" 2 days 1 night " of "Me Yakshu"

 

Yakshu had always been different. At fifteen, while most of her classmates were lost in social chatter and silly competitions, her eyes sought something deeper, something darker. Curiosity was not just a trait for her—it was a fire. And now, that fire had chosen a destination: the hollow space in the mountain near Madikeri, whispered about in half-believed stories.

People called it cursed. They said many who dared to enter were never seen again. Some returned, but with faces twisted in terror, unable to speak clearly about what they had witnessed. Parents used it to scare children at night. Teachers brushed it off as folklore. But for Yakshu, it was not a story to fear—it was a mystery to chase.

She told her parents she was heading to Coorg for a school field trip. To make the lie airtight, she secured a signed confirmation slip from her teacher—an actual trip to a coffee estate had been planned, but Yakshu forged her own trail. She slipped the paper into her parents’ hands, smiled, and carried her pink trekking bag out the door. Inside that bag were ropes, a flask of dehydrated drink, a diary, and the quiet determination of someone ready to meet the unknown.

The bus ride to Madikeri was filled with sunlight. Through the window, she saw hills rolling like green waves and the endless expanse of coffee plantations. Her lips curved into a smile—not of joy, but of achievement. She was not just skipping a trip. She was stepping into her own legend.

By late evening, she had reached the base of the mountain. The forest wrapped around it like a living creature, dense and breathing. A single star glittered in the darkening sky, as if watching her. Night descended quickly, painting the path in shades of shadow.

That was when she heard it.

“Daring you…”

The whisper was neither male nor female. It slithered through the trees like a hiss, brushing her ear. She froze, but only for a heartbeat. Fear tightened her chest, but pride pushed her forward. She stepped onto the stone trail, letting the sound vanish behind her.

A second whisper followed.

“Hold on…”

Her skin prickled. She gripped the strap of her bag, adjusted the rope inside, and walked faster. The sound of her shoes on the earth was louder than usual, crunching twigs like broken bones.

Two hundred steps into the dense woods, the forest grew heavier. The air was thick, choked with the fluttering of bats that darted past her face, wings grazing her ears. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, refusing to let panic rule.

Then came the ripple.

It was not wind, not water. It was a hollow ripple of sound, like someone drumming on the belly of the mountain itself. The noise vibrated in her chest, sharp and unsettling. She pulled out her phone, but the screen was black. Zero battery. No torch, no light. Only darkness.

Her breath quickened. Yet she called out, voice trembling but brave:

“May I know… who is inside?”

Silence answered. Pure, heavy silence. No murmur. No whisper.

Again, she tried. “Why are you inside? Is this your home?”

The silence thickened, and then—words. Twisted, strange, like wind caught in broken glass:

“Stretch your hand…”

Her heart pounded, but boldness surged. She stretched her right hand toward the hollow in the mountain wall. Her fingers brushed the stone—cold, wet, alive. The whisper deepened.

“Deeper…”

She pushed her hand further into the hollow, her skin scraping against jagged rock. The stone seemed to pulse, as if breathing. Then something soft, damp, touched her fingertips. She flinched but did not withdraw.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

No reply. Just a shiver that ran up her arm, straight into her chest. She yanked her hand back. It was wet, streaked with dark moisture. Blood? No—too thick. Sap? No—too cold.

She sniffed it. Metallic. Almost like rust. Almost like—

Her thoughts shattered as the hollow exhaled. A gust of freezing air shot out, carrying with it voices, dozens of them, layered, broken, crying, screaming. She stumbled back, clutching her ears. The voices swirled around her, rising from whispers to wails, and then—silence again.

Yakshu’s knees trembled. She could turn back now, run to the safety of the village below. But her heart screamed louder than her fear. She had come for this. To face the unknown, to demand its truth.

She tied the rope around her waist, looped it to a tree, and stepped deeper into the hollow entrance. Her body scraped against stone. The pink bag dragged behind her, catching on sharp edges.

The cave swallowed her. Darkness consumed her. Her breaths echoed like another creature breathing alongside her. The air was damp, stinking of moss and something older—something dead.

She whispered to herself, “I’m not afraid.” But her voice shook, betraying her.

A drip of water fell on her forehead. Then another. She looked up—stalactites hung above like teeth. The cave was a mouth, and she was walking straight into its throat.

The whisper returned, closer now.

“Why… did you come?”

Yakshu froze. “To know the truth,” she said, her words firmer than she felt.

The whisper twisted into laughter—not joyful, but mocking. “Truth… eats the curious.”

Her skin crawled. She pressed on. Step by step. Her shoes crunched on gravel. Every sound was magnified a hundredfold.

Her hand brushed the cave wall, and it quivered, like flesh. She pulled back instantly. The hollow was alive.

Somewhere ahead, faint light flickered. Not steady like fire, but pulsing, as if breathing. Drawn to it, she quickened her pace.

As she moved forward, shadows stretched along the walls. Faces formed in the stone—distorted, screaming, their mouths open wide in agony. She blinked, shook her head. Hallucinations. Her mind playing tricks.

But then one of the stone mouths moved.

It whispered, “Turn back.”

Her stomach dropped. The faces weren’t illusions. They were… trapped.

Yakshu stumbled but kept moving. “No,” she hissed. “I came here to see. To know.”

The light grew brighter. It came from a pool of water in the cave’s center, glowing faintly green. The surface rippled, though no stone had fallen in. She approached, heart hammering.

The whispers circled her. Louder, sharper. “Touch it. Touch it.”

She knelt, extended her hand. The water shimmered, pulling her reflection into grotesque shapes. Her face elongated, eyes hollow, mouth stretched. It wasn’t her anymore—it was something else. Something waiting.

Yakshu clenched her fist. “No. You won’t trick me.”

The water hissed. Bubbles rose violently, and then a hand—pale, thin, skeletal—burst out, gripping her wrist.

Yakshu screamed, but she didn’t pull away.

Yakshu’s heart still raced from the skeletal hand that had clutched her wrist. But as her vision steadied, she realized it was not bone—it was flesh. Weak, trembling, human flesh. The figure that rose from the pool was not a ghost but a person, gaunt, skin painted with mud, hair matted like roots. His eyes were wide, pupils glowing faintly from the reflection of the water. He said nothing. He only looked at her, then gestured silently for her to follow.

Confusion warred with fear, but her curiosity once again won. She adjusted her bag and took a careful step behind him. The cave widened, the light from the water fading, but her strange guide carried a torch made from resin and wrapped bark. The flame sputtered, hissing, but it lit the path.

They moved deeper, descending into tunnels that twisted like the veins of the mountain. The air grew warmer, humid, filled with the thick odor of smoke and unwashed skin. The walls here were not rock but carved dwellings—marks of tools, shelters dug into the hollow. Yakshu realized what she was seeing.

A village.

Hidden in the very belly of the mountain.

Dozens of eyes glimmered in the dark, staring at her with suspicion and hunger. Men with spears stepped forward, their bodies painted in ash, their hair tangled, their chests rising and falling like animals ready to strike. Women crouched by fires, their sharp faces frozen in silence. Children peered from cracks, their small hands gripping the stone.

The stench was overpowering—sweat, smoke, damp earth, and the bitter tang of roots. Yakshu gagged but forced herself to steady. She knew this was the secret: people, not spirits. Tribes that had vanished from history, hiding from the world of cities and schools, living here untouched by what the world called progress.

One man snarled, raising his spear. The others echoed with guttural shouts, surrounding her. Yakshu’s instincts screamed to run. But she remembered. She remembered a book she had read in childhood, a tattered collection of sketches and notes about lost tribes of Coorg. It had described how some groups used gestures instead of words. How to lower your gaze, bow slightly, keep your palms open—not to show weakness, but respect.

She inhaled and performed the gestures. Hands open. Eyes lowered. Shoulders bent in humility.

The tribes froze. Their eyes shifted from hostility to hesitation. The man with the spear growled something guttural, and then, to her surprise, stepped back. A woman with tangled hair moved closer, her face inches from Yakshu’s, her nose twitching as if smelling her. Then, in broken Kannada, the woman whispered:

“Not… city people?”

Yakshu swallowed. “No. Just me. Alone. Curious.”

The word curious seemed to ease them. They relaxed slightly, though their faces stayed hardened. The leader, a man with scars across his chest, finally spoke in a deep voice that rumbled like stone sliding:

“You saw us. You found us. You must not speak of us. Not to city. Not to school. Not to anyone.”

His words carried weight. It was not a request—it was a command.

Yakshu nodded quickly, her heart pounding. “I promise. I will not tell.”

The leader’s eyes narrowed, searching for deceit. Then, slowly, he stepped back and lowered his spear. The circle broke, though the tribes still kept their distance.

She reached into her pink bag and pulled out a packet of fruits she had carried for energy. With a trembling hand, she offered it to them—a gesture of peace. The tribe stared at the bright apples and bananas, alien to their hidden world. The children edged closer, their eyes gleaming with temptation. But before they could touch, the leader barked an order. The packet was seized, and with a sudden hiss, it was hurled into the shadows of the cave. The fruits tumbled and split on the stone floor, their sweet scent mixing with the bitter smoke.

The leader snarled, “Your food poisons us. We eat ours.”

Yakshu bowed her head, embarrassed but unafraid. She had tried.

Then the drums began. Deep, hollow beats from somewhere in the darkness, shaking the cave walls. The tribe shouted in unison, raising their weapons. It was not a celebration. It was a warning.

She understood: she had overstayed. She was no longer a guest. She was a threat.

Fear surged, but she forced a gentle smile. She bowed again, whispering softly, “I go. I will keep your secret.”

The leader’s scarred face hardened, but then, slowly, he gestured toward the cave’s exit. “Go. Now.”

The tribes surged forward—not striking her, but chasing her, hurling cries that echoed like animal roars. Children banged sticks, women shrieked, men stomped their feet. The sound was terrifying, primal. Her heart thundered as she stumbled, clutching her bag, running through the tunnel lit by fire. The echoes pursued her, growing louder, as if the whole mountain had risen against her.

She climbed, hands scraping stone, knees bruising. Her rope snagged but she tore it free, breath ragged. She felt the damp walls narrowing, as if trying to trap her forever. But she pushed forward, clawing, dragging herself upward.

And then—air. Cold, sweet, night air.

Yakshu burst from the hollow mouth of the cave, collapsing onto the ground outside. Mud clung to her skin, dew kissed her face, and the sky stretched vast and free above her. The forest, once terrifying, now looked like a friend. The whispers were gone. Only silence remained—gentle, healing silence.

She sat there, shivering, wiping sweat and mud from her face. For a long moment, she did not move. Then she laughed. Soft at first, then stronger. Not because it was funny, but because she had done it. She had faced the mountain, the whispers, the unknown—and she had returned alive.

The night was not cruel anymore. It was beautiful. A wonder. Every leaf glistened with dew, welcoming her. Every breeze carried the scent of freedom. She felt not fear, but triumph.

Yakshu pulled out her diary. With trembling fingers, under the dim starlight, she wrote:

“2 days, 1 night. In my heart forever. The achievement of my desire: to know what is what.”

Her handwriting wavered, smudged by a drop of dew—or maybe a tear. She closed the diary, tucked it back into her bag, and stood.

The mountain loomed behind her, hiding its secret. She would never speak of the tribe, never betray their refuge. The world would continue to believe in whispers, in ghosts, in disappearances. But she knew the truth. And that truth was hers alone.

With one last glance at the cave, she whispered, “Goodbye.”

She walked down the slope, every step lighter than the last. By the time she reached the ground, the first light of dawn brushed the horizon. She washed her face in the cool dew-soaked mud, cleansing the terror, leaving only the glow of accomplishment.

When she returned home, her parents asked nothing. She smiled, pretending she had just returned from a simple school trip. No one would ever know the truth—not her teachers, not her friends.

But in her heart, Yakshu carried it like a jewel.

The whispers. The shadows. The faces in stone. The tribes with their spears and their secrets.

And above all, the memory of her courage.

A courage she would never lose.