‘The Forest That Ate People’: What if Bordoisila skipped her seasonal visit, or Tejimola’s stepmother had a second chance?

Sometimes eerie, sometimes comic, and often both. Ten stories, a blend of Assamese folklore, culture, and tradition. By giving Assam’s folkloric protagonists a touch of modern rhythm, this book becomes rich in detail and layered with meaning, offering representation that feels both familiar and refreshing.

I am talking about the debut writer, Harshita Hiya, a young author from the lands of Assam in Northeast India, known for its lush green landscapes and rolling hills. Her book, The Forest That Ate People, brings together ten stories — some frightening, others delightfully light-hearted — each carrying its own charm.

The Forest That Ate People captures the spirit of Assam’s remotest corners — its myths, mysteries, and oral traditions — and reimagines them with a modern edge. The result is an engaging, imaginative collection that keeps readers hooked until the very last page.

Story 1: 'Bordoisila Is Nowhere to Be Found'

Harshita Hiya spins a charming piece of magical realism that personifies Assam’s seasons with wit and tenderness. By giving names and tempers to Spree (Bohag), Mer, Mon, and Winnie—and centering the capricious wind-spirit Bordoisila—she turns meteorology into family drama. The imagery is vivid (Guwahati sleeping “like a noisy child,” the Brahmaputra as a weary parent), and the cultural textures—Kopou blossoms, Rongali Bihu, loo winds—root the tale in a distinctive Assamese sensibility.

The story’s funniest stroke is its modern twist: Bordoisila, “bitten by the travel bug” after Eat Pray Love, ghosting her seasonal duty for self-discovery. That conceit balances humor with pathos; Spree’s worry and the valley’s stalled spring give the whimsy real stakes. The closing encounter with Lony is gentle and cinematic, letting the first drops of rain double as a promise of return.

A few typos and uneven lines momentarily break the spell, and the middle sags slightly with repeated council scenes. But those are minor quibbles. Overall, this is an inventive, culture-rich fable that makes weather feel human—and reminds us how even one missing rhythm can throw an entire world off-beat.

Story 2: 'Swarnalata Das Was Determined to Be Robbed'

This story is a charmingly comic slice of small-town life, blending gentle satire with a touch of mystery parody. The protagonist, Mrs. Swarnalata Das, is an eccentric, well-meaning widow whose obsession with catching a thief drives the plot forward. Inspired by a TV interview and her fondness for detective fiction, she concocts increasingly absurd schemes to lure burglars, only to be met with misunderstanding, embarrassment, and finally, the most anticlimactic “robbery” imaginable — a cake stolen by a monkey.

Hiya’s writing shines in its observational humor and playful exaggeration. The setting of Bokul Nagar feels vivid, and the side characters, from skeptical neighbors to exasperated old friends, ground the farce in believable relationships. Beneath the comedy lies a bittersweet undercurrent about loneliness, aging, and the human craving for recognition.

The ending is pitch-perfect in its irony: Mrs. Swarna gets her long-awaited intruder, but the universe serves her a prank instead of glory. Overall, it’s a delightful, well-paced short story that balances humor with warmth, making for an enjoyable and memorable read.

Story 3: 'A Carton of Inconvenience'

A Carton of Inconvenience is a witty, satirical short story that blends everyday neighborhood politics with a dash of magical realism. At its heart, it’s about Mrs. Binti Kaur’s single-minded pursuit of her yearly carton of prized mangoes — and how her crafty niece Chutney derails that mission with a tale so absurd it becomes believable.

The author’s strength lies in the playful characterization: Mrs. Binti is wonderfully overdramatic, Chutney is a master manipulator hiding behind feigned innocence, and even the imagined beagle-god “Argh/Ugh” feels like a fully realized comic character. The prose is rich with humorous asides, social observations, and quirky details that make the setting feel lived-in.

Beneath the comedy, the story satirizes superstition, gullibility, and the petty rivalries that flourish in close-knit communities. The ending delivers a neat irony — the mango-obsessed Mrs. Binti leaves empty-handed and even rewards her trickster niece with a new television.

Story 4: 'Khitik-Khitik'

Khitik-Khitik is a layered, atmospheric short story that blends elements of domestic realism, childhood fears, and supernatural folklore into a narrative that oscillates between the ordinary and the uncanny.

At first glance, the story is grounded in everyday colony life—the street corner gatherings, women’s tea conversations, children at play, and the lurking menace of mosquitoes and neighborhood dogs. This establishes a familiar, believable environment, making the gradual slide into ghostly territory all the more disorienting and chilling.

The writer excels at crafting ambience. From the “dimly glowing street lamps” to “termites in cabinets becoming the teeth of monsters,” Hiya conjures a sensory world where shadows and sounds acquire sinister undertones. The colony itself becomes a character—alive with gossip, play, and rumor, yet also haunted by silence, decay, and a lurking past.

Munu’s paranoia is captured authentically. Her garlic bowl, her obsession with Joon’s earrings as “magic,” and her trembling faith in Sibu reveal how children often turn to talismans and stories to make sense of things they cannot understand. The way Sibu invents the “haunted house” tale to escape ridicule also highlights the cruelty of peer dynamics and the desperate need to save face.

The story is structured like a slow-burning fire. What begins as an innocent evening of neighborly chatter evolves into unsettling accounts of “khitik-khitik” sounds, a daring nighttime venture to the abandoned house, and finally an eerie, otherworldly revelation. The pacing is effective: each scene builds tension and uncertainty, drawing the reader deeper.

The final reveal—that the abandoned house is indeed occupied by Rima Saikia, a ghostly relative whom Joon is in active collusion with—reframes the story entirely. What seemed like a rational, adult attempt to debunk childish fears turns out to be a cover for something darker and conspiratorial. The ending is haunting, playful, and sinister all at once.

Story 5: 'The Haunting in Hatigaon'

A gripping blend of supernatural suspense and psychological horror, set against the backdrop of a rainy night in Guwahati. The story opens with Simi’s tense return home, evoking all the hallmarks of a classic ghost tale—thunder, flickering lights, ominous shadows—but cleverly pivots toward a more insidious truth. The real haunting emerges not from restless spirits, but from the suffocating presence of Biju Aunty, the intrusive landlady whose constant interference corrodes the couple’s peace.

Hiya’s writing is atmospheric, rich with sensory details that make the reader feel the damp chill of the house and the creeping dread of unseen eyes. The narrative also carries a sharp commentary on how the mundane—landlords, financial entrapments, manipulative authority figures—can be just as terrifying as the supernatural. While the prose occasionally feels uneven in flow, the tension never falters, keeping readers questioning whether the threat is spectral or all too human.

A chilling, layered story, The Haunting in Hatigaon lingers long after its final twist, reminding us that sometimes the scariest hauntings are the ones we can’t exorcise—because they come in the form of people.

Story 6: 'Crescendo'

Crescendo is a witty, slice-of-life story set in an Assamese housing society, where gossip, friendship, and festival preparations collide. It follows Mala Kakati, tormented by her tenant Rosy Baidew’s off-key singing, and her sharp-tongued friend Billy. What begins as comic complaints about sleepless nights, snoring husbands, and butter cookies turns ironic when Rosy’s racket keeps Mala awake long enough to spot burglars, turning her into a local hero.

The story shines in its humor, cultural detail, and lively dialogue, capturing the quirks of neighborhood life with warmth and satire. Though a little digressive, its charm lies in those very tangents, mimicking real society chatter. With its playful irony and affectionate tone, Crescendo is both a comedy of manners and a celebration of the noisy joys of community.

Story 7: 'Raja's Homecoming'

The biggest charm lies in its fourth-wall-breaking narrator, who keeps pulling the reader into asides, jokes, and unnecessary details that actually enrich the reading experience. This meta-storytelling creates both humour and intimacy.

Plot & Themes: At its heart, the story follows Raja, a university student back in Assam, determined to finally bond with his extended family during a picnic. What unfolds is a comedy of failed attempts—sexist uncle jokes, gossiping aunts, angsty teenage cousins—all revealing the messy, unfiltered reality of family gatherings.

Humour & Satire: From sarcastic commentary about ketchup vs mustard to digs at family gossip, the story thrives on observational comedy and cultural specificity (Assamese settings, Bihu songs, Zubeen Garg references). The humour is sometimes biting, sometimes tender, always relatable.

Deeper Undercurrent: Beneath the laughs lies a subtle commentary on homesickness, identity, and belonging. Raja longs to reconnect, but the generational and cultural gaps make it nearly impossible. The irony peaks when his family suspects “something is wrong” simply because he’s acting sociable.

Story 8: 'What Dreams Are Made Of'

Starting with Nimi’s everyday errand, slowly layering in her quirky “nightmare” superpower, then sliding into a full-on hostage/kidnapping situation without losing the thread of her personality. I like how the tone never fully abandons the playful banter, even in danger — it keeps Nimi relatable and the stakes vivid without turning grim.

Also, the way the superpower ties into the climax is clever: her power is niche, imperfect, and mostly inconvenient… until suddenly, it’s the only thing that can save them. And it’s satisfying that it works not by direct confrontation, but through indirect influence — she’s still operating within the realistic limits of a 15-year-old.

With very minor tightening around tone in the climactic sequences and a bit more complication in the rescue, it could feel even sharper — as it stands, it’s a delightful, thoughtful piece that lingers after the last line.

Story 9: 'Niyoti Gets Another Chance'

"Niyoti Gets Another Chance" is a darkly comic, folkloric tale that mixes Assamese myth, stepmother archetypes, and wry social commentary into a sharp, imaginative narrative. The story follows Niyoti, the infamous stepmother from the legend of Tejimola, who finds herself denied entry into the afterlife’s golden gates by G.K., a celestial gatekeeper with a sardonic streak. Given a “trial life” on Earth as the stepmother of a modern teenage girl named Dia, Niyoti is tasked with proving her worth—or, as we eventually learn, proving her villainous competence.

What makes this piece so engaging is its playful inversion of moral expectations. Initially, the reader is led to believe Niyoti must redeem herself through kindness and good parenting, but the climax flips the premise—G.K.’s true complaint is that she’s not cruel enough anymore. This reversal is both surprising and darkly funny, casting the “evil stepmother” trope in a satirical light.

The writing is richly descriptive and laced with humor. From the vivid grotesquery of Dia’s messy bedroom to the fantastical imagery of the golden gate guarded by jewel-eyed peacocks, the prose creates a sensory feast. The author’s use of specific cultural details—mekhela saadors, chutney gossip, ginger-garlic paste packets—grounds the fantastical elements in a tangible, lived-in Assam.

Story 10: 'The Forest That Ate People-The Final one'

Dipu came to Kopilipaar with a muffler heavy as grief and glasses the fog kept stealing. He didn’t talk much. His cousins did.

Haris — loud as a firecracker, always performing for an audience no one asked for. He told the tale of Gohbor, “the forest that eats people,” with so much spit and swagger it almost sounded true.

Ruhi — quick, kind, and sharp as a thorn; always trying to tug Dipu into games he pretended to hate.

Robin — quieter, but with eyes that caught everything, like he was storing secrets for later.

Dipu, tired of being furniture, said: “Fine. I’ll go.”

The forest didn’t swallow him whole. It laughed. The fog shimmered, trees leaned in to gossip, and then — Nishi appeared. Purple frock, long braids like twin ropes, eyes sparkling with mischief. She drank pond-water that bled red. “Acquired taste,” she said, and Dipu fainted.

He woke under three banyans — Puratan, Raati, Rodali — who argued like old uncles at a funeral. They told him the truth: Gohbor didn’t eat people, it kept them — the desperate, the lovesick, the guilty. The names of the missing villagers weren’t curses, just… choices.

The story is written with a satirical wink and dramatic weight — village bravado, gossip, and superstition are mocked through exaggerated characters like Haris, while the forest itself is treated with deadpan normalcy, making the absurd feel routine. Drama rises not from monsters but from Dipu’s grief, temptation, and the quiet danger of belonging too much. The mix of satire and drama lets the tale bite from both sides: you laugh at the villagers’ neat myth, then shiver when you realize the true horror is wanting to stay.

Standout stories appreciated by IndiaTodayNE

“Bordoisila Is Nowhere to Be Found” — A clever, cinematic opening that personifies the seasons with wit and tender stakes; vivid cultural imagery.

“Khitik-Khitik” — A slow-burn that turns a neighborhood’s play and paranoia into a genuinely eerie fable; the reveal is both playful and sinister.

“Niyoti Gets Another Chance” — A darkly comic reimagining of a classic tale that flips moral expectation with relish.

“The Forest That Ate People” — The book’s emotional core: a satirical, mythic finale that makes belonging itself feel dangerous and intoxicating.

Readers who enjoy voice-forward short fiction rooted in place — think localized magical realism, gentle social satire, and modern folktales — will find much to love. It’s particularly rewarding for anyone interested in Northeast Indian narratives or those who appreciate character-rich collections where the neighborhood itself becomes a living, opinionated presence.

Harshita Hiya’s writing has previously appeared in Words Without Borders, Muse India, and The Little Journal of Northeast India. She is also the recipient of the Jibanananda Das Award for her Assamese-to-English translations, conferred by Antonym Magazine at the Kolkata Poetry Confluence in 2022.