🏘️The Haunting of Kheda: The True Story of Keshash Singh

 Ask any old soul in the village of Kheda, and they’ll tell you—never walk alone on Purnima night. Not because of superstition, but because of what happened here years ago. This isn’t some ghost story. This is the tale of Keshash Singh.

Keshash was a man of strong hands and a soft heart. A farmer by day and a storyteller by night, he was the kind of man people trusted with their lives. After saving for years, he married Meera—a woman from a nearby town. The village celebrated their wedding like a festival. For three years, they seemed happy. But no one truly knew what brewed inside their home.

Rumors later revealed that Meera had married him only for his land and savings. One night, she poisoned his food—no drama, no noise. By morning, Keshash Singh was dead, and Meera played the grieving widow perfectly. She sold the land within weeks and vanished from Kheda.

That’s when things started happening.

First, animals went missing. Then, women began reporting strange dreams—of a man’s voice whispering their name, of footsteps outside their windows at midnight. Within months, one woman was found dead near the old well. No marks, no cause. Just fear frozen on her face.

The village priest suspected something unnatural. He led a prayer on the next full moon—Purnima—but what happened that night silenced the village for years.

A wandering saint, old and barefoot, came to the village unannounced. He walked straight to the banyan tree where Keshash’s ashes had been scattered. Without asking for shelter or food, he began chanting. Some say they saw the air shimmer around him.

“Keshash Singh,” he called, “you’ve taken your revenge. What more do you want?”

The answer came in a wind so cold it stopped the night birds.

“I want them to remember,” the voice replied. “I want every woman in this village to stand before me on every Purnima, light a lamp, and ask for forgiveness. For Meera’s betrayal. Or I will never stop.”

And just like that, the hauntings stopped.

Since that night, the women of Kheda gather at the banyan tree every full moon. Some say it’s tradition. Others know better. They light lamps. They fold their hands. They whisper apologies into the wind.

The village sleeps safely after.

But no one forgets Keshash Singh.