The Blind Crow on the Terrace

Before she was Granny—the one who smelled of warm turmeric and wore glass bangles that jingled softly—she was just a quiet girl living in a village. Her family’s house stood on the edge of a field, a weathered old structure with cracked lime walls and a roof that held more secrets than tiles.

Whenever relatives visited, which was often, she was asked to sleep in the terrace room. It was expected. She never protested. Her own room would be given to the guests, and she’d climb the steep stone steps to the roof, where a small room sat like a forgotten corner of the house.

That room had a wooden bed, rough and slightly tilted, and a ceiling fan that shook with each turn like it might fall at any moment. The windows had no glass—just iron bars and a curtain faded by the sun.

One evening, after the guests had settled in and the house had gone quiet, she made her way upstairs. The village was still, the air thick with the smell of earth and distant cow-dung fires. Crickets chirped somewhere in the darkness.

As she stepped onto the terrace, her eyes caught something unusual. 

The Night Behind the Library

It was a night long forgotten by most, but not by Granny.

She doesn’t talk about it often. When someone asks about her college days, she usually smiles and speaks of books, dreams, and the pride of being one of the few girls from her village to study. But there’s one night she never speaks of—not unless someone truly insists. And even then, her eyes go distant.

It happened in November, many years ago. Exams had just ended. The college campus was almost empty. Most students had gone home, their laughter echoing only in memory. But Granny and four of her closest friends—Rekha, Sumita, Lata, and Meena—stayed back for one last night.

They wanted to do something fun. Something silly. Something they had seen in English movies.

“Let’s camp,” Meena said. “Behind the library. It’ll be like in the films!”

They dragged their bedding outside and found a quiet patch near the back of the old building. A row of tall trees stood like silent guards behind them. They lit a small kerosene lantern. Its orange light flickered gently, casting shadows that swayed with the wind.

The night was cold, but they were warm with excitement. They sat in a circle, shawls wrapped tightly around their shoulders, sharing snacks.

“Let’s tell ghost stories,” Sumita said. “Real ones. Whoever scares us most wins.” 

Granny and the Winter Terrace

Granny never spoke much about her childhood. But once, by the fireplace, when the wind outside howled like an animal in pain, she told a story that left everyone silent.

She had been just thirteen then.

It was a late winter evening in her old village. The kind of evening where the sun hides too early, and shadows crawl faster than they should. Her home was a two-story red-brick house, surrounded by other homes and buildings made of the same tired stone. The bricks were old and darkened with time, and everything looked like it had once burned and decided to stay that way.

That evening, Granny—then just a girl—had gone up to the terrace to collect the dried clothes before the cold set in too deep. The air was biting, and the sky had turned the colour of ash. No stars, no moon. Only clouds, thick like smoke.