There are some stories that are so special, they need to be told.
In my village, the pooja room — our Gosai Ghar — never had framed pictures of gods and goddesses. There were no calendars of deities, no marble idols, no ornate temples.
Instead, there were raised, rounded earthen forms — pindas — quiet, unadorned, powerful in their stillness. As a child, I only knew that one of them was Shitala because she wore sindoor. Beside her stood a structure shaped like a mazar, draped carefully in a satin chadar. And in one corner sat a lone pinda, uncovered, marked only with a black tila.
“Shhhh! Don’t speak loudly,” my grandmother would whisper. “He is Ranga Dhari.
He will wake up. ”
“Is he a ghost?” I had once asked.
“Yes,” she said simply. “We worship him.”
The idea unsettled me as a child. A ghost in a Brahmin household? A mazar inside a pooja room? It did not fit the neat religious categories I was slowly learning outside.
But villages do not follow neat categories.
The mazar-like structure, I later understood, belonged to Pir Baba — a local saint believed to protect the family. Faith in rural India has always been layered; in places like Bihar and Uttar Pradesh, Hindu homes often carry traces of Sufi reverence without conflict.
Protection matters more than labels.
And Ranga Dhari? He was not a ghost in the frightening sense. He was a guardian spirit — a wandering soul, my grandmother said, brought home by our forefathers. He protected the cattle, the crops, the land. During Durga Puja, offerings were made not only to the goddess but separately to him and to Pir Baba. Their domains were distinct.
There were rules. Married daughters were not to eat the prasad offered to Ranga Dhari.
“He will follow you,” my grandmother warned my married bua once. And if he followed someone, it meant trouble. Ranga Dahari in his elements was known to unsettle families. The belief was simple: he belonged to this land, this lineage. His protection — and his temper—was tied to this house.
Ranga Dhari was never spoken of as evil—only unpredictable, almost mischievous. If illness struck the cattle, if crops failed, or if disputes entered the household, the elders would go into the Gosai Ghar and stand before his bare pinda.
They would fold their hands and implore him to “set things right. ” He was guardian and troublemaker both—capable of protection, capable of disturbance.
My grandmother once narrated an incident from a particularly difficult period in the family’s history. One misfortune followed another; nothing seemed to improve. Finally, my great-grandfather stepped outside the pooja room and, in rare anger, shouted toward the pinda, “If you do not fix this, Ranga Dhari, I will throw you out of this house.”
It was not blasphemy. It was familiarity—the kind reserved for someone considered one’s own. And things started changing. It appeared as if the ghost had understood what was being told and he silently began fixing things.
I looked up for Ranga Dhari on the internet but found nothing on him. He seems to be exclusive to my parental family. I keep wondering how diverse faith is in my religion and how a lost soul was tried to belief, given a respectable place in home and was turned into a protecting entity, very unlike the generally acceptable nature of ghosts!
As a child, I did not understand why our sacred space held both a goddess and a ghost, a pinda and a mazar. As I grew older, it began to make sense. What stood in that quiet room was not contradiction but inheritance—a layered faith shaped by land, fear, gratitude, and memory.
The Gosai Ghar did not display religion. It carried history.
