Submitted by Rajshree Gautam
On the road between Jodhpur and Pali, where the land stretches long, and the wind carries more dust than speech. Trucks pass. Motorcycles hum. The occasional shrine appears at a bend, as if marking not just space, but memory.
They say that many years ago, a young man rode that road at night. His name was Om Singh Rathore. He was not a king, nor a saint, nor a man whose name was meant to travel far. He rode a Royal Enfield Bullet, steady and loud, the kind of sound that announces itself before it arrives.
That night, the road did not let him pass. Some say the motorcycle struck a tree; others say he was hit by a truck. By morning, Om Singh Rathore was gone. They took his body away. They took the motorcycle too, to the police station, where such things are kept when their story is finished.
But this story did not stay finished.
The next morning, the motorcycle was no longer there. It stood again by the same tree. They brought it back. The bike was again found by the same tree. They took it away again, this time locking it down with chains. And yet, by morning, it returned.
Once, they said it was chance. Twice, they said it was mischief. But after that, they stopped talking. The grieving villagers could only see this as a divine intervention. People began to speak differently.
“Let it be,” some said. “It knows its place.”
And so they left it there. Time passed, as it does. The road did not change, but the way people moved on it did. Drivers began to slow down at that spot. Some would stop. Some would bow their heads slightly, as if greeting someone they could not see. A few would leave offerings—flowers, incense, even bottles placed carefully beside the motorcycle.
They said the young man had not left. They said he watched the road. Some said they were also saved by him in the dark of the night on that road. Those who passed without greeting him, it was said, did not always reach where they were going. Those who stopped, even for a moment, found their journey eased.
And so his name changed.
He was no longer only Om Singh Rathore.
He became Om Banna—Banna, the one who remains. An endearing term for a protective spirit who watches and protects. A small shrine grew around him, near Chotila village. Not built all at once, but added to, piece by piece, as stories gathered and stayed.
Even now, they say, if you travel that road, you will see vehicles slow down near the shrine of Om Banna Temple. Some will stop. Some will not. But no one passes as if nothing is there. And if you ask why, the answer is simple, and never the same:
Because once, a man died on that road. And he did not leave.
Images of the Shrine of Om Banna—Banna
BIO: Rajshree Gautam is a PhD candidate and Assistant Professor of English based in Jaipur, Rajasthan, India. Her research explores folk belief systems, deification practices, and community identity in Rajasthan through literary-ethnographic inquiry. Her broader academic interests include cultural memory, ritual studies, food narratives, gender, and the politics of everyday life. Alongside her scholarly work, she writes poetry and short fiction that examine themes of home, displacement, memory, and interior landscapes. A self-taught painter and aspiring filmmaker, she approaches both research and creative writing with a deep investment in narrative, image, and lived experience. She was awarded the Rama Mehta Writing Grant in English in 2025.