The black dupatta

 


The Black Dupatta

A Psychological Horror Short Story Set in Rural Punjab

By Faraz Parvez

Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

The Black Dupatta

In a sleepy village tucked between mango orchards and mustard fields, time moves slowly. But stories travel faster than light, especially the kind that’s soaked in fear.

There, every child knows not to touch the black dupatta hanging on the old pipal tree near the graveyard.

And every adult pretends it isn’t there.

The Forbidden Fabric

It’s not just cloth, they whisper.

It belonged to Sheherbano, the village's most beautiful girl—once. She lived a century ago, when the British still ruled and trains whistled past sunflower fields. Betrothed to the zamindar’s arrogant son, she loved a poor carpenter instead.

Their affair bloomed in shadows, and when they tried to elope, she was caught. Her lover disappeared without a trace. She was buried alive—right where the pipal tree stands.

The next morning, a black dupatta was found fluttering on the same branch.

It hasn’t moved since.

Not even in storms.

The Outsider

Adeel was a documentary filmmaker from Islamabad, researching "Vanishing Superstitions of the Punjab". Arrogant, skeptical, and amused, he arrived with cameras, drones, and city attitude.

He saw the dupatta.

It was jet black, thin as gauze, unmoving in a summer breeze. Villagers avoided eye contact with it—and with him. Even the imam warned:
“Some stories are not for truth. They are warnings.”

Adeel scoffed. “It’s a rag on a tree.”

That night, he climbed the tree and touched it.

What the Camera Saw

The next day, Adeel was gone.

But his assistant found the footage.

In the video, Adeel laughs as he pulls at the fabric. The tree creaks. Then silence.

Then… a scream. Not his. Not human.

The camera shakes. Static. Then, for a moment, the lens captures a face — hers — half-covered in the dupatta, eyes like empty wells, and a mouth that whispered:

“Now you wear it.”

The dupatta disappeared.

The Curse Continues

Adeel was found days later, wandering barefoot outside the village. Hair white. Mute. Clutching a black piece of cloth in his mouth.

He never spoke again. But sometimes, he hums a tune villagers say belonged to Sheherbano.

And now, the dupatta has returned. Not to the pipal tree.

But tied around the headstone of Adeel’s family grave.

Waiting.

Reflection

What is horror, if not the return of the repressed?

In the subcontinent, ghosts wear bangles, mutter lullabies, and return for the wrongs that were never mourned.

By Faraz Parvez

Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Former Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)

🕯 For more stories that whisper from the walls and weep beneath the floorboards, visit:
👉 farazparvez1.blogspot.com

These are not just stories. They are echoes. And they are waiting for you.


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