A compilation of ghost stories and their remarkable convergence in South Asia:

Despite coming from different countries, languages, and faiths, many of the stories were almost identical; the same woman appeared on lonely roads, the same backwards feet exposed the supernatural, the same unexplained fever arrived the next morning. It was as though our ghosts had ignored Partition, borders, and passports long before we ever crossed them ourselves.

My South Asian ghost story was similar. We'd be driving, as we often did, from Bombay down south, either towards Kerala or Bangalore, and there'd always be the aatma. I remember the aatma of Tumkur, a woman in white that appeared in the horizon in the darkness, slowly and gracefully. She'd always be askung for a lift, politely. But you don't stop, because if you do, she will possess you, she will kill you. You know, the usual.

I find this story to be at such odds with the way we think about community in India. If someone needs help, you help them. Perhaps the tale here is a reflection of how we show up with otherness (being sufficiently far from our close community) and obscurity (when nobody is watching).