THE PHANTOM HORSEMAN Harrinei Kumaravel s night slowly swallows the flicker- was tall, they said. Bare-chested with Aing streetlights, when you are com- a blue dhoti. The elders swear he was fortable upon the cool mud floor, a quilt broad, as broad as that Banyan tree over you- it happens. If you ignore the over the groove. His mustache, well lethargic moans of the low-beam fan oiled, gleamed in the moonlight. He or the scamper of the street cat, you was proud of it. An ebony spear upon might just hear it. Older men in the vil- one hand and a rope whip on the oth- lage have gotten used to the sound and er. It is said that he could throw and kill now sleep soundly. But it is the younger deers by the stir of their soft manes. The ones that lay wide awake, not minding phantom of an ancient prince perhaps, the nagging mosquitoes. who died bravely on the battlefield. For his village. But all this tale came from Around one am, it starts. The low hum an old, blind man, wrinkled yellow, who of hooves. Thudding ever so slightly was once a drunkard stumbling about. upon the riddled road. The deserted He is the only one that saw. And he village square, so far quiet, echoes. hasn’t seen anything else since. But With the thuds. The stray dogs take he passes the story, his milky eye still courage at first and start howling. And holding the translucent of the white then they whimper, as if afraid. The horseman. hooves grow louder and the whip rings now and then. A broad voice, thick as They have built a small temple by the the same whip, nudges the horse with village edge for the horseman. He, that faint ‘hmph hmph’s. The horseman protects the village from evil. His horse