Pichal Payri
Author’s Note:
The events narrated in this story are a first-hand experience. No fabrication whatsoever has been added by the Author.
The title of this story might seem alien to many readers, but those from the Indian subcontinent will find it quite familiar. It is an epithet for a mysterious woman who inhabits the breathtaking mountains of Kashmir, in Pakistan and India alike. I say woman—because she always appears alone.
My story is one of many; an actual first-hand experience or rather an experience that the victim believes to be real.
This experience was shared by a man who was deeply cherished by our family. He was from Azad Kashmir and came to Lahore, Punjab, when he was just eleven. Out of utmost respect, I will not display his true name and refer to him as Arshad Bhai.
Arshad Bhai had appeared at my Nani’s (maternal grandmother's) doorstep seeking refuge from his own extended family. Such unfortunate children are harbored by every society of every nation: They are orphans left at the mercy of their relatives, come what may. My Nani—may she always rest in peace—possessed the rarest of souls: utterly kind and gentle. She took him in and he became one of our own.
Though Arshad Bhai remained with us till he had become senile, he regularly visited his home in Azad Kashmir. As it so happened, his elder brother, who was like a father figure to him, had discovered him and wanted him to visit home at least once a year.
This simple but great man had only one tale to tell. He had narrated it to my aunts and uncles and then passed it on to us—as though reliving the incident somehow lessened the acrid taste of this memory. This incident took place during his bachelor years, on one such visit to his village.
Sieged by nostalgic fear, his bewildered eyes watching some far-off memory, he would narrate to us his tale. And we all gathered around him to listen, with such intent—a story so convincing yet so surreal.
So, you see, this is not My story; it actually belongs to him, and in honor of his loving memory, from here on, I shall let him be the narrator:
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Arshad Bhai’s Account
My story will take you to the lush green mountains and the sparkling clear waters of my hometown, 'Bagh', in the Azad Kashmir district of the same name. A place filled with heavenly beauty, where tiny creatures of paradise roam freely and the scent of coniferous trees tinges the air. A town shrouded in the most serene of sunsets—and draped in the most disturbing folklore.
The villagers would whisper tales of a woman whom they referred to as the Pichal-Payri, a woman so beautiful that even the heavenly hoors (beauteous beings in heaven) were put to shame. Yet their hushed voices carried a sensation other than that of exotic fascination—a sense of imminent misgiving and that of an impending doom.
I’d heard the stories as a child, even before moving to Punjab. But my childhood hadn’t been the best time of my life, so these stories had faded away along with a multitude of undesirable memories.
This incident occurred in mid-June, when the weather in all of Kashmir becomes the colour of spring and the snow-covered mountains cast off their white veils to reveal the verdant green from underneath.
The bus stop at Muzaffarabad (Azad Kashmir) is around 47 miles from Bagh. Beyond that, the terrain is rugged, ascending unevenly up to an elevation of 1763 meters, where the Bagh district is located.
With the absence of paved roads at that time, there weren’t any bus stops near my district so I had to trudge on foot all the way up to my home. This journey took me half a day so I always aimed for the earliest bus available.
But on this day, I had gotten off the bus later than usual, as heavy traffic had delayed my departure from Lahore.
In those days, wilderness far exceeded modernization, there being no electric supply in my district, let alone such devices as mobile phones. In short, it was a time when we lit laltains (oil lamps) for light, and battery-powered radios were a commodity on their own.
Day gave way to Maghrib (evening) while I was halfway there, and in the absence of street lamps, I had to carry a laltain (a torch being too expensive was out of the question).
With the setting of the sun, when the horizon morphed from azure to crimson and the land beneath became immersed in eerie shades of rusty red—the Kashmiri highlands seemed nothing like the romantic dreamscape they had been a few minutes ago.
I was alone, hiking up a narrow rocky dirt trail, the mountain wall stretching along to my left and a steep valley drop below to my right. A cool light breeze swept around my ankles and with it came the sounds of the declining day. I could hear my breath getting heavier with every step—until another sound began to mingle with the sound of my breathing.
I stopped abruptly and listened intently, while trying to shut off all my other senses.
It was a very faint sound, like the tinkling of a wind- chime, carried along with the wisp of air. I turned to take a look but there was nothing to be seen for miles around. Blaming fatigue for my erroneous senses, I moved on again, but after only a few steps, the sound had not only continued but had become louder—approaching me directly from behind.
It was a sound I knew well, the sound of pazeeb: anklets strewn with tiny metallic bells, worn by the local women.
*Chun! Chun! Chun! *
The sound of the anklets jingled in synchrony with every step that I took. And with it came the trickle of a pearly laugh—melodic and inviting.
I trudged on, without turning to look this time, assuming it was one of the native girls trying to pull a prank on me.
"Arshad…"
Came a silvery voice from behind.
"Arshad…"
She knew my name.
I froze, overcome by a sense of confusion and turning around raised my lamp up high, to get a better look in the darkening twilight.
The dim light exuding from my lamp fell upon the ethereal.
She stood before me, wearing a scarlet *Pheran*(a traditional gown), her ears adorned with large, fan- shaped silver earrings—A massive Tsunade necklace, embellished with precious stones, hung around her neck.
Her long silky black tresses shown from under the traditional Kasaba(turban). Her form was willowy —eyes brimming with laughter like the glassy aquamarine glaciers in the north, and a full mouth—large with sanguine inviting lips.
She was a stranger to me yet I stared at her celestial beauty with mesmerized eyes—until my gaze fell upon her feet, partially lit by the frail sphere of light thrown from my lamp.
Her feet were backwards.
Not twisted back but their natural alignment was such, with heels in the front and toes behind—the heavy silver anklets were strung around those reversed ankles. It was the most unnatural thing I had ever seen!
Instant fear engulfed my being till a foul taste filled my dry mouth. The laltain slipped out of my lifeless hand, as the lost memory of the rumors came crashing back.
And then I ran.
Chun! Chun! Chun!
The sounds rang behind me increasing in urgency with the increase in my speed.
As I fled, the long-forgotten memory of a voice echoed in my head:
“The Pichal-Payri is a fiendish ghoul disguised as an enchantress—who lures men only to eat them alive.
She appears just after Maghrib, when twilight cloaks the day—a time well known to be a harbinger for the supernatural. The only way one can tell her apart from other women is her feet. She is called Pichal-Payri: Pichal from the Urdu word ‘pechay’ (back) and Payri from the word ‘payr’ (feet). She has feet facing in the opposite direction to ours. And remember...if any of you ever encounter one, RUN without looking back—otherwise you shall invite your own doom!"
It had been the voice of the local sage, passing on the folklore to our generation, when we had been just kids.
I had kept running, never looking back—I had a feeling whatever was behind me wouldn’t look human anymore. The darkness around me deepened with every step. The fatigue in my limbs was stifled by the adrenaline rush while my sweat-soaked clothes had begun to cling to my body.
And all this time I could hear her right behind me.
I must have been running for miles as I had lost all concept of time and it felt like forever.
Finally, up ahead just where the trail bent around the mountain, I could see dim lights—the first signs of civilization, and could barely make out the outline of the well-known neon sign reading: BAGH DISTRICT — 1 MILE.
As I came within range of the board, the chiming behind me started spacing out. First, with a few seconds between each heavy jangle, to about half a minute—till it finally stopped altogether.
Fear is a strange emotion; it has an abrupt onset but doesn't end as such. And so, it kept me running long after I had entered my district. By now night had fallen; dark and thick, but the dim fiery lights of the small thatched houses—like tiny diamonds...
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