Winter mysteries special
The Himalayan Trail Mystery
For Rajesh, Vijay and Saurabh—three childhood friends from a small town—life in the city felt like freedom. Now successful IT professionals in their late 20s, they wanted to live the adventures they had always dreamed of. Over the years they had travelled widely, gone on road trips, and eventually fallen in love with trekking. But one winter trek in the lower Himalayas would become unforgettable—an experience they still cannot explain.
The trio had checked into a small hotel in Dharamkot, Himachal Pradesh, only a day earlier. After enjoying the local cuisine, they learned about an off-beat trail—an untouched winter gem—and instantly decided to explore it.
The next morning, after a hearty breakfast and packing sandwiches, they set off with their backpacks and water bottles. Soon they were walking through a spectacular trail surrounded by steep hills, tall cedar trees, bursts of wildflowers, and fresh winter snow that transformed everything into a breathtaking white wonderland.
After almost a kilometre, the scenery became even more enchanting. Natural paths intertwined with the marked trail, creating a maze of snow-covered turns. Three hours into the trek, exhausted but thrilled, they took a break on a rock jutting out from the snow. It was around 1.30 p.m.—the sun gentle, the silence magical.
They convinced themselves they would walk just half an hour more before turning back, ensuring they’d reach their hotel before sundown. And so they did—though their hearts weren’t ready to leave the mesmerizing winter landscape behind.
But the return journey changed everything.
Despite marking their trail like responsible trekkers, they soon realised they were no longer following the path they had taken. The twists and turns looked unfamiliar. Google Maps refused to help. And the deeper they walked, the more lost they felt.
By 4.30 p.m., panic began to creep in. In the mountains, winter evenings fall swiftly, swallowing the warmth and light without warning. Within minutes, the beautiful trail was turning into a cold, dark, unsettling maze. Still walking, still praying, still hoping for a way back—they pushed on.
And then, something extraordinary happened.
Out of nowhere, a black and white Gaddi dog—a local Himalayan breed—appeared on the trail. It didn’t bark. It didn’t hesitate. It simply began walking with them… then ahead of them… nudging them forward every time they slowed down, as if urging them to trust it.
For the next hour, through falling temperatures and thickening twilight, the mysterious pahadi dog guided them with unwavering confidence.
And just as quietly as it had appeared, its job done—it led them straight back to town.
To this day, the trio believes that what happened that winter evening was no coincidence. On a remote Himalayan trail, lost in the freezing wilderness, they were helped by something—or someone—they still cannot explain.
Perhaps in the mountains, winter has its own guardians.
(Names changed on request)
Winter mysteries special
The Anklet in the Dark
Summer in the southern part of West Bengal has always carried a story of its own—especially in the days before air-conditioners existed and air coolers were a luxury. Back then, people relied on the humble handwoven chattai, crafted from tall riverside grass, to find relief from the heat. Unlike the warm cotton-filled mattresses used indoors, these mats stayed surprisingly cool, making terrace-sleeping a cherished summer ritual.
While the daytime heat between March and June was almost unbearable, evenings brought a gentle breeze from the Bay of Bengal. As the sun dipped below the horizon around 5:30 pm, families across Bengal stepped out—chatting, visiting markets, meeting neighbors. And after supper, they laid out their chattai on courtyard floors or open terraces for a peaceful night under the sky.
Our family followed the same rhythm.
This happened almost three decades ago in Medinipur, in a long, old-fashioned house built like a train—room after room connected by a common verandah. On most summer nights, our terrace became a lively social space, where neighbors gathered, laughed, and exchanged stories. For us children, it felt like entering another world altogether.
But on one particular summer night, everything felt different.
Two of our neighboring families had gone on holiday, leaving our family as the only occupants in the vast, almost eerie house. My sister and I climbed to the terrace early, spreading our mats for the night’s rest. The sky was dark, only a few stars flickered above, and street dogs barked somewhere far away. The tall trees near the terrace swayed like black silhouettes, while the narrow back lane and the abandoned mansion behind our house were swallowed in complete darkness—it was a new moon night, after all.
For nearly two hours, we lay talking, waiting for our parents to finish their chores and join us. We were laughing about something silly when my sister suddenly stiffened.
“There’s… an anklet sound,” she whispered.
It came from the far corner of the house—the one no one liked to go near, the one surrounded by old rumours. Usually we ignored these things. But that night, the stillness made every sound sharper, every shadow darker.
We held our breath.
And then I heard it- the unmistakable soft sound of anklets.
Clear. Sharp. Absolutely real.
No one in our family wore anklets.
And with every neighbour away, the entire house was empty except for us.
Within minutes, the sound came again.
And again.
Six… seven times.
A cold shiver ran down my spine. Yet, gathering whatever courage we had, my sister and I tiptoed toward the backside of the terrace. Not even a leaf was moving there.
Then we turned toward the corner—the dark corner where the sound originated.
Just as we reached the spot, the anklets jingled again—louder this time, as if whoever—or whatever—was wearing them had taken a step toward us. The sound wasn’t random anymore. It was rhythmic and it felt like it was following us.
For one horrifying moment, we stood frozen. Then it happened.
The anklets raced past us, the sound circling behind us with impossible speed. There was no wind, no movement, no shadow. Just that chilling metallic jingle moving on a surface where no one could possibly be standing.
My sister grabbed my arm.
“Run,” she whispered, but her voice didn’t even sound like her.
That was it.
We ran.
And even today, the memory of that eerie, unexplained anklet sound on that hot Medinipur night remains one of the spookiest real-life paranormal encounters of our lives.
Winter mysteries special
Check-in Into The Haunted Hotel
Some trips refresh you.
Some give you memories.
And some — without warning — leave you with a story you will never forget.
Nearly 7–10 years ago, two friends from Bengaluru —Alok Singh and Ranganath— decided on a short working vacation in Goa. It was December, the perfect winter escape: cool air, quieter beaches, long drives, late-evening strolls, and the sense of freedom Goa always brings.
They planned just three or four days. Sleep till late in the morning, have a hearty meal with beer, explore by evening, sleep late, laugh loudly. Nothing unusual.
What they didn’t know was that their last-minute choice of stay — a discounted hotel tucked inside one of Panjim’s older, quieter lanes — would turn this casual winter getaway into one of the strangest nights of their lives.
Panjim’s charm lies in its pastel Portuguese homes, narrow lanes, and heritage houses. But locals also whisper about the other side — stories of abandoned mansions with locked rooms, corridors where footsteps echo long after midnight, and certain hotels guests prefer not to return to.
The friends weren’t aware of any of this when they arrived late evening searching for a stay. Most good hotels were booked for the holiday season, and they were too tired to continue looking.
A receptionist at a slightly worn-down property offered them a room at an unusually steep discount — “only for tonight.”
The friends exchanged a glance, shrugged, and took it.
The hotel looked ordinary enough and they checked in.
While Alok went to shower and wash off the travel fatigue, Ranganath waited in the room. There was nothing visibly wrong — yet a quiet, invisible weight hung in the air, the kind that only old places seem to hold.
They settled in and then stepped out to explore Panjim’s colourful streets, walking past old mansions that locals called restless houses. The area was beautiful, no doubt — yet a few corners held a silence that didn’t feel entirely natural.
The friends joked about exploring one of the haunted mansions the next day.
They didn’t know that the night held something far more unsettling.
They returned late, exhausted but happy. Alok fell asleep within minutes. Ranganath stayed awake, texting a crush and waiting for her reply as the fan’s dull hum continued in the background.
Then, slowly but unmistakably, the room slipped into a different kind of stillness.
The temperature dipped in an instant, sharp enough to raise goosebumps. Outside, the familiar noise of life disappeared.
It was as if the world outside had been muted. A slow, suffocating stillness filled the room.
Before he could make sense of it, Ranganath felt it —
A presence.
Not near the door.
Not near the window.
But right beside him.
The mattress dipped ever so slightly.
A cold breath brushed against his neck.
And then came the unmistakable sensation —
Long hair, lightly grazing his skin.
Someone sitting close. Watching.
He couldn’t move or speak. The air pressed against his chest, tightening, suffocating — as if the presence wanted him to stay still, wanted him to feel it.
The long-haired figure didn’t touch him again.
She didn’t whisper.
She simply… existed there, terrifyingly close, in the dark.
He lost the sense of time but eventually when the presence lifted, the room felt normal, as if nothing has happened.
He woke Alok screaming lets leave here. He woke up confused and froze when he saw the look on Ranganath’s face.
He didn’t wait to debate or rationalize.
They packed in silence.
Checked out in the middle of the night and didn’t even bother to ask about the hotel’s past.
The haunted mansions they had planned to see?
Forgotten.
They didn’t want one more minute in that lane.
Or in that building.
Or anywhere near Panjim’s older neighbourhoods.
They boarded a bus and left Goa altogether — fleeing the hotel and the entire area in one breath.
Today, Alok Singh lives in Hyderabad, and Ranganath lives in Bengaluru. Life has moved forward — new jobs, new people, new stories.
But whenever they meet, they still ask each other, What would’ve happened if dawn had come just a little later?
Winter mysteries special
The Hunger That Followed
(Author: Kasturi Chatterjee- Educator, storyteller and spiritual devotee)
Winter had crept into the house early that year, settling into the walls long before Suhel’s absence. Suhel,once a man of robust laughter and prodigious appetite, was reduced to a skeletal outline trapped beneath a linen sheet. For eight grueling months, the fourth stage of his larynx cancer had kept him hostage. Food—the very essence he once celebrated—was now a cruel, distant memory. He lay suspended in a twilight existence, sustained by a nasogastric (Ryle’s) tube threading nutrients into his stomach, his breathing managed by the cold plastic of a tracheostomy tube.
His family called it living; but Suhel knew it was merely waiting. He couldn't eat, couldn't speak, but his consciousness was a roaring furnace of hunger. A constant, ravenous void that his tube feedings could never fill. It was a purely spiritual, primal hunger, a phantom craving for the texture, the aroma, the simple satisfaction of a meal.
The end came violently. One cold morning, a blood vessel, weakened by the relentless assault of the disease, ruptured catastrophically. A shocking, sudden hemorrhage—a profound loss of the life essence he had desperately clung to—and Suhel was gone.
The cremation was swift, the rituals precise. The family, weary from months of vigil, returned to Suhel’s house, relieved that his suffering had ended. They were all gathered for the first meal after the funeral, a solemn tradition intended to mark the return to normalcy.
His daughter, Kaveri, was setting the table. The aroma of roasted chicken, his father’s favorite, filled the dining room—a rich, savory smell filled the air.
As Kaveri placed the last fork, she froze.
A chair at the head of the table, Suhel 's usual spot, was slowly, deliberately pulled out from beneath the table. The scraping sound of wood on the tiled floor was loud and unnerving.
"Dad?" whispered his daughter, Kaveri, her voice trembling.
The family exchanged terrified glances. The kitchen door, which was latched moments before, slowly swung open with a heavy creak.
The phenomena escalated swiftly, centered around mealtimes.
Since then dinner was the worst.
The moment the family sat down for evening meal, the temperature in the dining room would plummet. An icy draft, smelling faintly of surgical antiseptic and old tobacco (Suhel's scent before his illness), would sweep through the room.
The chair at the head of the table would always be occupied, not by a visible figure, but by a chilling, palpable presence. Plates of food—roast potatoes, steaming vegetables, slices of meat—placed nearest the head of the table would begin to lose temperature at an impossible rate. Ice-cold, colder than the December night, as if the heat itself was being instantaneously sucked out by an invisible force.
Suhel's wife,Mina screamed. “He’s hungry! He’s still hungry! He was starving for months, and now he can’t stop!”
Suhel’s presence, the embodiment of his unfulfilled, agonizing hunger, was now tied to the only thing he was denied in his final months: the sensory experience of a meal. He wasn't eating; he was sampling the energy of the food, the phantom essence of the flavor, attempting to sate the primal void that killed him.
Kaveri,on her mother 's advice consulted a local priest and a medium. The advice was chillingly consistent: Suhel was trapped by his own bodily denial. He needed to be symbolically fed to move on.
The next night, the family prepared a single, beautiful meal: Suhel’s favorite Puri, fish in gravy and kheer . They set it at the head of the table, under the coldest spot in the room.
Kaveri spoke to the empty chair, her voice cracking with sorrow. "Dad. You suffered. You were starved. But you are free now. This is for you. Eat, and rest."
After offering the food all left the room, huddled outside the door, listening.
The silence was broken by a sound they had never heard before: a deep, satisfied sigh. It was the sound of a man who had finally, truly, tasted contentment. It lingered for a moment, then dissolved completely, taking the chill and the scent of antiseptic with it.
When Kaveri re-entered the room, the food was still there, untouched, but the icy feeling was gone. The chair was pushed neatly back under the table.
The Hunger That Followed had finally been satisfied. , Suhel,the man who couldn't eat, was finally at peace, having received his last, long-awaited meal.
Winter mysteries special
The Silent Forest and the Unseen Guests
Author: Amoolya Chennuri (Amoolya is a scientific writer and communication professional)
Winter in Bangalore has its own charm, but it isn’t the kind of winter that wraps you in mist or makes you crave bonfires. Most days, we were wrapped only in deadlines, meetings, and endless traffic signals. Hours lost on the roads, weekends spent catching up on sleep, we were tired of the routine more than anything else. So, when December finally arrived, we didn’t even need a second thought. Year end? Road trip? Done.
Me and my roommates had been planning it for weeks, a perfect escape to Chikmagalur. Three more friends joined us, and just like that, our little caravan was ready to roll. The moment we crossed the Bangalore outskirts; the air began to change. The roads grew quieter, the trees thicker, and the breeze colder. It felt like the universe had turned the volume down just for us.
The first two days were everything we had hoped for, maybe even more. The hills stood like silent giants, guarding us from the chaos we had left behind. Clouds drifted low, brushing against our faces like soft cotton. The smell of wet earth, the distant sound of birds, and the sight of valleys stretching endlessly, it felt unreal. For once, we weren’t running behind time; time was gently walking with us.
On the third morning, wrapped in hoodies and excitement, we set out for a trek that promised a hidden waterfall deep in the forest. That morning, just as we locked our rooms and stepped towards the forest trail, the caretaker of our homestay looked at our trekking gear and said softly,
“Don’t go near the water today.”
We laughed it off. “Why?”
He hesitated. “The forest is… restless this time of year.”
We assumed it was just another local superstition.
By evening, standing ankle-deep in bloodied water, none of us were laughing.
The climb was thrilling, muddy trails, slippery stones, and sharp turns where the cold wind made us clutch our jackets tighter. We laughed, stumbled, posed for pictures, and teased each other every few meters. It felt like we were ten again.
And then, after a few hours of trek, the waterfall appeared. It was magical, crystal water crashing down, mist dancing in the air. Without thinking twice, we jumped in. The shock of the icy water made us scream and laugh like kids. It was perfect… until it wasn’t.
“Guys… my legs… something is biting me!” one of our friends shouted.
We turned, confused, but within seconds another screamed. And another. Then we noticed them.
Dark, slimy shapes stuck to our feet and ankles. At first, we didn’t even understand what they were. just that something alive was clinging to us. When realization hit….LEECHES, it felt like the entire forest went still. The waterfall, which was loud just moments ago, suddenly sounded distant. None of us knew what to do.
We tried pulling them off….but they held on like something out of a nightmare, stretching and tightening. The more we panicked, the more it felt like they were multiplying. “Google it!” someone yelled.
“No network!” Of course. Deep forest. Zero signal. No help.
So, we used whatever we could find….leaves, twigs, stones, even splashing more cold water. Nothing seemed to work at first. The leeches clung stubbornly, wriggling in that creepy, determined way that made our skin crawl. For a moment, all of us went silent, staring at each other with that same unsettled expression….you could actually feel the fear in the air. Finally, after what felt like hours, the combination of sand, scraping leaves, and sheer panic worked. One by one, we freed ourselves.
We stumbled out of the water, shaking, breathless, and strangely quiet. The forest didn’t feel beautiful anymore. It felt like it was watching us.
The hike back was the longest, most cautious walk of our lives.
And for the next two days of the trip, no matter how many times we changed clothes, no matter how uncomfortable we felt, not even one of us dared to remove our socks. We slept in them. Ate in them. Sat with our feet tucked up like the floor itself was suspicious.
The leech episode became the highlight of our trip…..not the hills, not the views, not even the perfect weather. It was that moment. Terrifying, unexpected, unforgettable.
Those winter holidays reminded us that adventure isn’t always about the perfect views or the scenic drives. Sometimes it’s about the surprises, the kind that make your heart race, your voice scream, and later, your memories sparkle with laughter.
And that Chikmagalur trip?
Let’s just say… the leeches took a part of our fear, and we brought home a story none of us will ever stop telling.
Winter mysteries special
My Chota Bheem
(Author: Dr Hyma Moorty, educator and social worker)
The incident I’m about to share took place in the winter of 2011, during our holiday trip to China. You might wonder what took us there, but like many Indian families visiting their children abroad, we were simply spending time with our daughter, who was living in Guangzhou while my son-in-law was on a three-year work assignment. Back then, relations between India and China were calm, and our stay in the beautiful southern province of Guangzhou was peaceful and memorable.
The city itself was warm and welcoming. Locals fondly called us “Indu”, recognising our Indian roots. Located along the Pearl River, Guangzhou dazzled us with its vibrant culture, history, food and friendly people. And of course, like every traveller visiting China, we couldn’t leave without seeing the Great Wall.
One chilly Saturday, we flew from Guangzhou to Beijing — a three-hour journey — with our four-year-old grandson in tow. Winter had wrapped the city in its crisp air, but the excitement of visiting one of the world’s greatest wonders kept us warm. The Great Wall, stretching over 5,000 miles, is a breathtaking feat of ancient engineering, winding across mountains, deserts, farmland and even into the sea.
We took the cable car to the Mutianyu section, which reaches Tower 14. I don’t remember how many towers we ultimately climbed, but it was quite a trek, even with the cable car. Surprisingly, our little grandson was the true star of the day. His big eyes and chubby cheeks captured everyone’s hearts. Chinese tourists kept stopping us for photos, offering chocolates and treats — completely unaffected by politics, simply charmed by a child.
Everything was magical… until it wasn’t.
On our flight back to Guangzhou, the winter sky turned restless. Without warning, the plane shuddered violently. The turbulence was unlike anything I had ever experienced — a fierce, sudden jolt that made the cabin lights flicker and sent a ripple of panic through the passengers. For a few terrifying seconds, it felt as if the aircraft had slipped out of control. I gripped the seat, my heart pounding, fear tightening around me.
At that moment, my four-year-old grandson — who had been quietly colouring — looked up at me with clear, steady eyes. Noticing my fear, he whispered,
“Ammamma… don’t be scared.”
Before I could respond, he wriggled out of his seat, planted his tiny feet firmly, lifted both hands toward the ceiling with all his little strength, and declared with total conviction:
“I will stop the plane, just like Chota Bheem!”
His voice carried an unexpected power. People around us turned, watching this tiny child standing like a little warrior, arms raised as though he was truly holding up the sky. And then he shouted,
“STOP!”
For a moment, it felt as though time paused — as if the turbulence itself had heard him. Almost instantly, the violent shaking began to settle. The aircraft steadied, the lights stopped trembling, and a heavy, grateful hush fell across the cabin. I let out a long breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.
Was it coincidence? Luck? Or the inexplicable strength of a child’s innocent faith?
I still don’t know. But in that winter sky above China, my grandson became our very own Chota Bheem, filling the air with a courage far larger than his tiny frame.
When we finally landed safely, he beamed with pride — blissfully unaware that he had just given us a story we would remember for the rest of our lives.
Winter mysteries special
Wintery Woes-The Bodh Gaya Journey
(Author: Shounak Chatterjee, mechanical engineer, writer and observer)
Winter usually means one thing for most people: cosy sweaters, sweet oranges, plum cakes, and long vacations. But for me? It meant Operation Long Drive—my dad’s favourite hobby disguised as a family trip.
I was in Class 8 back then… a 14-year-old boy armed with curiosity, a backpack full of snacks, and absolutely zero control over the car playlist (Dad ruled the AUX cable like a dictator).
So on Christmas Eve, the three of us—Dad, Mom, and their permanently-confused son (me)—started for Bodh Gaya, Bihar. Dad was at the wheel, obviously, driving like he was auditioning for a driving-skills commercial.
Anyone who has travelled long distances by road knows that time is a myth. Delays? Guaranteed. Bathroom breaks? Endless. Unforeseen reasons? Oh, plenty.
So instead of reaching Gaya at our “highly ambitious” planned time of 5 PM… we rolled in at 11:45 PM. Yes, almost midnight. Even ghosts must have looked at us and said, “Bro, why are YOU out here?”
The roads were pitch-black. Not “dark.” BLACK. Like someone had switched off the universe. Somehow we managed to find the guest house, only to wake up the receptionist—who looked like she had been in hibernation for 400 years.
She yawned, stretched, blinked at her register, and then casually announced that our booking was cancelled because we were late.
Dad went blank. Mom went pale. And I went, “So… are we homeless now?”
Within seconds Dad started the engine again, and off we went—back into the darkness—hunting for a place to stay like tired nomads with Google Maps refusing to cooperate.
After what felt like eternity, we spotted a roadside shack with an eatery still open. We were hungry, thirsty, cranky, and basically ready to adopt the shack if needed. The owner gave us tea and bread, and when we asked to rest there for the night, he agreed with a smile, saying hardly anyone used that road at night.
Sounded suspiciously generous but hey, we were desperate.
So we slept. Deeply. Like someone unplugged us from life.
Next morning, a passerby shook us awake. And that’s when we realised where we had spent the night.
Let me tell you—when you fully wake up and find yourself in a half-broken shack beside what looked like a burnt, abandoned tea stall, you question your life choices.
Seeing our faces (I think we all resembled fainted goats), the passerby explained that the shack and tea shop once belonged to a good man… who sadly died in a fire caused by his helper’s carelessness. Since then, people avoided this road after sunset.
And guess who showed up at midnight like VIP guests?
Yes. Us.
Dad thanked the passerby and also silently thanked every star in the galaxy for keeping us unharmed.
We left immediately, found a decent hotel, completed our Gaya and Bodh Gaya trip like civilized humans, and came back with… let’s say… “memories unlimited.”
And now, every winter, while people enjoy oranges and plum cakes, I remember the time my family accidentally spent a night in a ghost-approved shack.
Winter mysteries special
Winter Mysteries Special - The Goa Déjà Vu
Some travel memories stay with you for years. But some moments feel like they were waiting for you — quietly, mysteriously — long before you arrived. That’s what happened to Riya (name changed) and Arjun (name changed) during a winter getaway to Goa, when an ordinary evening turned into an experience neither could ever explain.
The couple’s early weeks of marriage were unexpectedly rocky. Small disagreements kept erupting, old insecurities resurfaced, and strange coincidences followed them around like quiet reminders of something unresolved.
Hoping to break the cycle, they decided to take a short trip to Goa — to breathe, reset, and find some calm away from daily pressures.
The first two days were peaceful. They explored quiet lanes, ate at local shacks, and let the winter sea breeze ease the heaviness they had been carrying. The trip was finally beginning to feel like the fresh start they needed.
On the third evening, after long stroll on the beach, they found a rustic bamboo swing set right on the beach — half-buried in soft sand, facing the sea. The air smelled of salt and the spicy aroma of Goan food from a nearby shack. They ordered a prawn dish and some starters.
As they began eating, the sun dipped lower, throwing molten gold across the water.
And then, everything changed.
Riya reached for a piece of prawn, and suddenly her fingers froze mid-air. A sharp, overwhelming sense of familiarity hit her — not just of the place, but of the entire moment.
The swing’s slow creak.
The exact shade of the sky.
The smell of the food
The glassy look of the sea and The distant laughter of the tourists, drifting by.
She felt as if she had already lived this exact moment before.
Before she could speak, she noticed Arjun staring at her with the same stunned expression.
And then they both noticed it at once — the sounds around them had faded.
The beachside chatter, the crashing waves, even the music playing faintly from the shack… everything dropped to a muffled hush, like someone had turned the world’s volume down. The air felt still, charged, almost suspended.
They weren’t scared, but neither could make sense of what was happening.
It was as if they were inside a memory they hadn’t formed in this life.
For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other, unable to move or speak. Then, as quickly as it began, the sounds returned — the waves grew louder, a group of tourists laughed nearby, and a dog barked at the shore.
The moment slipped away like water through fingers, leaving behind a strange, indescribable heaviness in their chests.
They didn’t talk about it for a long time. When they finally did, they realised both had replayed the exact same sequence in their minds — the food, the swing, the sunset — as if remembering something they couldn’t place.
Not past life.
Not destiny.
Just… an unexplained familiarity that didn’t belong to the present.
The rest of the trip passed normally, but that déjà vu lingered. Even years later, a swing on a beach or the smell of prawn balchão brings back that eerie, suspended moment where time felt looped, sound faded, and reality blurred at the edges.
Some travel experiences give you photographs.
Others give you mysteries.
This one gave them both.
Winter mysteries special
Winter Mysteries Special -Christmas Conundrum
(Author: Kasturi Chatterjee- Educator, storyteller and spiritual devotee)
For us Christmas was always special with long holidays,picnics, sports,carols,cakes and family gatherings.
24th December evening was always special...as we children were engaged in doing up our huge verandah with a beautiful Christmas tree,lanterns and gifts.
We children were made to hang our socks with our wish list just to find them filled with gifts in the morning,though back then we were made to believe that Santa Claus comes with gifts but now I know it was our parents,filling the socks.
Ours was a joint family and my aunt, father's sister was specially abled. Because of her delayed mental growth,she was a spinster,but was considered one among us, the children.
Christmas mornings were always bright and happy for us children, curious and eagerly discovering the goodies from the socks that we have hung with hope and faith.Though my aunt never hung any sock with a wish but amazingly almost every Christmas some gift awaited beside her pillow....of which every member of the house was clueless.
The adults of the house were astonished not once but repeatedly trying to find out the truth....but in vain...and finally gave up the futile search.
Though most of the members have settled near and far ....and aunt is no more ....but the mystery still remains unsolved and haunts me to the core.
There are certain things that persists in this universe which science and logic have failed to explain.I have come to terms with this truth and have moved on .
Christmas in our home was always magical. Winter holidays meant picnics, sports, carols, cakes, the smell of fresh bakes drifting through the corridors, and the warmth of a large, bustling joint family. As children, 24th December evenings felt like stepping into a storybook—decorating our huge verandah with a glowing Christmas tree, vibrant lanterns, and carefully wrapped presents.
Like every child, we hung our socks with wish lists tucked inside, convinced that Santa himself would come gliding in at midnight. Only years later did we learn the truth—our parents were the real “Santas” slipping gifts into our socks while we slept.
Among us was my aunt—my father’s sister—who was specially-abled. Because of her delayed mental growth, she remained unmarried, but she was always one of us…the childlike heart of our home. She never hung a sock or made a wish list. Yet every Christmas morning, without fail, a gift would appear beside her pillow.
And this is where our winter story turns inexplicable.
Every adult in the family denied placing it there. Year after year, the same mystery unfolded—my aunt waking up with a small, thoughtful gift beside her, while the rest of us exchanged confused glances. The elders tried to stay awake, observe, even solve the riddle. But every attempt ended in failure. No footsteps, no clues, no explanation.
Just…a gift. Always for her. Always from someone unknown.
Over time, many of us moved away. My aunt passed on, leaving behind memories wrapped in innocence and warmth. But the Christmas conundrum remains—an unsolved thread woven into our family’s winters. Even today, when the cold winds return and Christmas lights flicker across homes, this memory resurfaces and sends a familiar shiver down my spine.
Some mysteries remain untouched—beyond logic, beyond science, beyond human understanding.
And maybe…that’s what makes Christmas truly magical.