The hills of Tansen had always seemed eternal. From the stone-paved lanes of the old bazaar to the terraced fields that wrapped themselves around the slopes like green shawls, life moved slowly in the Palpa bazaar. The mornings smelled of wood smoke and fresh tea filled the air. Temple bells echoed through the surrounding hills. And in a small house overlooking the winding road, Mitralal and Saraswati had spent nearly five decades building a life together.

Their only son, Gokarna, owned a tiny shop named Palpali Dhakatopi Pasal in the main street of Tansen Bazaar.

The shop was not much to look at. Its wooden signboard had faded with age. Though the shop was small, it had a nice collection of all brands of Dhakatopis. The shop always filled Mitralal with pride and a sense of success. He neatly displayed traditional Dhakatopis on a wooden rack, displaying intricate patterns woven by skilled hands. Tourists bought them as souvenirs. Local men wore them during festivals and weddings. Government officials often stopped by to purchase one before important ceremonies.

To Gokarna, the shop was his grandfather's legacy. It was the thread that connected his family to generations of Nepali tradition. Every morning, Mitralal would worship the goddess Laxmi before meeting his customers.

But one winter, Mitralal's health began to fail rapidly. At first it was simple fatigue. Then came breathing difficulties. His legs weakened, and his memory sometimes wandered. Doctors in Tansen prescribed medicines and advised rest.

One cold morning, as mist rolled across the hills, Mitralal closed his eyes and never opened them again.

The funeral rites were performed beside the river. The smoke from the cremation pyre rose toward the pale sky. Saraswati stood silently. Her hands trembled. For fifty years she had shared every joy and hardship with her husband. Now the house felt unbearably empty. For many days at night she still reached toward his side of the bed before remembering he was gone.

Gokarna suffered too. He buried himself in work, opening the shop before sunrise and closing it long after dark.

Several months later, tragedy struck again. It happened on a stormy evening. A short circuit sparked inside the shop, and within minutes flames spread through the dry wooden shelves. By the time neighbours noticed, the fire had already engulfed the shop.

The bright Dhakatopis that had symbolised generations of labour burned like paper lanterns.

People formed lines carrying buckets of water. Someone called the fire brigade. But nothing could save the shop. When dawn arrived, only blackened beams remained. Gokarna stood in the ashes, staring silently.

The family had lost everything. Their only source of income was gone. For weeks Gokarna searched for solutions. He borrowed money from relatives and met lenders. But the money he had collected was not enough to rebuild their business once again. Finally, with tears in his eyes, he sat beside his mother.

"I have decided to go abroad."

Saraswati's heart sank. She looked at her son inquisitively.

“Ama, the money is not enough to begin the shop again. That’s why I want to go to Dubai”, said Gokarna.

"Dubai." Saraswati was surprised at her son’s decision.

"I found work in a garment factory. If I stay there for a few years, I can repay the loans and rebuild the shop once again." Saraswati looked at her son's face silently and nodded her head in affirmation.

"How long will you stay abroad?" she asked.

"Not long, Ama. As soon as I earn enough to rebuild our shop, I will return," said Gokarna and held his mother’s hands.

"I promise, Ama. One day we'll open a Dhakatopi shop that will be better than the previous one."

A few months later, he left. The bus carried him away through the winding roads. Saraswati stood atop a large boulder watching until the bus disappeared beyond the hills. Then she returned home alone.

The years that followed moved strangely. Days felt endless. Months disappeared quickly. Gokarna called whenever possible but sent money regularly.

Saraswati treasured every memory of her son. Yet loneliness slowly settled into the house like dust. Over the years, her eyesight began to deteriorate. At first she struggled to thread a needle.

Then faces became blurry. Eventually she could barely recognise visitors standing in front of her.

Doctors said her vision was failing badly. She had minor surgery on her eyes, but that too did not work. Her daily life activities became much more difficult. One evening, after a particularly difficult day, she spoke to Gokarna over the phone.

"My son, I don't know how much longer my eyes will last. At this moment, I don't need money anymore. I only want you to stay with me." Gokarna promised his mother to come home in a few days.

Then one midnight, as rain tapped softly against the roof, someone knocked on the door. Saraswati awoke immediately. Her heart raced.

"Who is it?"

"Ama." The voice was familiar. Her happiness knew no bounds.

"Gokarna?"

"Yes." She hurried toward the door. The moment she touched his face, tears streamed down her cheeks.

"My son..."

Gokarna embraced his mother gently.

For the first time in years, the house felt alive again. That night they talked until dawn. Gokarna explained to his mother that he would be busy in the daytime arranging a new shop and meeting suppliers. He could not stay long during the day but return home at night. Saraswati did not mind. For her, the presence of her son was enough.

This became a daily routine for Gokarna. He would arrive home daily at midnight and bring delicious food with him. Both ate food together and talked and laughed late into the night.

For Saraswati, happiness returned. Neighbours, however, grew concerned. During the daytime she was almost always alone. No one saw Gokarna in the marketplace. No one saw him rebuilding a shop. Yet every time they asked, Saraswati smiled.

"During the daytime, my son is very busy at his shop, but he comes home daily at midnight”. At this, the neighbours exchanged worried glances but spoke nothing.

Then one afternoon, a government official arrived carrying a sealed envelope. He introduced himself politely and sat beside Saraswati.

"Ama, a body was found near Pokhara several months ago. It belonged to a young man. The face was badly damaged; that’s why the police could not identify him." The official hesitated but continued.

"We found documents suggesting he could be your son, Gokarna. So, the authority here in Palpa wants you to visit Pokhara for the DNA testing."

But Saraswati blasted in anger and asked the man to get out of her house immediately.

“My son is with me. At this very moment, he is at his shop. Don’t you know our shop? It is the Palpali Dhakatopi Pasal, one of the oldest shops in Palpa. Every evening, my son returns home, and we always have dinner together. Yet you claim that the police found my son’s body several months ago. How could that possibly be true when he is living with me? He spends his days busy at the shop, and every night he comes home with food. We sit down together and have dinner. So how can you say that my son died months ago?”

Looking at Saraswati, fuming with anger, the official man was scared and immediately left. However, the neighbours remained confused. After leaving for Dubai, the neighbours had never seen Gokarna in Tansen. The Palpali Dhakatopi Pasal was never rebuilt.

That night, some curious neighbours decided to wait until midnight to see Gokarna. They stood near the door patiently. It was midnight when Saraswati opened the door with a broad smile across her face and closed the door.

The neighbours hurried to the nearest window, eager to catch a glimpse of Gokarna. However, a thick curtain drawn across the window and the faint glow of a dim lamp prevented them from seeing clearly inside the room. Moments later, they heard the clinking of spoons against plates, followed by Saraswati's cheerful voice praising the delicious food. She continued talking for hours, as though engaged in a lively conversation, and now and then her laughter rang through the quiet night. The neighbours stood motionless, gripped by a mixture of fear and bewilderment. Unable to make sense of what they had witnessed, they slowly returned to their respective homes, their minds filled with confusion and unanswered questions.

Years have passed, but still people in Tansen Bazaar say that at midnight one can hear Saraswati talking with her son Gokarna.