Deepawali A Rural Noir Short Story
In October 1988, amidst the pleasant chill of early autumn, Ahmed a Mumbai-based businessman has returned to his ancestral village of Meerganj seeking relief from urban stress. He hoped to relive moments from his childhood, enjoying kulhad wali chai and piping hot pakoras near golden mustard fields. However, the tranquil rhythm of village life got shattered on the Diwali night when a reckless challenge causes an old tree to topple, revealing a deep, long-buried historical secret trapped beneath it. This revelation from the past drags Ahmed into the murky waters of corrupt local politics, where he must battle a compromised legal system and a power-hungry establishment intent on silencing those who uncover the truth.
Hello friends,
I am an engineer by profession, living in mumbai. Although I was born and raised in the city itself, my parents' roots are deeply tied to Uttar Pradesh (UP). Since childhood, I have listened to them fondly reminiscing about their village, its narrow lanes, and the days gone by. Hearing those stories sparked a strange, beautiful connection and love for my ancestral land within me as well. Now, it has come to a point where I yearn to go there every year and spend a few days.
Gathering the threads of those old memories from my parents, and blending them with modern-day suspense and emotion, I have tried to weave a thriller story.
Deepawali A Rural Noir Short Story
Chapter 1 :
28-year-old city businessman Ahmed was visiting his ancestral village of Meerganj during a chilly Deepavali season in November 1988.The village is divided by NH 27 highway.Men in His family are educated well he knows the last two generations of his family well.his grandpa went to city did business made some money and settled in village same with his father.He has decided to settle in mumbai and comes to refresh his mind from the pressures of work in the city his family lives in village only but he has decided that he will take his immediate family means his wife and kids to the city and not leave them in village.The village was a beautiful place to visit, but not a place to leave your blood behind.
The first four days of his November vacation felt less like a rural retreat and more like an extension of his urban chore list. His father had handed him a neat index of duties: get the car maintained in town, visit the local cooperative banks to arrange cash for a cousin’s upcoming wedding, and manage grocery logistics. But by the fifth day, the frantic urgency dissolved. The crisp, pre-winter breeze of his beloved purvanchal finally slowed Ahmed’s pulse.
He spent his evenings with Ramesh and Binnu.
Ramesh was a simple and humble villager who ran a small dhaba-cum-sweetshop right on the edge of National Highway 27, which sliced Meerganj cleanly in half. Ramesh wasn't a troublemaker; he was just the kind of overly compliant guy who naturally inherited the consequences of his friends' actions since childhood.
Binnu was the opposite, an explosive, hyper-ambitious hustler who had recently returned from a brief, failed stint in Mumbai. Binnu was driven by a desperate, aggressive need to make the village elders talk. He wanted the house, the gold, the Maruti 800 and he wanted them fast.
The trio spent their afternoons triple-riding on a rattling Bajaj Chetak scooter or M8T Moped through neighboring hamlets. When Binnu needed to visit wealthy relatives to flaunt a lifestyle he hadn't yet earned, they took Ahmed’s family car. And in the evenings behind Ramesh’s dhaba. Away from the regular highway truck drivers, they sat in a private corner. The halwais slept on woven chaarpayis in the background while the three friends lounged on plastic chairs, looking out over the endless fields where yellow mustard flowers and green wheat kernels swayed under a mild winter sky.
They drank hot kulhad chai, competing to see who could hurl the empty clay cups the farthest into the dark. Ahmed ate what he called bhajiya and ragda, which was pakodi and matar for Ramesh and Binnu.
Then came Deepavali week.
The afternoon had been spent gorging on pedas and laddus back then, soan papdi hadn't yet infiltrated the festive ecosystem. During their usual kulhad-throwing contest, Ramesh managed an impossible distance. Binnu, entirely drunk and fiercely competitive, pointed a finger at the massive, old tree standing by the village pond near the highway checkpoint.
"I’ll fucking cut your checkpoint tree down tonight," Binnu slurred, a non-threatening but stubborn edge in his voice.
By midnight, the festive atmosphere turned silent. Rumors of active dacoit gangs targeting local Agarwal and Baniya businessmen hung heavy in the air. Highly intoxicated and riding triple seats, the trio was heading home. Binnu, shouting over the engine, started shaking the handle of the moped. Near Ramesh’s shop, the bike skidded, throwing all three on the dusty road.
Drunk, bruised, and fueled by pure, reckless adrenaline, the duo locked eyes. “Kulhad khaane wala ped gira denge.” (We’re taking that damn tree down).
They grabbed a heavy two-man saw from behind the dhaba and went and began hacking at the ancient Peepal tree. Ahmed, holding a flickering torchlight, repeatedly swore at them to stop. They ignored him. Suddenly, the deep rhythmic sound of metal tearing wood caught the attention of the Mukhiya’s henchmen patrolling the fields. Shouts echoed through the fog.
As the massive tree groaned and collapsed into the hollow ditch below, Ahmed’s torchlight caught a sharp, sudden glint of metal reflecting from the torn root system. It looked like a heavy iron box. But there was no time. The henchmen were closing in. Ahmed grabbed his two staggering friends and dragged them into the darkness escaping by the field.
The next morning, the illusion of escape shattered.
Chapter 2:
Daroga Tiwari arrived at Ramesh’s dhaba. He didn't yell. He just told Ramesh to call his two friends. Ramesh immediately broke down, sobbing and apologizing.But Ahmed and Binnu, hearing the news,lied not being there and dismissed it at first. It was an old, decaying tree; it would have fallen on its own anyway. But the law in Meerganj didn't care about logic. The Daroga arrested Ramesh on the spot and dragged him to the Kotwali.
Ahmed was at home, eating a quiet lunch of chokha and roti, when a breathless Binnu burst through the door.
They rushed to the police station. Ahmed found Ramesh locked entirely alone in a separate cell, away from the usual petty thieves, a relief for the kind Ramesh. When Ahmed subtly offered a hefty bribe to settle the "minor public nuisance," Daroga Tiwari’s face hardened. He slammed his hand on the desk.
"Don't try your mumbaiya tricks on me," Tiwari hissed. "Go away. If I see either of you around here again, I’ll lock the both of you in with history-sheeter shooters from Gorakhpur."
As they were kicked out, Ahmed noticed the Kotwali was normally kept spotlessly clean; the sweepers were routinely berated if a speck of dust remained. Yet, right next to the Daroga's desk, there were heavy, wet mud tracks.Ahmed realized instantly: Tiwari wasn't angry about a dead tree. He had already visited the site. He was getting paid by the Pradhan to squeeze Ramesh’s family, while simultaneously planning to extort the family also. A double-bribe scheme.
Outside the station, the heat of the peak afternoon sun was ruthless, flattening the winter chill. The outdoor courtyard of the station was completely deserted; the constables were inside under the fans, eating from their steel tiffins.
"We puncture his jeep," Binnu spat, his eyes wild with small-town rage. "Let the bastard run and walk to catch pickpockets."
Ahmed agreed to tag along, but not for the tires. His sense told him he couldn't access the conspiring Daroga’s locked desk drawers, but a police jeep’s deep glove compartment was a different story and luckily they can find something to bend his arms. While Binnu knelt by the rear tire, deflating it, Ahmed slipped into the front seat. He popped the glove box. No cash. Instead, his fingers brushed against a thick bundle of crumpled, soiled documents.
It was a land registry deed from 1945. Ahmed’s eyes scanned the fading ink. The legal owner of the massive, lucrative plot where the Peepal tree stood wasn't the Pradhan. It belonged to Shri Prasad Shukla, a legendary local freedom fighter who had mysteriously vanished without a trace during the Independence struggle.
Ahmed froze. The current Pradhan’s property from which the tree was cut was a lie. Ahmed didn't steal the papers. He jammed them back, stopped Binnu from completing the puncture, and whispered, "Not today. Tomorrow, we will do something explosive."
What Ahmed didn't know was the depth of the grave they had dug.
That morning, Pradhan had inspected the fallen tree. Decades ago, the Pradhan’s father had murdered Shukla for his land, burying his remains directly beneath the roots of that Peepal tree as a personal statement of dominance. They had lied to the villagers, claiming Shukla had fled to Kanpur to fund a massive freedom rally, where he was supposedly shot in a riot by British police. Before leaving, they claimed, Shukla had sold them the land to arrange funds.
Now, the tree was down. The Daroga had dug up the box, found the skull, and taken the real registry papers.
At that very moment, inside a closed room, Daroga Tiwari was laying out his terms to a terrified Pradhan: "Ramesh knows about your family's deeds. He found the stash. Trust me with the money, and I will eliminate Ramesh quietly inside the cell. Your hands stay clean. The station will get a little dirty, but I’ll make sure it’s washed thoroughly the next morning."
The next morning, Ahmed met Binnu behind the dhaba. He explained the registry papers. "If we get those documents from the Daroga, we have leverage over both him and the Pradhan. We can force them to let Ramesh go."
Neither of them realized that Ramesh wasn't facing a few days in jail; he was facing an anonymous execution.
Chapter 3:
"We steal his jeep tonight," Binnu said flatly.
For the excuse, Ahmed told his father they were driving to Binnu’s aunt’s village to give Diwali sweets. They even bought a box from some other sweetshop too ashamed to face Ramesh’s grieving, broken father. On the way, they distributed the sweets to village kids lighting crackers on the dark roads.
By 2:00 AM, they reached the Daroga’s isolated quarters. His wife was away at her maternal home for a festival. The house was dark. They broke into the parked jeep, but the glove box was empty. Tiwari had moved the stash inside.
"We go in," Ahmed whispered, the stakes shifting.
Binnu reached into his waistband and pulled out a crude, custom-made katta (country pistol). Ahmed’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his mouth shut. Yahi raat antim, yahi raat bhari. (This is the final, heavy night).
Binnu scaled the first-floor window with practiced agility, dropping a rope to pull Ahmed up. They slipped into the dark bedroom. The Daroga was a master schemer, but a heavy sleeper; his loud snores echoed through the room. Binnu stepped forward, leveling the gun at the sleeping man's face. Ahmed, his face masked by a handkerchief, silently pried open the wooden cupboard.
He found the yellowed registry papers. Beside them sat a rolled-up cotton towel. Ahmed reached to move it aside, but the weight felt wrong. The towel unrolled. A human skull, bleached by time and bearing a clean, round bullet hole, rolled onto the shelf.
Ahmed’s blood ran cold. He looked at the skull, then looked at the sleeping Daroga. If they didn't act now, Ramesh would end up exactly like this. He gestured to Binnu to stay calm. Binnu rolled the old papers into his gamcha, while Ahmed carefully wrapped the skull in his own.Now the accidental detectives could also be framed for homicide or occult anytime if spotted and searched as they have no business carrying a bullet ridden skull with them.
They took off their shoes, holding them in their hands, and dropped silently out of the first-floor window. For a split second, looking at the papers, a dark thought crossed Binnu’s eyes; he could use this to negotiate a massive fortune from the Pradhan directly. But he looked at Ahmed, buried the greed, and nodded. It was 3:00 AM.
Chapter 4
They drove straight to the uprooted tree site by the highway. Ahmed turned to Binnu. "Go get the Pradhan. Tell him that Daroga called him here alone."
Seeing binnu at his door in midnight Pradhan thought binnu has made a deal of partnership with daroga to settle his friend for money and accompanied him to the fields in hos car.When Pradhan arrived in his white Mahindra Ambassador, expecting Tiwari, his face fell when he saw Ahmed standing front of his car.
Ahmed stepped forward, untying his gamcha. He placed the skull squarely on the hood of Pradhan's car.
"Your family heirloom was under the tree," Ahmed said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "The Daroga wanted to build his own empire using it. Keep this in your house and get our friend out of jail by dawn. Otherwise, this skull goes directly to Shukla’s surviving lineage in Gorakhpur."
The Pradhan’s face twisted in a mixture of aristocratic fury and sheer panic. He glared at them. "Call that bastard Tiwari here right now," he growled.
"I'm not your servant," Binnu spat. "Send your own goons."
Ahmed pulled Binnu aside. They couldn't let the Pradhan send his henchmen; they would bring armed reinforcements. But Binnu couldn't leave Ahmed alone with a dangerous feudal killer either.
Deciding to play a bluff, Binnu pulled the katta from his waist, slapped it into Ahmed’s hand right in front of the Pradhan, and grinned. "I’ve been teaching Ahmed to shoot watermelons for six days. He can miss a bird, but at this distance, he can definitely put a hole in a man."
Binnu took Pradhan's car and drove like a maniac to the Daroga’s quarters. At 5:00 AM, he kicked the front door open, stormed into the bedroom, and dragged a half-naked, disoriented Tiwari out of bed by his collar, tossing him into the back seat.
When Binnu dragged the Daroga into the foggy field, the Pradhan lost all control. Blinded by rage and the humiliation of being blackmailed by a cop, Pradhan took off his heavy leather shoe and began striking Tiwari across the face repeatedly.
Ahmed stepped in, pulling the Pradhan back, while Binnu snatched the shoe.
"Finish your entertainment later, Pradhan ji," Binnu said, tapping the gun. "First, let our friend out."
By 6:00 AM, the winter fog was so dense the sun refused to rise, leaving the world in a grey, ghostly twilight. Inside the empty Kotwali, Daroga Tiwari, his face bruised and bleeding, personally unlocked Ramesh’s cell.
Once inside the private office where no regular constables were looking, Ahmed placed the wrapped bundle on the table. Pradhan snatched it.
Tiwari, wiping blood from his lip, glared at Ahmed. "You broke into my house. That’s a felony."
Ahmed smiled, adjusting the collar of his city jacket. "We didn't touch a gram of gold in your house, Daroga ji. And if we go to court, should we tell the judge exactly what we did take from your cupboard?"
The room fell dead silent.
As they walked out of the station, supporting a trembling, confused Ramesh, the first rays of weak sunlight finally broke through the fog, lighting up the highway. They drove past the dhaba, knowing that by tomorrow, Ramesh would be back at the cash counter, the clay cups would fly into the fields again, and the halwais would continue to sleep peacefully.
They dropped Ramesh at his house. Ahmed looked at Ramesh's anxious, tearful father and offered a calm smile.
"We were just handling the paperwork since last night, Uncle," Ahmed said smoothly.
The End.
Writing this story as a bilingual (thinking and writing in English then giving some thought in hindi)
Hindi version of same story if you want desi feel :
https://www.reddit.com/r/Hindi/s/t2g3PjJdvu
Link for my past amateur indiana jones fanfiction short I casually wrote if you wanna read something by me before.