In the village of Bhadrakali, tucked between rice fields and banyan trees, theft was a rare thing. Doors stayed unlocked. Shoes were left outside overnight. That was why the villagers panicked when food began to disappear.
It started small. Bananas missing from kitchen shelves, mangoes gone from baskets left to ripen. Then sacks of rice were torn open, grain scattered across mud floors. Every morning, the same strange clue was found. Banana peels. Fruit skins. Always near the door.
The villagers whispered about a thief who came only at night. Some said he was a hungry drifter. Others claimed it was a cursed man who couldn’t resist fruit. One elderly woman swore she heard giggling on her roof at midnight.
The panchayat hired a watchman. He walked the village with a torch and a stick, but every morning the peels returned. Sometimes piled neatly, as if left on purpose. Traps were set. Bells were tied to doors. Ash was spread on the ground to catch footprints. At dawn, they found them. Not footprints. Handprints. Small. Fingered. Leading straight to the banyan tree near the temple.
That night, a young boy hid in his father’s shop instead of sleeping. Just after midnight, he heard scratching. Shadows dropped from the roof. Not one… but many. Monkeys. A whole troop poured in some grabbing bananas, others tearing open sacks, a few standing watch. One old monkey sat calmly near the door, peeling fruit and tossing the skins aside like offerings.
When the boy shouted, the troop fled, vanishing into the trees, leaving behind their evidence, banana peels scattered like laughter.
The next morning, the village didn’t call the police. They locked their doors. And every evening, they left a basket of fruit at the edge of the forest because in Bhadrakali, the thief was never human. It was hungry. And it always came in numbers.