The Culvert Club

In the summer of 1996, the world was small enough to be crossed on a bicycle and large enough to be terrifying after nine at night. There were five of them, five boys bound not by greatness, but by time, dust, and a railway culvert that smelled faintly of rust and paan spit. They called themselves nothing.

 Names came later in life. At fifteen to eighteen, they were simply present.

 

There was Bittu, the electronics freak. His fingers were always stained with solder, and his school bag rattled with discarded transistors, wires, and resistors rescued from old radios. His greatest achievement, and pride, was a homemade two-way walkie-talkie that worked up to exactly one and a half kilometers, provided no train passed in between.

 

There was Raju, rich by local standards. His father owned a hardware shop and once brought home a Sony Walkman from Delhi. Raju wore it everywhere, headphones permanently looped around his neck like a medal. He listened to Kumar Sanu, Baba Sehgal, and sometimes foreign cassette tapes he didn’t understand but pretended to.

 

There was Munna, the tallest and loudest, who laughed before finishing jokes and believed bravery was a volume problem. He once claimed he could outrun a train. No one believed him, but no one asked him to prove it either.

 

There was Deepak, quiet, observant, good at studies, and perpetually anxious. He was the one who always asked, “What if?” and was always ignored.

 

And finally there was Chintu, the youngest, shortest, and most dangerous, because he was curious. Chintu was the one who brought nails to the railway track.

 

Every evening after school, they cycled to the crossing where the canal met the railway line. A concrete culvert ran beneath the tracks, wide enough for water and secrets. They sat on the edge, legs dangling, cycles thrown carelessly nearby. Trains thundered above, shaking their bones and conversations.

They discussed everything:
Cricket scores scribbled in notebooks. The upcoming board exams that no one felt ready for. Which teacher was secretly evil. Whether aliens would land in India or America first. Sometimes Bittu tested his walkie-talkie. “Base to Alpha,” he’d whisper dramatically. Munna, standing thirty feet away, would respond, “Alpha to idiot.” It crackled. It worked. It was magic.

 

Raju would rewind his cassette with a pencil, explaining to no one in particular how batteries were expensive and cassette tapes were forever. One afternoon, Chintu placed a nail carefully on the railway track. “Knife banega,” he said. The train passed. The nail flattened beautifully. They admired it like scientists. No one asked whether this was safe. The 90s had fewer warning labels.

 

Summer vacation arrived with tuition classes for competitive exams. The irony was not lost on them. Classes ended at 9 PM. Too late to roam freely, too early to sleep. So they met at the culvert anyway.

The nights were thick, mosquitoes, humidity, distant radios playing old film songs. The railway signal glowed red like an eye that never blinked. They stayed longer than they should have.

 

One night, Munna said, “You know there’s a cemetery next to the tracks, right?” Silence. They all knew. No one liked acknowledging it. “I heard,” Munna continued, lowering his voice unnecessarily, “that at night… cycles stop working there.” Raju scoffed. “Bakwaas.” Chintu smiled. “Let’s go tomorrow.” Deepak protested immediately. “Why?” “To see,” Chintu said. They agreed because agreement is easier than courage.

 

The next day moved slower than a Doordarshan broadcast. Tuition was unbearable. Equations blurred. History dates mocked them. Every tick of the wall clock sounded like a countdown. By 9 PM, they met at the culvert. The air felt different, charged, like before a power cut. They mounted their cycles and rode toward the cemetery. The gate was closed. A rusted barrier blocked the path. Munna laughed nervously. “See? Closed. Chalo.” But Chintu lifted his cycle. “I’ll cross,” he said. He raised it, maneuvered over the barrier,

 

CLANG.

 

The front wheel fell off. It rolled. Slowly. Deliberately. And stopped. No one breathed. The cycle stood there, wheel-less, impossible. Chintu dropped it. For half a second, no one moved. Then Munna screamed, “BHOOT!” They ran. Cycles abandoned. Walkman forgotten. Walkie-talkie dropped mid-crackle.

 

They didn’t stop until they reached the culvert, gasping, sweating, hearts hammering louder than any train.

 

They sat there, shaking. Deepak spoke first. “We can’t leave the cycles.” Everyone looked at him. “Our fathers,” he continued quietly, “will kill us.” This was undeniable. Ghosts were theoretical. Fathers were real. They waited. Listened. Nothing followed. No footsteps. No laughter. No eerie music. Just crickets.

 

Bittu swallowed. “Maybe… it wasn’t paranormal.” Munna glared. “Then what was it?” Bittu hesitated. “Old cycles… loose bolts…” They looked at Chintu. Chintu remembered. “I… loosened it last week. To fix a puncture.” Silence.

 

Raju removed his headphones. “So the ghost… was maintenance?” They stared at each other. Then laughed. The kind of laughter that comes when fear collapses. They went back. Retrieved the cycles. Fixed the wheel. No ghost appeared. They rode home together, quieter, older somehow.

 

The next morning, Munna’s father said casually, “Did you boys hear? Cemetery guard fixed the gate last night. Said some idiots left cycles there.”

 

They froze. “How… did he know?” Chintu whispered. Bittu checked his walkie-talkie. It crackled. A voice came through. “Alpha to Base,” said the guard’s voice. “Cycle zapt nahi kiya. Agli baar chai bhi pilaunga.” They stared. Bittu grinned. “It works farther at night,” he said. They laughed.

And grew up,just a little.