Autobiography of a Mountain Ghost

- Rajeeva Nayan Pathak 

My name was Ankit, and I used to live in a small town nestled at the foothills of the majestic Himalayas. I loved the mountains, the cool breeze that would sweep through the valleys, and the freedom that came with riding my bike on the winding roads that connected my home to other hill stations like Kalimpong and Darjeeling. Every weekend, my girlfriend Anya and I would hop on my bike, zooming through the misty, narrow paths, filled with the joy of youth and adventure.

But all that changed one day—a day that started out like any other, but ended in tragedy. 

We had planned to visit Kalimpong that morning. The sun was shining, the air fresh, and the road ahead beckoned us like an open invitation. As usual, I picked up Anya from her home in Sukna, and we set off, riding through the forest-lined roads, where tall trees stood guard like silent sentinels.

"Hold on tight, Anya!" I shouted playfully over my shoulder as we whizzed past some slower vehicles.

Anya giggled and wrapped her arms around my waist. "Don't go too fast, Ankit! You know how dangerous these roads can be."

But I was overconfident. I had ridden these roads a hundred times before, twisting and turning through the hills like a snake slithering over the mountain’s skin. I felt invincible, like nothing could ever happen to us.

But life has a way of reminding you how fragile it truly is.

We were speeding around a particularly sharp bend when suddenly, out of nowhere, a truck appeared, careening towards us. There was no time to think, no time to swerve. All I remember is the sound of screeching tyres, the blinding headlights of the truck, and the feeling of Anya’s arms slipping away from my waist as the world around us spun out of control.

Then, nothing. Darkness.

***

I opened my eyes, but I wasn’t lying on the ground or inside a hospital room. I wasn’t anywhere. It felt like floating, like I was suspended in mid-air. Below me, I could see the wreckage of my bike, crumpled like a piece of tin foil. Anya was lying on the road, but somehow, she was moving. She was alive. Miraculously, she had survived.

I tried to speak, to call out to her, but no sound came from my lips. I reached out, but my hand passed right through the air. That’s when I realised—I was no longer part of the world I once knew.

I was dead.

***

For the first few days, I wandered the mountains, confused and lost. I had no body, no way to speak or interact with the living. I watched helplessly as Anya mourned, as my family cried, as the people in my town whispered about the accident. I was just a shadow, unseen and unheard, a ghost trapped in the mountains where I had once lived.

But it didn’t take long for me to notice something else. I wasn’t alone. Every day, young boys and girls would ride their bikes through these same roads, much like I had done. Some of them were reckless, speeding around dangerous curves, not knowing how easily life could slip away. I could see the accidents before they happened—like watching a film on repeat. 

I couldn't stand the thought of someone else meeting the same fate I had. So, I made it my mission to help. I don’t know how or why, but as a ghost, I could nudge things—change the tiniest details to prevent accidents. Sometimes, I would pull a rider's handlebars just a little, to avoid an oncoming truck. Other times, I would slow down their bike by pressing against the tyres. No one ever saw me, of course, but they always felt like they had narrowly escaped disaster.

"They were lucky," people would say when a rider swerved just in time.

But it wasn’t luck. It was me.

***

Days turned into months, and months into years. I became a silent guardian of the mountain roads, always watching, always helping. It was a thankless job, but it gave my wandering soul purpose. I couldn’t let what had happened to me happen to anyone else.

One day, while floating above the winding path, I noticed a group of teenage bikers gathering near a sharp curve. They were laughing, revving their engines, and boasting about who could take the turn the fastest. I knew this was a recipe for disaster.

Without thinking, I drifted closer, hoping to stop them before it was too late. But something felt different this time. As I approached the youngest boy in the group, something strange happened. My essence—my very being—was pulled into his body, like a magnet attracting metal. For the first time in years, I felt solid, grounded, alive.

I blinked, looking around. The boy’s friends stared at me, confused. "Hey, are you alright?" one of them asked.

I glanced down at my hands—no longer my own, but his. I had somehow taken over this boy’s body, just for a moment. And I knew this was my chance—my final moment to share what I had learned in my years as a wandering spirit.

I cleared my throat, feeling the weight of the boy's voice, and spoke:

“Listen to me, all of you. I know the thrill of the ride, the rush of the wind against your face. I know the excitement that comes with speeding down these mountain roads. But I also know the danger—the very real danger that lurks behind every turn. You may feel invincible now, but life is fragile. One mistake is all it takes to lose everything.”

The boys looked at me, puzzled. One of them laughed nervously. “What are you talking about, man? We’re just having fun.”

I shook my head. “It’s not about fun. It’s about understanding that every choice you make on these roads has consequences. I was like you once—reckless, carefree, thinking that nothing bad could ever happen to me. But it did. I lost my life on this very road.”

The air grew still. The boys exchanged glances, sensing that something wasn’t right. I continued:

“You don’t have to believe me, but know this—every time you take a corner too fast, every time you push your bike beyond its limits, you’re gambling with your life. And trust me, no ride is worth that.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, one of the older boys, who had been leaning against his bike, stepped forward. His face was pale, his eyes wide. “I’ve... I’ve heard stories about this road. They say it’s haunted, that there’s a ghost that saves bikers from accidents.”

I smiled, though they couldn’t see it. “Maybe those stories are true. Maybe someone has been watching over you all this time. But they can’t protect you forever. The best way to avoid an accident is to ride with care, to respect the road and your life.”

The group fell quiet. I could see in their eyes that my words had struck a chord. The youngest boy, the one whose body I was borrowing, nodded slowly. “I get it,” he whispered. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

I felt a strange sense of peace wash over me, like a weight had been lifted from my soul. My time was running out—I could feel myself slipping away from the boy’s body, my connection to the living world fading.

As I drifted out, back into the ether, I watched the boys mount their bikes and ride off, slower this time, more cautious. I had done what I could. I had given them my final message, my last piece of advice.

***

Now, I float above the mountain roads once more, my time as a ghost nearly at its end. I no longer feel the need to nudge bikes or prevent accidents. The young riders have begun to heed the warnings—perhaps because they sense the presence of someone who once rode these same roads, someone who paid the ultimate price for his recklessness.

My journey is coming to a close. Soon, I will move on, leaving the mountains and the roads behind. But before I go, I want to leave you with this: life is precious. Whether you’re riding a bike, driving a car, or simply walking through the world, remember that every moment is a gift. Treat it with care, for you never know when it might be your last.

And if you ever find yourself riding through the misty hills of the Himalayas, and you feel a sudden, unexplained pull at your handlebars, or a gust of wind that seems to guide you away from danger, know that it’s not just chance. It’s someone who has been there before, someone who understands the value of life.

Ride safely, my friends. We have one life, enjoy it- do not destroy it!

****Jai Hind****

(Dedicated to Late Ankit, my student  at APS Binnaguri, who lost his life in a road accident.)