It was an especially cold winter evening. He and his friends were returning from their tuitions, back to their hostel dormitories. It was a long twenty-minute walk in the narrow unlit lanes of Darjeeling.
They walked quietly, their school bags heavy with books and their hands tucked away in the warmth of their jacket pockets. When suddenly the silence was broken by the strains of a baby crying. Following the sound which came from a dark corner of the lane, they found a basket hidden away in the bushes. The baby tucked under blankets was howling. Not knowing what to do, they picked up the basket, unwilling to leave the baby alone in the freezing cold. They walked towards the church. Handing the baby over to the Father was the best option. The eerie silence made them nervous and they walked faster, tripping everyone now and then in the dark. They were panting by the time they reached the church. The baby had quietened down by then. They put the basket down in the porch light of the church and uncovered the blanket from the baby to see if they could find any identification. The baby’s eyes stared straight at them, evil eyes, and an evil grin plastered on the face of an old man. The face of an old man on the body of a child.
My uncle still gets goose-bumps whenever he remembers the incident.