it was borrowed, trapped, hungry.

And when they killed him, they fed it.

And when Bhondya died, he made five lamps—each holding a part of the flame.

But the root… the real curse… remained beneath the Yedsi Ghat tree.

Every strange event traced back:

Part 1: The boy whose body vanished during the funeral — the flame’s first modern victim.Part 2: The tree that wouldn’t burn — because its roots were the curse.Part 3: The pit under the ground — where Bhondya hid the last lamp.Part 4: Vinayak becoming the sixth lamp — just as Bhondya warned.Part 5: The failed cleansing — because the curse never left Yedsi.

Now it wanted one thing: to complete its cycle and break free.

Vinayak, Sangram, and Shivaji returned to the ghat. The villagers stayed behind, chanting prayers.

They made a salt circle with holy ash.

Vinayak stood inside with all five broken lamp pieces and the cursed coin.

He began chanting Bhondya’s final lines:

“The flame must sleep. Feed it the truth. Let pain end where it began.”

The wind screamed.

The tree burst into fire—not red, but black and white.

Smoke rose in the shape of all the cursed souls—men, women, children—all those who had been denied peace.

The fire reached for Vinayak.

He didn’t resist.

“I am your path,” he said. “Walk through me. Go back to the dark.”

The spirits passed through him.

One by one, they vanished.

Then, Bhondya appeared.

He knelt before Vinayak.

“जे मी करू शकलो नाहीस, ते तू पूर्ण केलंस,” he whispered.

He placed a final ember in Vinayak’s hand.

Vinayak smiled, and placed it beneath the roots of the tree.

With that, the ground closed. The tree stopped burning.

And peace returned.

Vinayak was never seen again.

But before the silence returned fully, Shivaji found a torn page hidden in Bhondya’s scroll. It was not about flames or curses. It was a letter.

"Her name was Janki. She sold clay lamps at the temple. She never feared the ghat. While others whispered my name like a curse, she said it like a prayer. When the fire first spoke to me, she was the one who told me not all voices from the dark are evil. I tried to protect her. But the villagers saw her speaking to me and believed she, too, was cursed. They banished her. I never saw her again. But on the day they burnt me, I saw a clay lamp lying in the ashes. Unbroken. She had come back. She had tried to save me. And now, every time the fire flickers and doesn’t harm… I know it’s her shadow shielding someone."

Some say he became a sadhu.

Others say he lives under the ghat, guarding the final flame.

But even now, on some nights, the bells ring once.

And those who hear them… never forget the sound.

The end …