“Did you pay the electric bill?” she asks. He doesn’t answer. Just nods. She doesn’t see, but doesn’t ask again. On the wall, the holoframe flickers, cycling through photos of a younger them, before glitching to a blank grey.

The table is set for two. But they eat separately. Liora cuts her chicken with mechanical precision. Aren pokes at his plate, gaze drifting to the window. “Supposed to rain tomorrow,” he says. She nods. A wilted fern sits in the corner. Pot cracked, soil dry. Neither mentions it.

After dinner, Liora reads a novel. Aren lies beside her, earbuds in, listening to a podcast. She adjusts her pillow. He shifts away.

Next morning, they stand at the sink, brushing their teeth side by side. Above the faucet, a digital calendar blinks: their anniversary, tomorrow, marked. They don’t have a date. Instead, they’re scheduled for the Mirror Protocol.

Liora rinses, spits, wipes her mouth with a towel. Aren does the same. They don’t talk.

The Mirror Protocol had been around for just under three years. Long enough to no longer feel new. Not long enough to feel normal.

It was first pitched as therapeutic. A way to reintroduce emotional intimacy in long-term relationships without the mess of therapy or the ambiguity of “working on it.” You didn’t need to talk. You didn’t need to confront. You just had to show up.

They begin with a neural scan. Each memory fragment is tagged. Not just with faces, but with emotions, sensory echoes, context. The system then looks for the presence of your partner across time, across moods, across meaning in those fragments. Then it filters out the ones where they appear. Temporarily.

It’s not perfect. A song you both loved might vanish for a while. But your sense of self remains intact. You don’t forget who you are. Only who they are to you.

Then you lie down in something that looks like an MRI machine. Clinical, quiet. No wires. No helmets. Your body stays still, but your mind is relocated.

A café in Barcelona. A train ride through northern Japan. A bookstore where you reach for the same novel. The simulation is immersive. The setting changes, but the goal doesn’t. You’re dropped into a conversation with your partner—except you don’t know they’re your partner. Their history, your shared arguments—erased. Just them, but new and shining.

You talk. You flirt. You feel a spark. You fall in love. All over again.

In the early versions of the protocol, the memory of the simulation stayed. You remembered the conversations, the moments, the arc of falling in love. But it felt artificial.

Now, when the simulation ends, your memory of the experience is wiped. Only the feelings remain. You leave with the residue of affection, attraction, curiosity. It’s not the memory of falling—it’s the sensation of having fallen.

Time inside the simulation isn’t fixed. A one-hour session can hold a single date, a long weekend, or sometimes weeks together.

People compare it to MDMA. Others call it emotional time travel. Critics call it synthetic connection. None of that stops the waitlists.

After hearing about it from a friend, Aren and Liora wait more than a month for an appointment.

They’re in Kyoto. Not the real one. The version from postcards. The café is small, with paper lanterns and a chalkboard menu in shaky English. Rain taps softly on the windows.

Aren doesn’t remember arriving, but he’s here. Across the table is a woman with a quiet smile and hair tucked behind one ear. Her name is Liora. He doesn’t know how he knows that—just that it feels like a name he already liked.

“You have a weirdly intense relationship with vending machines,” she says, stirring her tea. “Is that a cry for help?”

Aren grins. “It’s admiration. They’re democratic. Egalitarian. You press a button, you get corn soup. No judgment.”

“I feel like judgment should be part of the soup-buying process.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but I like living in a world where hot soup comes from a machine. It gives me hope.”

She laughs—a little surprised by herself. The kind of laugh people do when they forget to be careful.

Liora confesses she collects ticket stubs from places she’s never been. “I like the idea of having proof of imaginary lives,” she says.

“I once bought a train ticket just to stand on the platform and think about who I’d be if I left.”

“You didn’t go?”

“I went home and made lasagna.”

“Sounds tragic.”

“Sounds safe.”

She smiles again, this time slower. “You don’t seem safe.”

“That’s only because you don’t know me yet.”

The tea goes cold. The rain keeps falling. They keep talking.

“I feel like we’ve done this before,” Liora says suddenly.

“Fate?” Aren offers.

“No. Déjà vu. Or narrative laziness.”

“Could be both.”

They walk out together. The street is shiny with rain. Their shoulders bump once, lightly.

“That was… unexpectedly lovely,” Aren says.

“Yeah,” she replies. “I forgot how fun it is to meet someone you don’t know yet.”

They don’t kiss. They don’t even touch. But they leave with the kind of smile that hangs around the edges of memory. Like the warmth from a fire long after it’s gone out.

They don’t remember the café in Kyoto. But when they come home, something has shifted.

It starts on the walk back from the clinic. Liora keeps brushing against Aren’s arm, like by accident, except it happens five times. He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t remember a single thing,” she says, unlocking the front door.

“Me neither,” Aren says. “But I kind of want to kiss you right now.”

She smiles. “That’s weird.”

“Oh!”

“No,” she says. “Not in a bad way.”

After dinner, they kiss in the kitchen. Then in the hallway. Then in the bedroom.

They make love. Then again.

After the second time, Aren says, “At this moment, I’m truly, truly happy to be with you. I haven’t felt like this in years.”

Liora looks at him and says, “Then let’s not waste it.” They don’t.

The days that follow are like the first ten minutes of spring. Aren hums when he sets the table. Liora buys a plant for the windowsill and names it something stupid. They both laugh. He writes her a note and hides it in the cereal box: You are my favourite breakfast surprise. She texts him a heart emoji during a meeting and he smiles like a teenager.

At dinner with friends a few weeks later, someone says, “You two are glowing. What changed?”

They shrug. “Just reconnecting,” Liora says, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

Time passes. But unlike before, it feels less like a blur and more like something to hold. They go on long walks. Share dumb jokes. Aren wakes up early just to make Liora coffee the way she likes it. She brings home chocolate croissants.

As weeks stretch into months, they begin to believe the problem had never been fundamental. Maybe they’d only needed a reminder. Maybe they’d fixed it.

For a while, it feels like they have.

They go back the second time after a small fight about laundry. It isn’t really about laundry. It has been a year since their first visit.

The third time comes six months later. They aren’t on speaking terms for days. The apartment stays silent.

The fourth comes after Liora’s mother falls sick and Aren doesn’t ask enough questions. He’s trying to give her space. Space isn’t what she needs. But neither of them talks about it. They book a session instead.

By the sixth, the sessions become a routine. No discussion. Just a shared glance. A quiet agreement: it’s time. Again.

With each session, the high gets shorter. They come out glowing, hungry for each other. By week two, the residue wears off. They are still in the same house, in the same loop, with the same dishes in the sink.

They try to stretch the time between sessions. It doesn’t help. They try going in more frequently. That doesn’t help either.

After the ninth session, they come home and don’t even touch each other. They eat dinner in silence. Chicken and rice. No salt.

By the twelfth time, they feel nothing at all. Just a brief fog of something. It burns off by the time they get into the car.

It isn’t working. Not anymore. Things slip back. Maybe worse.

And then, one day, an email.

A new Mirror Protocol feature drops on a Wednesday. Odd. Big decisions happen on Mondays. That only makes it feel more serious.

“Research shows when relationships go stale, people crave newness and excitement — which often leads to affairs. Most don’t actually want to cheat; they just want to feel seen.”

Aren reads from his phone, voice flat, like he’s narrating the news.

“The solution pairs you with…your own partner,” continues Aren, “But a slightly tweaked version. Technically you’re still with them, but not exactly.”

“The feature is still in beta, but they’re welcoming early testers.” Aren finishes reading. They sign up without needing to discuss it.

A month later, they get an appointment.

Inside the simulation, Liora meets “Aaron” in a bookstore. He has dimples and opinions. About poetry. About everything. He’s confident in the way romantic comedy characters are confident. Like he’s rehearsed being adored and finally landed the part.

They spend a weekend wandering the city. He cooks her dinner. He quotes Pablo Neruda. He holds her hand like it’s precious. They have fabulous sex. She smiles a lot. She laughs a little.

And yet, there’s something missing. He’s perfect in the way algorithms are perfect. Delightful, but predictable. Full of the right words but missing the wrong silences. He would be easy to date for a weekend, she thinks. Not someone who’d be okay with your ugly cry in the kitchen over a cracked egg.

Aren meets the new Liora in a rooftop bar—“Lara.” She has blue streaks in her hair. She makes bold jokes. Asks surprising questions. She dances barefoot in the street. She pulls him forward.

They kiss in an elevator. Eat dumplings in a park at midnight. Make love under the stars. She tells him she used to dream of being a dancer, but chose a different path. He doesn’t ask why—he doesn’t care. He just wants the story to keep going.

The simulation ends. Liora opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling. She can’t remember the weekend, but something of it remains. She looks at Aren and, for reasons she can’t reconstruct, feels grateful. Not for a shinier version of him. For this one.

Aren rubs his eyes and looks around, like something has been taken from him. He can’t remember the simulation either. He looks at Liora. Their eyes meet. The feeling does not arrive.

In the days after, Liora starts noticing things again—how Aren rubs his jaw when he’s anxious, how he pauses before answering serious questions. She touches his arm more. Asks about his day like she hasn’t already predicted the answer.

It doesn’t go unnoticed—only unreceived.

Liora makes Aren’s favourite breakfast—soft scrambled eggs, the way he used to like them, slow-cooked with cream. He sits down, offers a half-smile, then reaches for the salt. Sprinkles it over everything without tasting a bite. They eat in silence, like strangers. She wonders if he’s always salted his food before tasting it, or if this is new.

“I thought we could go out this Friday,” Liora says softly, to break the silence. “That new place on East. I can make a reservation if you want.”

Aren doesn’t look up. “Friday’s packed.” A pause. “Maybe another time.”

Liora says nothing more. There’s nothing in his tone to argue with.

And Aren doesn’t know how to explain what has shifted. There’s no face he misses, no voice he longs to hear. Just the memory of feeling lighter. Real Liora begins to feel like an accusation, though she has done nothing wrong.

They sleep in the same bed. The same sides. But at different depths.

One night, Liora whispers, “Do you remember how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other?”

Aren doesn’t respond. He isn’t asleep, but he doesn’t have an answer she’d want to hear. He pretends to sleep. Liora knows he’s awake.

Weeks pass like this. Then one morning, Aren says, “We need to talk.”

Lately, evenings pass in silence. Liora has stopped expecting conversation after dinner.

“I’ve decided I might return to the sim,” Aren says, as if mentioning the weather.

Liora, who’s been rinsing dishes, pauses—not dramatically, but just long enough.

To return? Again? After everything?

He didn’t even say “we.”

“That’s unexpected,” she finally says. He’s been elsewhere for weeks now.

“I think it could be helpful,” Aren says.

Liora asks what, precisely, he thinks it would help. Aren says only, “Just to see things clearer.”

“You mean feel things clearer.”

He doesn’t reply.

The rules require consent before one partner goes alone. That’s why he’s having this conversation.

She sets the dishes down. “Aren. We’ve been here before.”

“I know,” he says.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think you do.”

Aren looks past her, at the old photo on the fridge of them in Rome. His hair was longer. Her smile was bigger. He doesn’t remember the photo being taken. He only remembers that Liora used to laugh with her whole body.

“I’m trying,” she says. “I leave notes. I plan dinners. I ask questions you don’t answer.”

“I just… I need to go back. Please.”

The lights at the sim dim and come back slowly, like waking up after surgery.

They step out of the pods in silence. Liora stretches, glances at him once, and nods to herself.

Inside the sim, across a café that was not Kyoto, Liora met a man who moved and spoke exactly like Aren—but lighter, freer. She should have liked him. He did everything right. But as he leaned closer, whispering something charming and forgettable, Liora only nodded.

Aren keeps his eyes down. He hadn’t found what he wanted inside the sim.

Aren sat across from a woman who looked exactly like Liora, and yet—something subtle was missing. Like seeing your childhood home from the street and realising someone had painted over your memories. She smiled at him. He smiled back. There was nothing to complain about, but there was no surprise either. Her voice was pleasant but weightless. He found himself straining for something that never arrived.

Two nights later, he redownloads a dating app he’d deleted years ago. He scrolls through faces in bed, thumb moving without interest. A woman with a bright smile matches with him. She writes, What are you looking for?

Aren watches the cursor blink until the phone locks.

The weeks stretch. Liora cooks meals she knows he likes, but no longer calls out when dinner is ready. She sets the table for one. Eats quietly, leaving the other plate covered on the stove. Sometimes Aren finds it later, warms it, eats alone. Other times, the plate stays untouched.

Aren notices the silence. It isn’t angry or bitter. It has no edge left.

One night, months later, neither of them sleeps. Aren wanders downstairs, drawn by the faint glow of the living room lamp. He finds Liora on the couch, wrapped in a faded blanket, staring at the blank television screen. He sits beside her, careful not to touch.

They stay like that for a while, each waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

She gives a slight nod, eyes still fixed ahead. “I know.”

Another silence. Aren stares into the screen, seeing himself dimly reflected, distorted, unrecognisable.

He clears his throat. “Maybe…maybe we do one last simulation.”

Liora shifts slightly, the blanket rustling softly. “We both know it doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. I mean just—to end it better. Happier.”

Liora looks at him then. For a while, she says nothing.

“All right,” she whispers.

They stay there a moment longer, side by side.

They choose Kyoto again. No upgrades. No optimisations. Just the baseline version—the original simulation, the one that started it all.

Inside the sim, they meet as strangers. The café is quiet, rain soft against the windows. She looks up from her book; he apologises for interrupting, then asks what she’s reading. She smiles, and says something he won’t remember. But somehow, they fall. Not in the dizzy, headlong way. Slowly.

They walk through narrow streets lit by paper lanterns. He buys her a red bean pastry she doesn’t think she’ll like. She does. They joke about the odd shapes of cloud formations. She reaches for his hand without thinking, and he doesn’t let go.

They stay for a simulated week. Or maybe longer. It’s hard to tell. There’s no thrill, no epiphany. Just quiet knowing.

They don’t say goodbye in the simulation. The story simply ends, the way dreams do.

They don’t speak on the way home. The door shuts behind them with a deliberate softness. His bag is by the door, half-zipped. Liora heads straight to the bathroom. Aren lowers himself onto the couch.

In the shower, Liora presses her forehead to the cold tile. It’s not loud, her crying. It barely qualifies as sound.

Aren stays where he is. Eyes closed. Hands over his face. He isn’t thinking of anything, exactly. There’s just a pressure in his chest he doesn’t know how to name.

The next morning, Aren wakes to the quiet hum of the kitchen. Liora’s standing at the counter, stirring her coffee in slow, absent circles—her back toward him. She’s not looking at anything, but she’s also not lost.

He watches her. Doesn’t say anything. She knows he’s there. Doesn’t turn.

For a moment, he almost says her name. He doesn’t. Instead, he wonders if the feeling is real—or just the simulation’s afterglow, making love feel simple again.

He lingers. Watches her a second longer. Then zips his bag shut.

It shouldn’t be here. But it is. Wooden. Narrow. Painted a pale green that’s peeling at the edges. The kind of door you’d see in old railway quarters, or government flats from the ’90s.

It’s absurd, really, this door appearing from nowhere into the blank, familiar wall of his modest Mumbai flat. He blinks, certain it’s the leftover fog of a half-woken dream.

Yet it refuses to vanish.

He doesn’t remember opening it. Just reaching for it, almost without thought, and then—

Light.

It’s a different kind of light. Not the cold, dusty fluorescence of his apartment, but warm sunlight slanting through yellowed curtains. There’s a smell too—slightly burnt milk, mosquito coil, and the faint sweetness of talcum powder.

And the room… he knows this room very well.

The cracked tiles. The steel almirah with the crooked handle. The green Godrej fridge humming louder than it should. The old calendar with gods in fluorescent robes.

And at the centre of it all, sitting on a plastic chair with a cushion flattened by years of use, is his father. Reading the newspaper. Wearing a banyan with tiny holes near the collar. Sipping tea from a chipped cup. His hair still thick and black, his glasses slightly tilted.

Varun doesn’t step in. He just stands there, halfway between now and then, afraid to breathe.

His father doesn’t look up. Just turns the page and says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world:

“You’re late.”

Varun blinks again, harder this time. His father is still there, turning the newspaper as if none of this is strange.

But it is strange. It’s impossible.

Because his father died seven years ago. Cardiac arrest. On the way to the hospital. One minute there, the next just silence.

Seven years since Varun had held his cold hand. Lit the pyre. Gathered the ash in an earthen pot. Seven years since the quiet evenings afterward, when he and his mother sat beneath the dim yellow bulb in their tiny living room, struggling to say something comforting to each other.

And yet—here he is.

A little older than Varun remembers. Or maybe exactly the same. The lines on his face like pencil marks left on paper that was never meant to be erased.

Grief doesn’t always fade. Sometimes it just folds itself into the soundtrack of life. Low volume, always playing, drowning out all other music.

Seven years had passed since his father died, but Varun still feels the ache like a pulled muscle that never healed properly. On most days, it barely whispers. Lately, it’s been roaring.

No one knows of it. He doesn’t talk about it. What’s there to say?

He has a good life now. A stable marriage. Friends who care. A job that pays. People would say he’s moved on. That he’s happy. On the surface, he is.

But there are nights when he’d suddenly remember the way his father hummed when he did his morning walks, or how he used to flick the fan switch with his toe because he was too lazy to get up. And Varun would just… break. Quietly. In the bathroom. Or while watering the plants. He’d cry like a child.

Varun takes one slow step into the room. He had forgotten exactly how rich and full this ordinary room used to feel as a kid.

The air shifts. The smell deepens. It’s all real. The scent of Ponds powder, the faint dampness in the corners of the wall, the muffled honk of an auto from somewhere outside.

His father sips his tea and finally looks up. His eyes meet Varun’s, and they don’t widen in surprise. They just soften. Familiar. Like he’s been waiting.

Varun opens his mouth, but no words come out. What do you even say to a ghost you’ve missed more than your own childhood?

His father tilts his head. “Well?” he says, like they’d only paused a conversation a minute ago. “Will you just stand there, or sit?”

And Varun—grown man, husband, marketing manager, part-time rationalist—does the only thing he can.

He sits.

Because even if it’s an illusion, even if tomorrow he wakes and knows none of this had happened, he wants desperately to stay. To remain, just for a moment, suspended in this impossible instant in which everything he had lost is suddenly, heartbreakingly within reach again.

What haunts Varun isn’t just absence. It’s the world’s indifference to that absence.

His father wasn’t famous. He wasn’t rich. He was just good. The kind of good that doesn’t make news. He’d say thank you to autowalas, always be patient with neighbours who talked too long, laugh at the same jokes every time.

And now he’s gone.

Forever.

No farewell speech. No statue. No last words.

Just a hole in the world no one else seems to notice.

Varun had often played a quiet game with himself: If I could meet him again, even once, what would I say?

He had made lists in his head. Imagined conversations. Wondered if his father would be proud of who he’d become. If he’d still watch cricket loudly or switch loyalties halfway through a match.

But lately, a frightening new thought had begun to surface: what if he forgets the sound of his father’s voice, the warmth of his laugh, the exact tilt of his head mid-thought?

And then—

The door appears.

Maybe it appears when grief swells large enough to eclipse everything else. When longing becomes bigger than the life that holds it. But Varun doesn’t care. Whether it’s a divine loophole, a delusion, or just a dream—doesn’t matter.

He’s sitting in front of his father somehow. This moment is a miracle. And miracles aren’t for questioning.

His father leans back in the plastic chair. It creaks, just like it used to. He folds the newspaper in half and sets it on the table, careful, like it matters. Varun glances down at the newspaper, trying to make out the headlines, but notices they slip oddly from his vision.

“So,” his father says, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

Varun exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

He starts slowly—like someone tiptoeing into a cold pool—then lets it all spill out.

He starts with old friends, missed trips, unread books. A house he’s trying to buy. A fear that never really left.

He tells him about work. About his wife. Smart, stubborn—the way she makes tea just like his mother, without even meaning to. His father smiles.

He talks about his mother. How much she misses him. How they talk on the phone every day.

“She still sets your cup at the table,” Varun says, trying to smile.

His father chuckles softly. “She always did believe I’d find my way back.”

A brief silence falls between them, tender yet strangely hollow. And finally, Varun says it.

“I’ve missed you. Every day. I think about what you’d say. What you’d do. And I just… I wish you were here.”

His father doesn’t respond right away. Just watches him. The ceiling fan spins above them. The sound slightly off, like it’s underwater. A honk outside. Then birds. Then silence—too clean, like someone pressed mute.

His father smiles. “I’m right here.”

Varun opens his eyes. Shadows move on the ceiling. It’s morning. Grey light fills the room. Outside, street vendors call, faint through the curtains. He lies still, not wanting to move, lest it disturbs the fragile sensation left behind by the dream.

Slowly, the familiar weight of everyday life gathers around him again. Morning chores, office emails, missed deadlines.

As reality returns, so does the ache. Soft, like grief, but sharper. It’s the pain of getting back something you thought was gone, just long enough to lose it all over again.

He goes to the kitchen. Devika’s there. The kettle hums. Steam hits the window. Varun pours tea, trying to shake the dream. He talks about the bakery from Sunday. The caramel pudding. The brown tiles. The old uncle at the counter.

Devika looks up. “What bakery?”

Varun stops. “The one near the old college. We went after lunch.”

“No, we didn’t.”

Varun frowns, checking his phone for a selfie he could’ve sworn he took outside the bakery. It’s not there. Strange!

That night, Varun sleeps early. Not from tiredness, but from hope.

He lays in bed, eyes shut tight like a child on the night before Diwali. Waiting. Willing. Listening for creaks, flickers, signs.

But no door comes.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the one after that.

Weeks pass.

He doesn’t tell Devika. Not even his mother. What would he say? That he saw his father in a dream? This isn’t new. But this one was different indeed. Too vivid. Too precise.

But as time passes, Varun starts losing the edges of the dream. The details blur. The warm timber of his father’s voice. The sunlight trembling oddly at forgotten corners. But the ache remains. And each night, he still hopes gently for the impossible.

And then—

One night he opens his eyes and finds himself standing in front of the door again. Same chipped paint. Same soft glow from the other side.

His hand trembles as he reaches for the handle.

A breath catches in his throat.

He doesn’t know how long the door would stay. Or if his father would be waiting.

He opens it and goes in.

At first the disappearances seem trivial. An absent conversation, a missing message. But soon, these tiny erasures deepen.

One evening Varun realises that a weekend trip he remembers vividly—a train journey north to Shimla, their first anniversary—has vanished altogether.

The photos are missing from his phone. He asks Devika about it. She looks at him, eyebrows up, worried. “We never went there.”

Quietly, Varun begins to doubt his own recollection. But beneath that doubt lies a quieter truth: each time he steps through the door, something from his present slips away. To see his father, he’d have to trade now for then every time.

Strangely, this knowledge changes nothing in him. If anything, it only confirms what he’s long known.

When his father was in the hospital, Varun became a stranger to himself—looking up miracle cures at 2 a.m., clutching prayer beads he didn’t believe in.

He would’ve changed his name, his god, his life—anything, if it meant saving him. He would do it even now.

Desperation is its own kind of faith. Not in gods, but in the impossible chance that love might rewrite fate.

Varun has always know that given a choice, he’d give it all up—career, comfort, money, health, even Devika—for a world where his father still exists. He would gladly undo the present and go back to the past.

The door shows up when it wants. Sometimes twice in a week. Sometimes not for months. Each visit feels like a tiny gift. As if the universe is granting Varun small mercies he desperately seeks.

Meanwhile, reality adapts. Meetings blur, names elude him, and colleagues speak around him like he’s not there.

At home, Devika grows quieter. Their conversations falter, then vanish, like a radio drifting out of signal. Her eyes search his face, looking for someone who still lives here.

Varun sees it unraveling. Marriage thinning to silence, work slipping through cracks. But the pull of the door is stronger than the life he’s losing.

Even his father begins to warn him. “Varun,” he says quietly, “you can’t keep coming here.”

Varun just shakes his head.

He knows it can’t last. But this—this is the first thing that’s felt real in years. After so long in the dark, how do you turn away from the only thing that feels like light?

Varun wakes to a quiet morning. His body aches. There’s no one beside him.

“Devika?” he calls softly. No response. He walks through the house, noticing the absence of her scarf on the chair, her books gone from the shelf. The air lacks her familiar scent of perfume. The rooms feel untouched, as if he’s barely lived here himself.

With mounting urgency, Varun fumbles at his phone, searching frantically through messages, photographs. Nothing is there. The pictures of their wedding, the daily texts reminding each other of trivial errands—each memory is now absent. Hands trembling, pulse accelerating, he dials her number.

“Hello?” Her voice is polite but unfamiliar. A tone one uses for strangers.

“Devika,” he says. “It’s me.”

A long pause. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

Varun tries to explain, recounting private moments—their dance in the living room, late-night talks, shared jokes. But her replies are cautious, then apologetic. She doesn’t know these stories. To her, he’s a stranger.

It’s not just Devika. His job is gone too. His name isn’t in the company records. His desk belongs to someone else. Colleagues don’t recognise him anymore. The life he built has been erased, piece by piece. Just like he’d wished.

In a frantic desperation he lifts the phone once more, dialling his mother’s number in shaking movements. He hears the ring hollowly, feels nausea climb slowly within him.

When she answers, relief weakens him instantly, nearly bringing tears. She still knows him. For now.

The bitter, clear truth settles quickly beneath his relief. If he keeps goes back through the door, his mother too will fade away. He has already lost Devika. He cannot lose his mother too. Not even for the impossible joy of being with his father.

The door appears that night. Chipped. Glowing. Impossibly kind.

Varun stands before it. On the other side, there’s his father. Alive. Smiling. Waiting.

He thinks about going in. Just once. Not to stay. Just to say goodbye.

But even as the thought forms, he knows it’s a trick. That’s not really his father on the other side. It never was. It’s his grief, wearing his father’s face.

He gets it now. Grief isn’t cruel. It doesn’t stab you. But slowly, it erodes you. Turns you inward. Makes you retreat from the people who matter. You begin leaving absences in their lives. And bit by bit, you vanish from theirs.

His job is gone. That, he can replace. But Devika—Devika is gone in a way that feels final. Not to death, but to time. To forgetting. He could walk down their old street, memory by memory, and still, none of it would be real. Not anymore.

As he stands at the door, there’s regret. Remorse. But also a quiet clarity.

He doesn’t need to step through that door to say goodbye.

His father is already with him. Has been all along. In the quiet ache. In the memories. In the love that didn’t end with the person.

Varun turns away from the door.

He doesn’t look back.

Sunlight comes through the office windows, hitting Varun’s shirt. He sits in the waiting area, holding a paper cup of tea, watching people walking through the lobby.

“You can go in,” the receptionist says.

“Thanks,” Varun says, brushing his trousers.

It’s been a year since the door last appeared. Life’s different now, after Devika. He has to illusions about getting her back. She married to someone. Sometimes he sees them on the street. She of course doesn’t recognise him.

His phone buzzes. He steps aside, outside the conference room, and answers.

“Varun? When is the interview?”

It’s his mother.

“Just about to go in,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“Good luck! Hope the promotion works out. I was just calling about the temple.”

It’s his father’s birthday. They go every year.

A small ache passes through him. But unlike before, it comes without bitterness.

“Should be done soon,” he says. “I’ll pick you up in an hour?”

“I’ll be ready,” she says.

Varun smiles, puts the phone in his pocket, and walks through the door.

And yet, I remember her laugh like it happened five minutes ago.

It was sometime in the late sixties—I think. Could’ve been early seventies. The decades blur when you get to this age. All the big things fade, but the odd ones stay. Like the way she held her coffee cup with both hands, or how her shoes squeaked every time she crossed her legs.

I met her in Vienna. Or maybe Prague. One of those cities that feel like postcards pretending to be places. I was travelling alone back then, doing what your generation now calls “soul searching,” except we didn’t have Instagram to make it look poetic. It was just me, a backpack, and a shoestring budget.

I was sitting in a café, one of those old ones with velvet chairs and dusty chandeliers, and she asked if she could sit across from me because every other seat was taken. I said yes, obviously, because I was lonely and she had that look—like she belonged in a black-and-white movie but somehow wandered into my real life.

We talked. God, we talked. Hours passed, and I forgot to be nervous. She made everything feel lighter. Told me about her small town in the Netherlands, or maybe it was Norway. Told me she wanted to be a writer but didn’t believe she had anything worth saying. I told her that not saying it would be the real tragedy.

She rolled her eyes at me—playfully, mind you—and said, “You talk like someone who’s read too many books.” I said, “You listen like someone who hasn’t been listened to enough.” She smiled at that.

There was no romance in the traditional sense. No number exchanged. No dramatic goodbye. We walked to the tram stop together, stood in silence, and when her tram came, she turned to me and said, “I hope your questions lead you somewhere good.”

And then she left. Just like that.

We didn’t even say see you later. Because we wouldn’t.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this. I’ve been married, had children—your mother being one of them—and I’ve lived a long, mostly good life. But that girl? That moment? It stayed. Not because it meant more than your grandmother, not because it was a missed opportunity. But because it was a pure one. A complete sentence with no need for a sequel.

We didn’t fall in love. We didn’t even kiss. But there was something real in that silence we agreed to keep. Something final.

Sometimes, that’s the rarest kind of intimacy. I know how that sounds. But trust me—when you’re my age, you’ll find that the most sacred moments are sometimes the fleeting ones. The ones that passed too quickly to break, too briefly to disappoint.

I don’t miss her. I barely knew her. But I remember her.

Sometimes, a stranger can leave a mark deeper than a friend. Sometimes, the point of a moment is that it ends.

And if that happens to you, I hope you let it. I hope you let yourself feel it fully. Then I hope you let it go.

Let it go, but don’t forget it.

I never forgot the girl on the tram.

I’m halfway through the door when my so-called friend, Ruchi, who insisted we had to come here, hands me a mason jar of kombucha. Kombucha. “It’s mango chilli,” she says, like that’s supposed to make it better.

I take a sip. It tastes like good tea gone bad.

“Don’t pull that face,” she whispers, already scanning the room for someone more interesting than me. “You’ll love this place.”

Will I? The walls are covered in mismatched art, all of it trying too hard. There’s a corner where people are taking turns scribbling words like healing and rebirth onto a communal chalkboard, and I can feel my soul trying to escape through my nose.

“It’s very…” I gesture vaguely at the crowd, mostly in their twenties but dressed like they’ve just come from a 1970s commune. “Cult-y.”

Ruchi rolls her eyes. “It’s authentic.”

Authentic my ass. Everyone here looks like they Googled how to dress like a poet before showing up. Oversized glasses, thrifted kurtas, one guy with a man bun reading a book that’s probably just blank pages.

I spot the mic on a tiny stage at the back of the room. People are snapping their fingers instead of clapping for a woman reciting something about her “inner fire.” I don’t hear the poem because I’m too distracted by her fiery orange jumpsuit. It’s like she’s daring someone to extinguish her.

“Let’s sit,” Ruchi hisses, dragging me to a table so close to the stage that I can see the sweat glistening on the next performer’s forehead. I try to swap chairs to face the exit—pure survival instinct—but she blocks me.

“You’ll love it,” she whispers.

She’s said that twice now. That’s how I know she’s lying.

The next poet, a guy who looks like he should be modelling for a sustainable candle brand, starts a piece about love being like a river. Not another river metaphor. I zone out until Ruchi elbows me and whispers, “He’s quite good, isn’t he?”

I give her a look that says, What part of this is good? The part where he rhymes ‘soul’ with ‘hole’?

But then, he finishes, and I see a brooding writer walk in.

He’s tall, slightly scruffy, wearing a plain black kurta that looks like it wasn’t purchased ironically. There’s something about him—a seriousness that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to prove anything. And suddenly, I’m paying attention.

I lean back in my chair, sip the kombucha again.

It still tastes like good tea gone bad. But now I’m interested.

The man with the man bun is back.

He’s on stage now, holding the mic like it’s a lover he’s about to leave for “personal growth.” His poem is about rain. No, wait—it’s about capitalism. Or is it about his ex?

“I am the thunder that disrupts the silence of oppression,” he says, closing his eyes like the sheer weight of his profundity is physically painful.

It’s painful for me too, but probably for different reasons.

People start snapping their fingers, a sound that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. What is this? Applause for introverts? Just clap. It’s louder.

Ruchi leans over and whispers, “Isn’t he great?”

I stare at her. “He just rhymed systemic oppression with existential repression.”

“That’s the point,” she says, sipping her chai like it’s an aphrodisiac. “It’s raw.”

It’s raw, all right. Like a poorly cooked chicken.

The next performer is a woman in a flowing green sari, who recites a poem about her ancestral trauma. Okay, now this is good. It’s honest, heartfelt, the kind of thing that makes you feel small in the best way. But just as I’m starting to appreciate it, she ruins it with a line about “awakening my divine womb energy.”

I shift in my seat and accidentally make eye contact with the brooding writer guy across the room. He’s watching the performance with a mix of intensity and disdain, like he’s simultaneously inspired and offended. Interesting. Judgmental and broody. Definitely my type.

The woman on stage finishes, and the crowd snaps enthusiastically. Brooding Writer nods, his approval subtle but definitive. Oh, so he’s the gatekeeper of poetry now?

Then it’s time for the next act: a duo wearing matching linen shirts. They introduce themselves as Shakti and Jagat, which I’m almost certain are not their real names.

“This piece,” says Shakti, her voice trembling with sincerity, “is a dialogue between our inner children.”

Oh no.

Jagat starts humming. Shakti begins to… wail? It’s like interpretive crying. The crowd looks mesmerised, Ruchi included, while I’m trying not to laugh so hard I choke on my kombucha.

I glance back at Brooding Writer. He’s not watching the stage—he’s watching me.

His gaze says, You don’t belong here.

I sip my drink. My gaze says, Neither do you.

Shakti and Jagat finish with a synchronised bow, and I can feel Ruchi vibrating with joy next to me. “That was so brave,” she whispers, like they’ve just survived a war instead of performed a vocal warm-up gone rogue.

And then, it happens.

Brooding Writer stands. His turn.

I swear to God, the room goes quieter the moment he steps in. Everyone leans forward like they’ve all just collectively decided that they’re not worthy of breathing until he speaks. Fine, whatever, he’s obviously an artist or whatever—he probably has an overly-constructed bio somewhere in the depths of his backpack.

But—oh, wait. I’m interested now. Damn it.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there for a moment, looking at the mic like it’s something sacred, something he’s been entrusted with. It’s so pretentious, it should be annoying, but it’s not. It’s actually sort of… hot.

He adjusts the mic, clears his throat, and—finally—he speaks.

“This is called How to Stay.”

Okay, now I’m really interested.

His voice is low. Smooth. The kind of voice you want to fall asleep to, but then—oh no—wake up and find yourself falling in love with. He starts slow, building up the tension like he’s talking to me and only me.

And then—oh, fuck—he actually says something good.

“Some days, love is a place you visit, and other days, it’s a place you live.”

I feel that one. Right in the chest. God, I’m such a cliché. But I don’t care. I feel it.

I glance around the room. Everyone is so lost in him that I think I could stand up, shout “Who are we fooling? We’re all just here to be loved, okay?” and they’d still be too mesmerised to care.

I keep listening. He’s pacing now, like he’s trying to get his words to catch up with him.

“Love isn’t about waiting for the perfect moment. It’s about being the wrong person at the right time. But that doesn’t make you less worthy.”

I almost choke on my kombucha. Did he just say that to me? It feels like he’s talking directly to me, like the whole room is just a backdrop to the two of us in some kind of doomed, inevitable romance.

It’s so tragic and romantic and irresistible.

But then, he says it. The thing that makes my stomach flip.

“There’s no such thing as a perfect love. Only the love that makes you want to stay.”

And I just—fuck.

I feel that in every goddamn fibre of my being. It’s too much. Too close. Too real.

I want to be the kind of person who scoffs at this kind of sentiment, who rolls their eyes and looks at their phone to check how many followers they have. But I’m not. I’m the kind of person who gets swept away by it, who feels it like a punch in the gut and then wonders if this was what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

As he finishes, the room is silent. That kind of silence. The one where everyone is trying to digest what’s just been said, trying to hold onto that feeling before it slips away.

And for a moment, I think he might actually be looking at me. It’s probably not true. It’s definitely not true. But the possibility of it? That’s enough.

And just like that—poof—the magic’s gone. He steps back, nods once to the crowd, and disappears into the noise, the crowd snapping their fingers like a bunch of robots.

But I’m still there. Staring at the spot where he stood, my heart beating too fast and my brain now a tangled mess of “What ifs” and “God, this is stupid.”

You’re not in love with him, I tell myself. This is just… poetry, and loneliness, and a really nice voice.

But even I don’t believe it.

“My friend signed me up.”

That’s the first thing I say when I take the mic, gripping it like a lifeline. It gets a laugh—not a real one, just that polite, group chuckle people do to ease the tension. Great start.

I glance at Ruchi, who is beaming at me from the front row like a proud parent at a school recital. You owe me for this. I’m talking years of emotional debt.

“Right, so,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m not really a poet. Shocking, I know. But I did once write a haiku about a bad sandwich, so I think that qualifies me.”

More chuckles. A guy in the back audibly groans. He’s wearing a scarf in 30-degree heat, so I’m guessing irony isn’t his thing.

I launch into the poem anyway.

“Love is… complicated.” I pause for dramatic effect, looking out at the audience. Someone adjusts their glasses. Someone else sips loudly from a straw. Captivated, clearly.

“It’s like… a WhatsApp message. You type it out, you stare at it, you delete it. Then you send it anyway and immediately regret it when the blue ticks show up.”

Laughter. Actual laughter. Okay, this might not be so bad.

“Love is like that text you get at 2 a.m.—‘U up?’—and even though you know you shouldn’t reply, you do, because hope is a hell of a drug.”

The laughter quiets a little. Ruchi’s smile tightens. Brooding Writer is watching me from the side of the stage, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Is that a smirk? No, probably gas.

I keep going.

“Love is… pretending you don’t care when they leave, even though you spent weeks planning how to accidentally bump into them at the organic fruit aisle.”

A woman in the second row snorts into her chai. At least someone gets it.

“But most of all,” I say, my voice softer now, “love is knowing that even if you had the perfect words, it wouldn’t matter. Because words aren’t enough. They’re never enough.”

Silence. The good kind. I think.

And then, because I can’t leave anything sincere without ruining it:

“Anyway, that’s why I exclusively date people who can’t spell. It lowers the stakes.”

Big laugh. Huge. Even Scarf Guy chuckles. I feel a strange, warm surge in my chest—until I meet Brooding Writer’s gaze again. He’s not laughing.

His look says, You’re hiding.

I stare back, gripping the mic tighter. Yes. And?

“Thank you,” I mumble into the mic, stepping back. The applause is warm but already fading as I return to my seat. Ruchi whispers, “That was amazing,” but I don’t answer.

I’m too busy watching Brooding Writer, who is now deep in conversation with someone else.

He’s not looking at me anymore.

I need to get outta here. Where’s Ruchi?

I’m halfway out the door, the air outside cool against my skin, when I feel the tap on my shoulder. I freeze, pretending I don’t know who it is, but of course I do. It’s him. Of course it is.

I turn around slowly, dragging my feet, and I find myself face-to-face with Brooding Writer.

I don’t smile. I’m too busy trying not to look like I’m dying inside.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in just a little too close, like he’s testing the waters. Is she nervous? Is she pretending to be confident?

I do my best to act like I’m completely fine, which, if I’m being honest, is really just me doubling down on the act I’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes. I laugh, a little too loud.

“That was—uh—interesting,” he says, and I almost punch him in the face with how quickly my heart stops. Interesting? Interesting? Oh, I love that. The thing you say when you’re not quite sure what else to say.

I try to hide my irritation. “You know, I really thought your piece about how ‘love isn’t perfect’ was—wow. Revolutionary,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. God, I’m an asshole.

He smiles. It’s a tight, knowing kind of smile. “I meant it. Not everything has to be clever or witty to be good.”

Oh, there it is. He’s going to go for it. The subtle critique. How original. I cross my arms, trying to appear nonchalant, but inside, I feel like I’ve just been hit with a hammer.

“You know,” he continues, his voice more serious now, “it’s funny. Your poem was… funny. It was a good defence mechanism. You’re a natural at it.”

I force a smile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s just… you were hiding behind all that sarcasm, weren’t you? You know, I can see it. You say these things, but underneath, it’s just fear. Vulnerability, maybe?”

I swear I feel the ground shift beneath me. Oh, fuck. He’s reading me. But I won’t let him see it. I won’t.

“Oh, please,” I say, with way too much venom in my voice. “I just like to laugh. Sarcasm is a survival tactic. You should try it sometime. You might actually enjoy life instead of—what was it?—moping around with your ‘perfectly imperfect’ poetry.”

He laughs softly, but it’s not a mocking laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that makes me want to crawl into a hole and die.

“You think I’m moping?” He steps a little closer, and I can smell his cologne now, sharp and woodsy, like something I should have noticed sooner. “I don’t think you understand it. The whole ‘being honest’ part. It’s not about pretending, or being clever. It’s about… feeling. Really feeling it. Not just looking at it from a distance and cracking jokes because you’re scared.”

Scared.

That word lands somewhere deep inside of me. Scared. It feels like a punch to the stomach.

“God, you’re so annoying,” I say, but it’s not convincing. I try to sound angry, but I’m just… defeated.

“Am I?” He smiles, the smirk curling at the corners of his mouth like he’s enjoying this—this—whatever this is.

“I just don’t believe in all that ‘open your heart’ crap,” I say, my voice a little too high-pitched. I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “There’s no point in opening up if you know you’re just going to get hurt. Why risk it?”

He looks at me with that same expression, the one that makes me want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just watches me, like I’m the most interesting thing in the room.

“You’re right,” he says finally, his voice soft. “You’ll never get hurt if you keep everyone at arm’s length. But you’ll never really be alive either.”

The words hit me, but I won’t let him see it. Fucking hell. I’m so transparent.

I laugh again, louder this time. “I think you’re getting a little too philosophical for me, mate.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, like he’s savouring the irony of it all. “Maybe I’m just tired of watching people like you—people who hide behind sarcasm and fake smiles—pass by without ever actually living.”

For a moment, I feel like I’m being suffocated by something. Something I can’t quite name. Something heavy. Oh, no. No, no, no.

“Well, you can’t live too much, right? Or else you’ll get eaten alive.” I raise an eyebrow, trying to salvage some dignity. But I know he’s already seen through me.

“You’re not a monster,” he says, his voice almost too gentle. “You just need to stop pretending you are.”

I almost lose it. The tears are there, just behind my eyes, just waiting for permission to show up. But I can’t. I won’t let him see it. I’m not going to let him in.

“So,” I say, with a smirk, trying to regain control of the situation, “You gonna write a poem about me now? Or are we done with the whole ‘sensitive artist’ thing?”

He just looks at me, his eyes soft but with that unshakable knowing. “I already did.”

Fuck.

I hate him. I hate him so much.

He stands there, questioning everything I’ve ever believed about myself, waiting for a response, but the words I need are trapped somewhere, stuck between my chest and my throat. It’s like the air’s been sucked out of the room, and every sound feels muffled, distant.

I might love him.

Shit.

So, there I am, mid-fucking meltdown, trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity I have left after Brooding Writer’s little “You’re not a monster, just stop pretending you are” speech. Honestly, if I didn’t feel like I was about to burst into flames from the inside, I might’ve congratulated him for being so insufferably insightful. But instead, I stand there like a statue of embarrassment—awkward, uncomfortable, and clutching my half-empty glass like it’s my last hope.

And then, like a scene in a movie you never asked to be a part of, she walks in.

She’s tall—too tall, almost—but it’s not the height that catches you first. It’s the presence. The glamour. The effortless, “I’m-just-so-totally-fabulous-it’s-painful” vibe. She moves like she’s floating, as though gravity can’t quite make up its mind about whether or not she’s worthy of its pull. Here we go.

She glides over to us like a fucking vision of poetry incarnate. She’s wearing something impossibly chic, of course, like she rolled out of bed wrapped in a silk sheet and thought, “I’m going to make everyone feel inadequate today.” I hate her immediately.

Brooding Writer turns toward her, grinning like a lovesick puppy, which only makes me want to vomit a little bit. “Darling,” he says, and I’m pretty sure that’s the most affectionate I’ve ever heard him sound. “I was just talking about you.”

Great. Fantastic. It’s like he knew I needed a reminder of just how out of my league this whole scene is.

And then, before I can make my exit, she looks at me—really looks at me—and her eyes narrow.

“Oh,” she says slowly, her voice dripping with that “I’ve-read-all-the-best-books-and-wear-the-best-clothes” kind of tone. “I know you.”

My stomach drops into my shoes. I’ve never seen you in my life.

“You do?” I say, blinking like an idiot, trying to pretend that this isn’t the worst moment of my life. “I don’t think I know you.”

But she’s already walking closer, staring at me with that smug, unsettlingly knowing gaze, like she’s about to drop a bomb. “Your style,” she says, as though she’s just discovered some long-lost relative of hers. “It’s so familiar.”

Oh no.

“No, I’m—” I start, but she’s not listening anymore. She’s already lost in her own world, peering through me as though I’m just a poorly written poem in a half-forgotten anthology.

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or horrified,” she continues, as she sits down next to Brooding Writer. “Because you’re very talented, but it’s just so… familiar. Your work, it’s almost exactly the same as mine. The same themes—love as destruction, self-sabotage, the rawness of human desire… Hmmm, but a bit less… refined.”

Okay. I’m not—what? I am going to scream.

I feel the heat rush to my face, the horrible kind of heat that says, you’re about to be found out and there’s no way out now. My pulse is a loud drum in my ears. I want to laugh. I want to make a joke, something that makes me sound clever and cool and detached. I want to walk out, slam the door behind me, and never look at poetry again. But instead, I just stand there like an idiot with a mouthful of nothing.

“You know what I’m talking about, right?” she presses, leaning forward like she’s trying to extract some deep, uncomfortable truth from me.

I need someone—Ruchi, where are you?—to get me the hell outta here.

I try to catch my breath, but my throat feels tight. “I—uh—I didn’t mean to copy anything. I didn’t even know you existed until, like, five minutes ago.”

She smiles, but it’s not a nice smile. “You know, sometimes I wonder if everyone thinks I’m just too much,” she says, brushing her perfectly manicured hand over her hair. “Too deep, too honest, too unforgiving in my art, but then someone like you shows up, and it’s like, wow, I have competition.”

God, I could punch her in the face right now, and it would probably be the most poetic thing I could do.

I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already on a roll. “But that’s the thing about art, isn’t it? It’s about what you steal. We all steal from someone, don’t we? You take what you need and make it yours. I respect that. But there’s a line, and if you cross it, well, then it’s just… lazy.”

I can feel my face burning now. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or anger or just sheer, raw panic. The room is closing in. The words are there, I can feel them, but they won’t come. All I can do is flounder like an idiot while Brooding Writer looks between the two of us with this fucking smug little smile.

“Excuse me,” I finally manage to choke out, my voice a little too sharp. “I’m not—you don’t know me. I didn’t plagiarise anything. I—I don’t know you, okay? I’m just… me. And I do my thing.”

She raises an eyebrow, still amused. “It’s okay. I understand. You’re just trying to make something real out of something that’s been said a million times before. I get it. We all want to feel unique.”

I blink, my brain scrambling to find something—anything—to say. This is the part where I should leave, but I can’t even move my legs.

“I—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of Brooding Writer clearing his throat. Thank god. He steps in like some white knight, putting an arm around her in that casual, “I’m-too-cool-to-care” way.

“Okay,” he says, more to her than to me, “let’s not turn this into a thing.”

Oh, so now you’re trying to smooth things over, are you? After she just insinuated I’m a plagiarist?

I blink, slowly, like I’m absorbing a truth I don’t want to hear.

I turn on my heel and walk out of the café, every nerve in my body screaming to just get the hell out of there.

I can feel them both watching me go.

I need someone to cover their eyes while I leave. Where the fuck is Ruchi when you need her?

I didn’t plagiarise anything.

Did I?

I’m standing outside the café now, feeling the cold air on my face like a slap—like I deserve it. Probably do, to be honest.

I could’ve stayed. I could’ve kept pretending I wasn’t completely freaking out, but the moment the door swung shut behind me, I realised: I’d never be able to look those pretentious assholes in the eye again. I mean, seriously—who are these people? Poets in satin shirts, brooding writers with glasses they don’t even need, and her—her—with that look on her face like she’s the one who invented suffering. They’ve turned art into this weird fucking game of “who’s the most tortured.”

And here I am, standing outside like a goddamn Shakespearean villain, monologuing to myself. Why do I even care?

But you know what I think? All this talk of “high art”—the poetry, the theatre, the films—they’ve all turned it into something elitist, something inaccessible. As if we’re supposed to kneel before it like some great, untouchable deity. I don’t know about you, but when I hear “high art,” I start wondering who’s getting paid to make it so bloody boring. They’ve got all these rules, these codes, these insider secrets, and all the while, they’re excluding the real people—the ones who need the art the most.

What’s the point of “high art” if it doesn’t speak to anyone? What’s the point of poetry that only the upper crust can appreciate? What’s the point of theatre that you can only see in overpriced seats? It’s supposed to be a tool—a hammer to smash some walls, a weapon to make people see things differently. Not some pretentious wankfest where you have to pretend you know what the fuck art is.

It’s not supposed to be an exclusive club. It’s supposed to be everyone’s club.

But you get rid of the real people—me, or you, or whoever, the ones who feel stuff—and you’re left with these douchebags who spend half their lives trying to make art sound complicated. “Oh, it’s a metaphor for the fragility of the human condition,” they say, nodding like they’ve just uncovered the meaning of life. They’ve made it so goddamn hard to just feel.

And that’s where I’m stuck, isn’t it? I’m afraid of feeling. I’m afraid that if I let myself get too close to something real, I’ll fuck it up like I always do. Because it’s safer to stand outside the circle and point fingers than to step in and risk being… seen. You don’t get to be vulnerable. You get to be clever. You get to make jokes. You get to hide. That’s how you survive this world. And that’s what I’ve been doing all night: hiding. Hiding behind sarcasm, hiding behind my “I’m-too-cool-for-this” mask, hiding behind all the things that keep me comfortable.

Look at me. I can’t even look at my own thoughts without getting embarrassed. What the hell is wrong with me?

I could’ve said something to her. The poetess. I could’ve stood up for myself. I could’ve said, “No, I didn’t steal your fucking ‘style.’” But instead, I let her sit there and make me feel like a fraud. Like I wasn’t allowed to be an artist unless I had the right amount of genuine pain or authenticity. Whatever the hell that is.

But do you know what? Fuck it. Fuck it all.

The truth is, the only reason I ever end up in these situations is because I can’t stop making bad decisions. And do you know what?

I kind of like it.

I mean, at least they’re mine. Every stupid mistake, every awful choice, every moment where I could’ve walked away but didn’t, they belong to me. At least I’m being authentic in my own twisted, self-sabotaging way. I’m not pretending I’m perfect or enlightened. I’m not pretending to be someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.

I’ll tell you something: the more I try to play it safe, the more I start feeling like one of those artists, sitting in my pretentious little chair, sipping my overpriced kombucha, pretending I’m above the mess of it all. Pretending. That’s the problem. We all pretend. We have to. Otherwise, we might actually… feel something.

So, yeah. You know what I’m going to do tomorrow? I’m going to make another stupid decision. And then I’m going to make another one after that. And at the end of it all, I’ll be me. Maybe not the me I want to be, but the me I am. Which is—thank God—a hell of a lot better than the me I pretend to be.

I’m not saying I’m going to stop trying to improve or stop looking for something real. But if I’ve learned one thing tonight, it’s that trying to be something I’m not doesn’t work.

So, I’ll stick with the bad decisions. At least they’re mine. At least they’re authentic.

And honestly? Who needs high art when you’ve got that?

With that thought, I take a last drag from my cigarette, flick it to the ground, and walk off into the night, ready to fuck up whatever comes next. But not before I murder someone.

Now, where the hell is Ruchi?

“Do you ever feel weird eating alone in restaurants?” she asks, turning her glass slowly in her hands.

He smiles. “I used to. I’d check my phone a lot. Now I just stare at people and make up stories about them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like them—“ he nods toward a couple at the far end, the man gesturing too much, the woman tucking her hair behind her ear every few minutes. “First trip together. He planned it. She’s the type to think a lot before saying yes to things, but once she’s in, she’s all in.”

She laughs. “Not bad. I do that too, but I get attached to my characters. I’ll actually wonder what happens to them after I leave.”

“So you’re sentimental.”

“Or just nosy.”

“Haha!”

A breeze moves through the open space. She lifts her drink to her lips but doesn’t sip. He watches her for a second longer than he should.

“What about you?” he asks. “Are you the kind to think a lot before saying yes to things?”

“I used to be. Not so much anymore.”

“What changed?”

She shrugs, looking past him, out toward the sea. “My parents split a while back. After being together for more than 20 years. My mom was the one who wanted it, but… she’s still not okay. Still unsure if it was the right call.” Her voice tightens just slightly. “She’s kinda stuck, you know? Lonely, sometimes.” She pauses. “I think it made me realise that time doesn’t always bring clarity. Some choices just stay messy.”

He nods. “I’m sorry to hear that. And yeah, I get that.”

She tilts her head. “What about you? What’s your family like?”

“I grew up in a good family. My parents were happy. The kind of happy that makes you assume things will last forever.” He pauses, runs a finger along the rim of his glass. “My dad passed away a couple of years ago. My mom—she’s different now. I don’t think she ever imagined being alone.”

“That must be hard.”

“It’s strange. You see someone your whole life as strong, capable… and then one day, they just—aren’t.” He turns to her. “You close to your mother?”

“Yes, my mom and I are close. Sometimes too close, I think.”

He nods in recognition, sensing something of himself in that. “Too close? How do you mean?” he asks, inquisitive.

She hesitates, considering her words carefully. “She’s been through a lot emotionally. And I guess, in a way, I’ve become her person—the one she shares with, vents to. I want to be there for her, I really do, but sometimes it’s… a lot.”

“Yeah, I get that. That’s what being a good kid is all about, right?” He says, quietly comforted by her admission. “But then again, I’m pretty much in the same boat, so maybe I’m biased.”

She smiles.

There’s a silence. It stretches, rests, waits. But it’s not uncomfortable.

She breaks it. “Are you a romantic person?”

He lifts a brow. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You don’t seem like the big gesture type to me.”

He chuckles. “I’m not. I don’t do grand declarations or dramatic speeches. But I think—“ he pauses, choosing his words carefully “—I think I take care of people in small ways. I make sure they don’t make bad decisions. I try to be there when they need someone, even if they don’t realise they do.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “What about you? Are you romantic?”

She nods, thoughtful. “I think I’m somewhat similar. I read the room, you know? Like, if someone’s tired, I’ll make them a cup of coffee. If they’ve had a bad day, I won’t ask, I’ll just put on their favourite blanket or turn on a song they like. Little things.”

“That sounds like love to me.”

She smiles, but something about it feels distant. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wave. The place is quieter now.

“Are you seeing someone?” she asks, casual, but not really.

He hesitates. “Yeah. Five years.”

“And?”

He exhales, leans back. “And… it’s fine. She’s great. We’ve been together so long, it’s—“ he hesitates. “It’s kind of hard to know if you’re in something because you still want it, or just because you’ve always been in it.”

She studies him. “I guess that happens in every relationship.”

“Yeah. Sure does. But it’s good. It’s stable.” He gives a small nod, almost to himself. “I’m happy.” Then looks at her. “And you? Do you have a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend?”

She swirls her drink, glances at the clock. “I was seeing a guy. We broke up a few months ago.” Her voice softens. “There was no cheating, no yelling. It was all healthy and mature. Just… we weren’t working.”

“Oh! Sorry about that.” He pauses, letting the thought settle. “Are you still in touch?”

She nods. “Sometimes. It’s complicated.”

“It always is.”

The place is closing. A waiter starts stacking chairs. The night is pressing in, warm and full of things unsaid.

“We should go,” she says.

“Yeah.”

Neither of them makes a move to leave.

“You want to walk a little?” he asks.

She exhales, then smiles, small and real. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They step out of the restaurant, the night air cool and quiet, the streets emptying as late hours creep in. The town feels different now—smaller, softer.

“How long are you traveling?” she asks, adjusting the strap of her bag as they walk.

“Not long,” he says. “I have work, so I can’t be away for too much time. Just ten days this time.”

She nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. What do you do?”

“I work at a tech startup,” he says, glancing at her. “I’m a product manager.”

“Oh,” she says, curious. “That sounds… technical?”

He laughs. “It is. But mostly, it’s a lot of decisions. Prioritising features, making things easier for users. Figuring out what will work and what won’t.”

“That actually sounds kind of fun,” she says. “Like problem-solving?”

“Exactly.”

She smiles. “I like that. I like the idea of making something better.”

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

“I’m between jobs,” she says. “My next one starts in about a month, so I’m taking a break before it begins. I’m joining a tour company as a manager.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s… very different from what I do.”

She laughs. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. And you’re only on the road for ten days, but I’m traveling for a month.”

“That’s a long time,” he says, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could do that. Do you always travel for so long?”

“Yeah, you could say that. At least a month, if not two.”

He pauses. “I’ve got a question.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“Do you ever get lonely in your travels?“

She considers it for a moment. “Yeah, sometimes it is lonely. But not in a bad way. It’s more like… you’re alone with your thoughts. Sometimes that’s nice.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

They walk in silence for a few steps before she turns to him again. “Are you religious?”

He hesitates, then says, “Not really. I mean, I never was. But recently… I’ve started taking some interest.”

“You’re a Hindu, right?”

“Yeah,” he responds. Pauses. Then continues. “I don’t know. I’ve always been pragmatic. My work forces me to be very materialistic, always thinking in numbers and logic. But I’ve been trying to change that. I guess I just need some kind of… guidance.”

She nods. “I get that.”

“What about you?” he asks.

She exhales. “I’m not really religious, no.”

“Would you call yourself a Christian?”

“No, I don’t think I’d call myself a Christian. Not really. But it’s hard, growing up in a place where everyone around you is. It’s almost like… it’s expected.”

He nods, understanding. “Yeah.”

She kicks at a loose stone on the pavement. “So,” she says lightly, “your girlfriend is okay with you traveling alone?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s not into this kind of travel. She likes things preplanned. No uncertainty. I like a bit of randomness.”

She smiles. “That makes sense.”

“But we’ve been together a long time,” he adds. “We understand each other.”

She nods. “That’s good.”

As they keep walking, they reach a quiet intersection where their paths diverge. The streets are mostly empty now, just the occasional passing car casting long shadows across the pavement. The air is carrying a late-night stillness, the kind that make things feel more significant than they’re allowed to be.

“Well,” she says, shifting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I guess this is it.”

He nods, glancing at his phone out of habit. “Yeah.”

Neither of them move.

The weight of goodbye settles between them—not heavy, not dramatic, just there. A quiet, unspoken thing.

“Feels weird,” she admits with a small, breathy laugh. “Like, I know we were only going to have tonight, but still…”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know what you mean.”

She looks at him, her expression unreadable. “You’ll head back to your normal life?”

“Yeah. Flight’s early in the morning. Then it’s back to reality—work, routine, all that.” He pauses. “What about you?”

She nods. “One more month of wandering first.”

“Yeah, obviously.” he says, then pauses, picturing her a few days from now, in another city, laughing at a joke from someone new, wandering through unfamiliar streets, making memories that don’t include him. She’d go on, just as he would. Just on different paths, in different places. That’s how it will be.

“Well,” she says, stuffing her hands into her jacket pockets. “Take care, okay?”

“You too.”

There’s a pause, as if one of them might say something else, something that would make this moment last a little longer. But there isn’t anything to say. Not really.

She gives him a small smile, then turns and starts walking away. He watches her go, feeling something catch in his chest—faint but sharp.

For a moment, he considers calling after her. Saying something, anything. But then he exhales, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and turns in the opposite direction.

It was always going to end like this.

But it still felt like a loss.

Our living room—a world unto itself—was, as always, valiantly resisting any attempts at tidiness. Old issues of India Today mingled amicably with half-eaten packets of Marie biscuits; the almost-antique grandfather clock that had long since given up telling the correct time presided over the chaos like a weary monarch. On one corner of the divan sprawled my younger brother, Chiku, bobbing his head to his Walkman, blissfully unaware he was singing loudly enough to make the neighbourhood dogs howl.

Dadi sat near him like an oracle preparing to deliver her verdict on the world, her saree delicately draped, still spinning a yarn about her own grandmother—who, depending on her mood, was either a noblewoman who traveled the countryside on an elephant or a moderately problematic ghost. Dada, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose, was leafing through a week-old newspaper, sighing audibly every three minutes over the state of the nation. He often claimed he was better informed when the British ruled us because at least the papers then arrived on time. Mother’s bangles jingled from the adjacent kitchen as she clattered more than cooked, yelling back observations about the neighbours, politics, and why Chiku would never pass his exams if he didn’t stop playing “that Walkman nonsense.”

Gungun, eldest and by far the most logical among us, sat at the dining table surrounded by ominous-looking diagrams of human anatomy, choosing to contribute to family life only through the occasional disdainful snort. Our cousin Ramesh, visiting us temporarily for the last four years, sat hunched in a corner, earnestly sounding out English words from an old copy of The Times of India. He had recently learned the word “predicament” and was using it to describe every situation imaginable, from his inability to pronounce “gubernatorial” to the unfortunate state of the family cat, who had taken refuge under the sofa again after Chiku’s caterwauling.

It was during this ordinary cacophony that the first domino tipped: the power cut. A stretch of darkness swallowed us whole, sudden and warm, as though someone had thrown a heavy woollen blanket over the house. “Arrey!” Mother hollered from the kitchen, her voice breaking with indignation as though the electricity department had personally come to snatch her chakla-belan mid-use. A scramble ensued. Ramesh tripped over something that sounded important as he squeaked, “What a predicament!” Dadi declared, with doom-laden relish, “This is what happens when people wear shoes inside the house. It’s inauspicious!” Dada grumbled, asking Gungun to find matches that were conspicuously absent despite four people having seen them just last week.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

A dull, rhythmic pounding rattled through the darkness. When someone finally managed to light a candle, its hesitant flame illuminated the lot of us like figures in a poorly staged play, each frozen somewhere between outrage and disarray. “Might as well be ghosts,” muttered Chiku, his face bathed in flickering light. “Just like the gudgudi boot! You know, the one that tickles you till you lose your mind!” He lunged at Ramesh for dramatic effect, causing the latter to shriek and topple over a stool with the dignity of a startled giraffe.

“That’s enough, Chiku,” Mother chastised, but her voice wavered ever so slightly. “And someone go check if my bangles are still under the mattress!” Gungun rolled her eyes so hard I feared they might stick. “It’s probably rats scampering in the walls again. With this house crumbling like the ruins of Mohenjo-Daro, what do you expect?”

And then, as if on cue, the sound began. It was subtle at first, like someone drumming impatient fingers on an unseen surface. We all stopped mid-chaos, our familial orchestra grinding to a halt. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Rapid, rhythmical, growing louder. “See! I told you!” Chiku exclaimed, his headphones suddenly perched like an obedient crown on his neck. “It’s the gudgudi boot! We’re done for!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gungun snapped. “It’s either water pipes in the walls or an old wood beam settling.” She went back to her books but glanced at the shadows dancing on the wall, just a moment longer than necessary. Dada, however, folded his paper and stood up, declaring, “This house was built on an old garrison site. Could be the bhoots of history, hmm?” His face, half-illuminated by candlelight, didn’t betray whether or not he was joking. Knowing him, not impossible.

Meanwhile, Mother, seated now with her arms crossed, demanded Ramesh “do something useful for once in his life.” Ramesh, who had been rummaging frantically in his bag for his so-called “ghost-proof herbal tonics,” let out a nervous croak. “This is turning into quite the predicament!”

“Everyone calm down,” Dadi said serenely, as though she had been waiting for such a moment her entire life. “There’s only one thing it could be. The ghosts are angry because we keep the south-facing window closed. That’s how the spirits come and go!”

Thump-thump-thump. The sound was unmistakably closer.

The room fell deathly silent save for the faint sizzle of melting candle wax and our collective breaths. When the noise stopped abruptly, for those few seconds of absolute stillness, I began wondering if, perhaps, Chiku’s nonsense about the gudgudi boot wasn’t nonsense after all.

The trouble with our family, I have often observed, is that we do not respond to crisis like ordinary people. Ordinary people, when confronted with an inexplicable thump-thump-thump that moves mysteriously from floor to floor, do sensible things—like call the electrician, inspect the plumbing, or, at the very least, pretend it isn’t happening. We, on the other hand, plunged straight into battle.

Mother, clutching her rolling pin like a warrior from the epics, marched into the kitchen, determined that no power in this realm or the next would make off with her gold bangles. As she yanked open drawers, her bangles jingled in outraged harmony. “Nobody move until we confirm the bangles are safe!” she commanded. She then grabbed a handful of red chilli powder and coriander, explaining to no one in particular, “If it’s a thief, this will blind him; if it’s a ghost, it will at least make him sneeze.”

Meanwhile, Chiku, inspired by every alien-hunting and ghost-busting show he had ever watched (which was, in my opinion, far too many), decided we needed an advanced scientific approach. He rushed to the storeroom, dug out the remnants of our defunct television set, and began what he called his greatest invention yet. “The spirits communicate in frequencies we can’t hear, but if I rewire this circuit and connect it to the cassette player, it should convert ghost signals into sound patterns,” he declared, despite having failed physics twice and being unable to work the remote control properly.

Dada, however, had taken a more academic approach. He pulled out his filing cabinet—not for utility bills or important documents, but for his personal collection of Historical Mysteries of India. He muttered to himself as he pored over old, yellowing papers. “Ha! British reports from 1911! There have always been suspicions of underground activity in this neighbourhood…” He adjusted his spectacles. “Could it be… the restless echoes of colonial history marching beneath us?”

At this precise moment, the thump-thump-thump relocated once again, now decidedly in the hallway. Everyone froze.

Ramesh, deeply convinced that we were all being systematically possessed by supernatural elements, had, by this point, taken matters into his own hands. He had vanished into the kitchen for exactly two minutes, before emerging with a concoction so violently red and pungent that even the cockroach by the sink retreated in disgust. “This is protection juice!” he announced triumphantly. “I have combined chillies, turmeric, black salt, milk, ajwain, and—” he hesitated, “—well, some other secret ingredients. It will protect us from demonic possession.”

He then attempted to force this potion upon every member of the household, declaring that if we did not drink up, we would all be cursed with lifelong stomach ailments or—worse—eternal haunting. “Like camphor,” he insisted, despite no one having asked for this clarification.

“I will NOT participate in this foolishness,” said Gungun, who was now doing her best to remain tethered to scientific reality but had begun rubbing her temples with increasing frequency. “First, there is no evidence that ghosts exist. Second, even if they did, there is definitely no study proving they are repelled by your kitchen-waste potion. Third, if you give this to anyone, the only actual ghost in this room will be Manifested by their own soul leaving their body from food poisoning.”

Ramesh looked scandalised, but did not relent. “You doctors think you know everything. But can medicine explain spirits?”

“Yes,” Gungun replied without hesitation. “And it does. Regularly.”

“I will not sit here and let ghosts claim my youth,” he declared dramatically, before setting off in search of the cat, whom he presumably wanted to test the potion on first.

As the family continued in their individual missions—Chiku constructing his so-called ghost-tracking device, Dada mapping out British-era conspiracies, Mother waiting in ambush with her rolling pin, and Ramesh on his quest to save our digestive tracts from supernatural interference—the thump-thump-thump finally ceased.

For the briefest moment, silence reigned.

It was, however, short-lived.

Because just then, we heard it again—gentler now, but unmistakably there. A dragging sound, followed by a clunk. A pause. Then again: scrape-clunk, scrape-clunk.

We gazed at each other, unsure for the first time. The sounds had been amusing when they were distant, theoretical. But now—now they were closer. Now they were real.

It is a truth universally acknowledged—at least in our household—that in moments of sheer panic and potential ghostly encounters, absolutely no one behaves rationally. And so, armed with candles, spices, scientific nonsense, and questionable theories, we embarked on what later came to be known as The Glorious Ghost Hunt of Phaphamau.

Our candlelit procession moved through the winding corridors of our house in a manner that could only be described as deeply uncoordinated. Mother led the way, belan raised, spices clutched in her other hand, ready to season anything that stood in our path, supernatural or otherwise. Chiku, carrying his so-called ghost-detecting device (which looked suspiciously like an old tape recorder with half its wires chewed off), marched beside her, pressing random buttons and declaring, “We’re getting activity! Look, this static means SOMETHING!” The device promptly crackled, sparkled faintly, and let out what sounded like the last dying breath of our old radio before lapsing into complete silence.

Dada followed close behind, brandishing an ancient badminton racket as though he intended to swat at history itself. “These old barracks saw all kinds of unrest,” he muttered. “Could be a restless British soldier… maybe even some secret underground passage!” His spectacles kept slipping down his nose, forcing him to pause every few steps to shove them back into place.

Behind him, Ramesh carried his pungent protection juice, held before him like a priest performing an exorcism. As we approached the staircase leading to the lower floors, he paused dramatically and warned in a conspiratorial whisper, “They say ghosts thrive in darkness and humidity. If we don’t cleanse this house now, we could all end up—” He never got to finish that sentence because just as he completed his theatrical pause, the heavy silence of the house was violently broken by another thump, now behind us.

Total pandemonium ensued.

Mother, in a fit of panic, flung her handful of red chilli powder wildly in the air—except, unfortunately, it landed entirely on Dada, drenching him in a blinding cloud of spices. He howled loud enough to wake the entire street, waving his racket like a mad conductor while blinking furiously.

“INTRUDER!” he roared. “I see him, I see his—“ He sneezed so violently that his spectacles flew off his nose. “HIS SHADOW! A COLONIAL SHADOW!”

“You blinded Dada!” Gungun yelped at Mother, steadying him before he could stumble and fall headfirst into the bookshelf.

“I thought it was the ghost!” Mother shot back, looking rather unapologetic as she clutched the belan.

Meanwhile, in the midst of this coughing, sneezing catastrophe, Ramesh, who had been holding his protection potion too loosely, slipped slightly and—disaster!—the entire bottle tumbled out of his hands, overturning onto the floor, forming a glistening, dangerously slick red puddle.

What followed was less a search for the supernatural and more a family-wide acrobatic disaster.

Chiku, in his excitement, stepped directly onto the chilli-laden pool, yelled “X-FILLLLLLLES!” in an unfortunate attempt at retaining balance, and collapsed into a vase, which promptly shattered beneath him. Mother, already mid-lecture about “the importance of careful spice-throwing”, stepped back, slipped in the mess, and barely saved herself by grabbing Dada—who, still half-blind, now stumbled into the staircase railing, knocking over an extremely dusty lamp that had survived two generations without incident.

Crash!

Silence.

Coughing.

A collective, horrified realization that we were all covered in some combination of chilli fumes, broken spice bottles, pieces of a lamp, and shame.

And then, naturally, to make matters worse—Sharmaji arrived.

Now, Inspector Sharma ji (Retd.) had seen many things in life. He had been a terror of the police force in his younger years, specialising in catching thieves, smugglers, and runaway goats. He valued two things above all else: discipline, and his eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Which was precisely why, at that very moment, standing outside our door in his striped night kurta, his hair in a most undignified tuft, his eyes bloodshot with irritation, he looked absolutely ready to arrest our entire bloodline.

“What,” he growled, arms crossed over his ample stomach, surveying the disaster zone of our living room, “is the meaning of all this?”

There was a pause as our family, all standing in various ridiculous postures—Mother still gripping the belan, Dada now leaning against a chair in a sneezing fit, Gungun rubbing her temples like she was reconsidering her entire medical career, Chiku still sprawled in vase debris, Ramesh frozen mid-concoction experiment—stared back at him.

“We—“ Mother began.

“The British,” Dada whispered hoarsely.

“There was a noise,” Gungun muttered in resignation.

“Ghosts,” Chiku supplied helpfully.

“My protection elixir was compromised,” Ramesh added gravely.

Sharmaji, unamused, surveyed us all again, then simply closed his eyes in deep, painful regret, as though he had truly had enough.

“I don’t want to know,” he finally declared. “I do not care if there are ghosts, aliens, or freedom fighters haunting this house. I want SILENCE. Do you understand? SILENCE.”

“But—”

“SILENCE.”

With that, he turned sharply on his heel and marched back to his house, muttering about the sad state of post-independence governance and the kind of neighbours one was forced to endure in modern times.

For a long moment, we simply stood there, the only sounds being Dada sniffling quietly and Chiku blowing the dust off the remnants of his ghost detector. The eerie thumping, wherever it came from, had stopped. The house was utterly still.

“Well,” Ramesh finally said, picking up the last of his ruined potion. “At least none of us were possessed.”

Mother, ignoring this entirely, dusted herself off and sighed. “We will need to scrub the floors first thing in the morning. I cannot live in a house smelling like failed pickles.”

As everyone muttered in agreement, and Chiku toddled off to fetch a broom, the lights flickered back on.

Silence.

We stared at each other, fully illuminated for the first time in hours, surveyed the wreckage of our ghost hunt, the broken vase, the chaotic living room, the red-stained floor, and the blue-tinted smoke still hovering from the candles.

Without a word, everyone immediately turned off the lights again.

No one—absolutely no one—wanted to face Sharmaji in full daylight after this.

It must be said that when confronted with chaos, most families attempt to restore order. We, however, double down.

Sharmaji, after delivering his furious lecture about discipline and silence in civilised neighbourhoods, had been about to dramatically disappear into the darkness of his own home. He very nearly succeeded. But alas, fate—and Dada—had other plans.

The moment Sharmaji turned, Dada, still half-blind from Mother’s earlier chilli-throwing attempt, let out a gasp of pure revolution.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” Dada roared, suddenly standing bolt upright, his old badminton racket held aloft like the sword of justice.

A hush fell over the battlefield (which is to say, our spice-covered, furniture-destroyed living room). We all turned slowly to look at him.

His eyes, still watery but now burning with an entirely new kind of patriotic fervour, were locked onto Sharmaji. But not as Sharmaji. Oh no. In Dada’s mind, something far more dramatic was unfolding. He had seen—not our irritated, cranky retired policeman of a neighbor—but the shadowy form of an imperial enforcer of the British Raj.**

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Sharmaji sputtered, but Dada, now fully lost to history, took an ominous step forward.

“So they have returned!” Dada declared, his voice booming. He pointed an accusing finger at Sharmaji’s unmistakably British-looking (not-at-all British-looking) striped pyjamas. “The Raj thought they could keep us under their boots forever! They thought they could erase the dream of Swaraj! But NO! We fought! We resisted! AND WE SHALL RESIST AGAIN!”

Now, I must pause here to explain that Dada had, in fact, spent most of India’s actual independence struggle hiding under beds according to Dadi, only emerging occasionally to shout slogans before retreating swiftly once more. Yet, in Dada’s memories—and in very specific retellings—he had somehow transformed into a warrior for justice, a man whose courage had personally unshackled the nation from oppression.

Faced now with the enemy who had come to once again subdue the people (to enforce noise pollution laws, but that was not the point), Dada acted.

Before anyone could stop him, in an act of sheer instinct and misdirected revolutionary zeal, he grabbed Sharmaji’s walking stick.

Yes. Sharmaji’s prized, polished, meticulously cared-for walking stick.

A pause.

Then absolute bedlam.

Sharmaji let out a strangled “Arre! Arre! Arre! What are you DOING!?” while Dada, now brandishing the stick like a stolen colonial police baton, turned to us and shouted commands.

“We must arm ourselves! The time for submission is OVER!” he bellowed. “Take whatever you can find—belans, books, footwear—we fight BACK!”

Mother, evidently deciding this was the point at which she had had enough, smacked her forehead. “Give him back his danda, Bauji,” she muttered.

But Sharmaji was not in a patient mood.

“ARE YOU ALL DERANGED!?” he roared. “THAT IS MY STICK! RETURN IT IMMEDIATELY BEFORE I CALL THE POLICE!”

This, as you can imagine, did not help.

Dada, upon hearing ‘police’, stiffened. In his mind, the British authorities were forcing compliance through threats of colonial law enforcement.

His grip on the walking stick tightened. “AH-HA!” he cried. “LOOK HOW THEY INTEND TO CRUSH US! CALLING FOR BACKUP, EH? SCARED WE MIGHT RISE AGAIN, ARE YOU?”

Sharmaji looked, quite frankly, one inch away from a stroke.

“WHO IS WE!? THERE IS NO REBELLION! THERE IS NO RAJ! GIVE ME BACK MY STICK OR **I SWEAR I WILL SEE TO IT THAT YOUR ENTIRE FAMILY IS EVICTED FROM THIS LOCALITY!”

Meanwhile, the rest of us were frozen in various states of extreme discomfort.

Gungun was rubbing her temples so aggressively she might rub her entire forehead away.

Chiku was seriously debating whether this was all a dream sequence in an especially bad episode of the X-Files.

Mother, through sheer force of habit, was still gripping her rolling pin, as though she was prepared to intervene in case Sharmaji lunged for Dada’s throat.

And Ramesh—well, Ramesh was now trying to drink his own potion in the hopes that maybe it would make all of this stop.

And then—just when the shouting could not get any louder, where Dada could not become more convinced of his self-imposed heroic destiny, just when Sharmaji appeared two seconds away from exploding into a pile of bureaucratic paperwork—-THUMP.**

The noise.

The sound that had started everything.

It came again.

A loud, rhythmic, haunting thump-thump-thump— except this time, it did not move. This time, it stopped somewhere… very close.

All at once, the weight of the actual mystery returned.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

The candlelight flickered. The air still smelled like unwarranted spices. The walking stick remained firmly in Dada’s rebellious grip.

Sharmaji’s furious expression faltered. Even he, for once, was startled.

Mother, the only one with an ounce of practical concern left, whispered, “…Then what is—”

And before she could finish—the noise stopped.

The house stood eerily, oppressively silent.

Nothing moved.

Not even Dada.

Who, despite everything, had just begun to reevaluate the entire situation.

It was over—at least, we thought it was. By the time the strange thumping noise had vanished into the oppressive late-night silence, all that was left in its wake was exhaustion, confusion, and the unmistakable smell of burnt turmeric mixed with embarrassment.

Sharmaji, clutching his walking stick tightly to his chest like a wounded soldier retrieving his last shred of dignity, backed away from the house while muttering a litany of curses impressive even by his formidable standards.

“You wait and see!” he bellowed as he retreated into the safety of his own lawn. “I’ll issue a complaint! Public nuisance! Disturbance of peace! Attempted theft of private property!” Here, he pointed an accusing finger at Dada, who had just collapsed into a chair, looking faintly glorious in his chilli-stained kurta and misplaced nationalism.

“I FOUGHT FOR THIS COUNTRY SO THAT YOU COULD SLEEP PEACEFULLY!” Dada shouted back dramatically, as though Sharmaji were holding Parliament hostage. “FOR YOU! How dare you betray the blood of our revolutionaries, you glorified havaldar!”

“Revolutionaries!” Sharmaji spat, halfway up his porch. “Revolutionaries don’t take other people’s walking sticks and demolish their own furniture! Lunatics! That’s what you are! Entire household of lunatics! Just wait till the morning!”

And with that climactic declaration, softly punctuated by the slamming of his own front door, Sharmaji disappeared into the night.

For exactly thirty seconds, all of us stood unmoving, listening to the distant clinking of his bolt being locked. Then, very slowly, we turned our attention inward—toward the ravaged battlefield of our living room.

It was hard to know where to begin cataloguing the destruction. The floor was a slippery, red-tinged soup of Ramesh’s “protection elixir” combined with bits of what I suspected was formerly a glass lamp and an heirloom vase. One chair was lying on its side with a leg cruelly broken off, the dining table cloth was dusted with chilli powder, and the cat (whom we hadn’t even noticed earlier) had somehow relocated to the top of the cupboard, where she sat staring down at us like an unimpressed deity surveying her incompetent worshippers.

Mother broke the silence first.

“Hai Bhagwan, now what will the neighbours think?” she muttered, clearly trying to wipe the entire evening from existence by sheer force of indignation. She began waving at the mess as though the air itself could be tidied. “And that Sharmaji—if he makes a police complaint, it’ll be the end of us! Bauji, why couldn’t you just give him his stick back quietly instead of starting whatever on earth it was you were doing!”

Dada sniffled powerfully, still recovering from his unintentional spice attack. “Victory,” he declared hoarsely, wiping his nose with a stray handkerchief. “That is what I was doing. We made victory tonight. The British didn’t enter this house, did they?”

Mother threw up her hands with so much energy that her bangles jingled angrily in protest.

Gungun, holding her medical textbook as though willing it to do the explaining for her, let out a long sigh. “I’m not saying this house’s architecture isn’t wildly questionable—because it is,” she muttered. “But I will admit… there was something.” Here she paused, as though forcing herself, in spite of all her rules of scientific integrity, to make such a concession. “I mean, I can’t explain it, but the sound was… odd.”

“Odd?” echoed Chiku, perched on the edge of the broken divan, looking much too excited for anyone’s comfort. “Odd is when my headphones cut out during the electric guitar solo in a Dire Straits track. This was supernatural, di! I know it! Why else would it move like that—first the hallway, then the kitchen, then the stairs? It’s ghosts—or maybe aliens. Whichever it is, I’m ready for them. Tomorrow night, I’m staying up with my… well, an improved version of my ghost detector. This time I’ll catch hard evidence. Actual tapes! This is like Mulder and Scully-level stuff.”

Mother closed her eyes in what seemed like a wordless prayer for strength.

But Ramesh was having none of it. He, standing by the remnants of his precious chilli potion, looked genuinely mournful, as though the loss of his concoction were on par with a family tragedy.

“It was a foolproof remedy,” he said mournfully, shaking his head and gesturing at the red-streaked puddle. “Chillies to ward off spirits, turmeric to purify us, neem for protection against the unseen. But no one took me seriously. No one ever takes me seriously. This”—he gestured to his potion again, almost accusingly—“could have saved us all tonight.”

“I think the only thing we needed saving from was you, Ramesh,” Gungun said dryly.

At this point, the cat leaped nimbly from the cupboard, landing amongst us with such elegant disdain that everyone somehow felt even more hopeless. She sniffed the ghost detector, decided it wasn’t worth her time, and sauntered over to the only intact chair.

It was then that we all heard dadi’s voice from the far end of the room. She was seated serenely on the divan, completely untouched by the night’s madness and wrapped in her warm shawl, holding her knitting as though the house weren’t a warzone.

“It was the wind,” she said firmly yet gently, the way you’d explain something obvious to a perpetually confused child.

We turned to her in unison, blinking.

“What wind?” Gungun said after a beat. “There isn’t any breeze tonight.”

Dadi smiled the kind of knowing smile that only grandmothers can. “That’s the problem with you young people,” she said, going back to her knitting. “Always expecting things to fit your explanations. Everything in this world has a reason, but not everything wants to announce itself. It was just the wind. Now let me make everyone a chai—you’ve turned this house into a disaster, and at least someone should have a restful night.”

Despite the absurdity of her words, something about her calm made everyone pause.

Mother made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl but didn’t argue. Gungun hesitated as if looking for a logical rebuttal, then shook her head and muttered something about “elderly wisdom” before wandering into the kitchen with the tea kettle.

Chiku sulked back into a corner, tinkering with his circuit wires, already preparing for tomorrow night’s adventure, while Ramesh solemnly tried to recover as much of his spilled potion as possible, muttering about “future batches.”

And as for Dada, well, Dada was now napping peacefully, badminton racket still in hand. He could rest easy, having successfully liberated us from the oppressive forces of an empire that had vacated decades ago.

Was it all just the wind? I wondered.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But in this house, facts had never mattered half as much as the people trying and failing to explain them.

Once a haven of unapologetically bad coffee, mismatched chairs, and intellectuals pretending to have read the entirety of Dostoevsky. Now, it’s been converted into a bar and restaurant. A “multi-cuisine experience”—whatever that means.

The walls of this place are the same but covered in ironic neon signs about being young, drunk, and free. The waiters wear aprons instead of those outdated white coats, and the menu features the kind of cocktails that involve more gimmick than actual alcohol.

And then there’s me, the bartender, your friendly existential cheerleader and consistently underpaid observer of humanity. But don’t let my designation fool you; in here, I’m hardly ever called that. A nod, a wave, or “bhaiya, can I get the bill?” is as close as it gets. Believe me, I’m not bitter. I don’t need attention. I’m perfectly at home being the overworked, nameless deity in this absurd temple of lost souls.

One such pilgrim who haunts this place is Devesh. Devesh is not quite a regular but something close to it—like a delayed metro train you know will eventually arrive. He doesn’t come for the vibe of this watered-down hipster haven, mind you. No. He’s here for what he insists the place still holds: a history. Something ancient and unchanged beneath the LED lighting and nonsensical quinoa salads.

And me. He’s here for me. For reasons even I don’t understand, he’s decided I am the human confessional booth who can give him philosophical clarity. Is he delusional? Probably. Is he wrong? Not entirely.

There was this one time, months ago, when Devesh came in, visibly chewing on some invisible knot of a problem. Took me one look and three words to sort him out. “Let it go, sir.” That’s it. Three lazy syllables, barely even meant as advice. I was saying it to hurry him along out of the way so I could clear the table. But he heard it like it was handed down from the friggin’ Bhagavad Gita. His eyes glazed over, his shoulders fell, and that was when he decided to leave Chitra.

It’s the thing I do best here—not the drinks or the service, but this. Convincing people that I know more about their lives than they ever will, when really, I’m just observing the eternally ridiculous theatre of it all.

Chitra—his girlfriend of nearly four years, who he met at one of these rickety-laminated-whatever-they’re-made-of tables right here in this very ex-café, back when it hadn’t turned itself into an identity crisis of a restaurant.

Chitra, with the strong opinions about everything from climate change to women’s rights to what counted as a proper sambar. Devesh couldn’t handle that about her, though. Too much, he thought. Too loud. Too…vivid.

So, off he went. Not with a bang but with a “letting go,” which, for all intents and purposes, was him ghosting her into infinity. She probably deserved better, but I’m not her bartender. I wouldn’t know. Anyway, ever since then, he pops in from time to time, ordering lemon sodas like they’re little shocks of penance or prayers to a god who probably isn’t listening. Almost like he’s waiting for someone—not Chitra, though. That regret has evolved into something more abstract. A search for meaning, maybe. Or just less bullshit.

Today’s shift feels familiar, like that kind of déjà vu when someone else’s life plays on a loop in front of you. Devesh is sitting at his usual spot near the bar, glued to his glass of water like he’s expecting it to morph into the elixir of life.

And there she is—the other one. Not Chitra, but someone else at the corner table, with the lipstick smudged like an accidental war paint. I call her “The Stinger,” because whatever happens when she speaks, you’ll feel it for at least three days after. She’s here often enough to have stories spilling out of her like perfectly mixed cocktails.

She’s here with her boyfriend or lover or latest victim—who knows—but they’re having a row. The kind of hushed, venomous exchange that draws everyone’s attention while simultaneously daring them to look away. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Tables can talk if you know how to listen, and that table? Full-blown Shakespearean tragedy right now, I tell you.

Devesh, of course, is capital-O Observing. It’s not because he’s creepy—it’s because this moment is crammed with ghosts for him. The same table where he once told jokes to Chitra, cracked sunflower seeds between his teeth, and convinced himself her laugh was the whole reason the Earth turned. The floorboards beneath us could probably tell stories aplenty about hearts breaking, mending, and sometimes just slipping away, unnoticed.

And then it happens. The boyfriend (or whatever he is) storms out, and she sits there like the aftermath of a thunderstorm, ordering herself a drink. Whiskey neat. Bold choice. If I liked stirring the pot (which, incidentally, I do), I might say something poetic about one soul leaving and another waiting to take its place. But nah. I just make her a drink and carry on.

Devesh leans on the counter after I arrive like I’m the Oracle at Delphi. “What happened?” he asks. The habit of seeking wisdom from a man making drinks runs deep with this one.

Poor sod thinks I have some sort of hotline to the gods. I don’t. I work here because I was late to my actual dream job interview and never got over it. But I can work with what I’ve got.

“One story, many sides,” I tell him while giving his drink. A shrug, a smirk. Enough ambiguity to make him think I know more than I do. People love a bartender who seems like he knows their innermost truths.

“One story, many sides” has become my stock answer when I can’t be bothered to explain what is fundamentally obvious. People fight. People leave. People overshare. Welcome to Thursdays at The Great Indian Coffee House. One restaurant, many stories.

Devesh nods like I’ve just handed him a profound revelation instead of lemon soda. (I’m pretty sure this is his fifth one today.) Desperation comes in many forms—bad poetry, late-night texts, lemon sodas. “One story, many sides,” he repeats under his breath, tasting the words as if they might be poetry. Bless him.

A few minutes later, he orders another lemon soda, because of course he does. I make it with deliberate care, giving him what he imagines is my full attention, because I know he’s working up the nerve to go and talk to her. The girl. The Stinger.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that it’s going to go terribly. Not because I’m a pessimist (though I am), but because whatever story he’s telling himself about this moment is bound to collide horribly with the story she’s living.

He takes the soda. Holds it like a talisman. And then, for reasons I can only describe as sheer bloody-minded hope, he gets up and approaches her—the woman with the drink and the fight and the armour. The Stinger.

He thinks I don’t know that he’s desperate to say something—to her, to himself, to anyone who’ll listen—but he’s wrong. You don’t serve drinks for a living without seeing the cracks in people.

I step back and find a nice quiet spot behind the bar where I can watch it unfold. Because isn’t that what we all do in the end? Watch people try, fail, and maybe try again.

There he goes. The soda in one hand, his heart in the other. I watch as he steps up to her table, trying to look casual and failing spectacularly. I can’t hear what he says from where I’m standing, but I can see her reaction. A raised eyebrow. A half-smile. A tilt of her head that says, “Not today, darling.” I start making another lemon soda. Just in case.

People don’t come to places like this for the drinks, after all. They come here because they’ve got something on their chest they can’t quite shake, and they think maybe, just maybe, the right bartender, or table, or drink, will make it all make sense.

It’s not love, this thing between Devesh and Chitra or Devesh and himself or Devesh and whoever he becomes in these encounters. It’s something stranger. Sadder. Funnier.

But then again, isn’t everything?

The Great Indian Coffee House absorbs it all. It always has—even with the neon signs and avocado-toasts-for-no-reason. And I? I keep serving the drinks. One story, many sides, all of them unfolding right here, in plain sight.

Bappa da, of course, was the undisputed leader of our gang—the loudmouthed elder brother figure who could spin tales taller than the Qutub Minar. If you asked him, he wasn’t just Harimohan Banerjee, a Class X student who had failed the matriculation exams more times than you could count on your fingers; according to him, he was the terror of the para (neighbourhood), the sage of street wisdom, and the protector of all under his watch. Sure, he bossed us around, but Bappa da’s loyalty to his friends kept us together.

“Do you even know what happened when I faced the ghyabla goru of Beleghata?” Bappa da bellowed, waving a half-eaten kochuri like a sword. His face glowed with self-importance, crumbs raining onto the mat below.

Goopi, sitting cross-legged, smirked. “Ghyabla goru? Oida kita goru, mosh, na khali tomar mogoj gorom hoiya abar temperature barse? (Is that a cow, buffalo, or just your imagination having another fever?)”

Goopi speaks in a curious Bengali dialect, the kind we often call Bangal. But it wasn’t always so. Once upon a time, he spoke just like the rest of us. That changed when his father was transferred to East Bengal, and he spent a year there during Class VI. When he returned, the accent had taken root, and it has clung to him ever since. Oddly enough, this quirk of his turned out to be a boon—Goopi became, quite effortlessly, the de facto comedian of the group.

“Shut up, you Bangal haanri! (pot)” Bappa da snapped, though his tone was more dramatic than angry. “This goru was no ordinary animal. Eyes red like lalmohan (red coloured sweet dumplings), and a snort so loud it could blow out a tram’s windows! But did I run? No! I stood firm, hands on hips, and roared, ‘Orey! Tui ki jaanish ami ke? Ami Bose Pukur er Bappa da!’ (Do you even have any idea who I am? I’m the Bappa da of Bose Pukur.) That beast fled with its tail between its legs.”

Paglu, the sharpest among us and always the most skeptical, adjusted his spectacles and muttered, “Lalmohan er moton laal chokh? (Eyes as red as lalmohan?) Must’ve had stared at the sweet shop for too long.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though it quickly turned into a fit of coughing. “Bappa da… you’re incredible…” I wheezed, trying to catch my breath. “But could you pass me some water…? My throat feels like sandpaper.”

“Jhontu and his never-ending ailments,” Bappa da sighed as he handed me the water bottle, shaking his head in mock pity. “Be glad you have me to distract you from this. You’d be miserable otherwise!”

He wasn’t entirely wrong. My constitution was as frail as my grades, and I had the dubious honour of being the group’s perennial invalid. Still, Bappa da’s loud presence made me forget my ailments—most of the time.

Goopi leaned over and gave me a pat on the back. “Are Jhontu bhai, chinta ki, tor kashi jokhon tore soja beheste pathaiya dibo, tokhon tor naame ek khan fatafati shokgatha leikkha dimu. Ekdom free! (Don’t worry, Jhontu, I’ll write you a nice obituary when your cough wins the war with you. Free of charge.)”

“Thanks, Goopi,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

Paglu cleared his throat. “Are we done with this ghyabla goru nonsense? Or do you need more fake animals for your biography?”

“Paglu, your brain is like kancha mangsho (raw meat),” Bappa da shot back with a flourish. “Stick with me, and you might even learn something worthwhile.”

Suddenly, Bappa da paused dramatically, then smacked his lips. “Damnit! Mangsho is now making me think of biryani.” Then his expression changed. He looked like someone who stumbled upon a brilliant idea. “Paglu, the whole para knows your baba brings a big patha (mutton) home every weekend. To make up for all this disrespect, you’re inviting me for lunch this Sunday. It’s your duty!”

“The kachuris you’re downing aren’t enough, eh?” Paglu groaned, adjusting his glasses. “And the last time I invited you, you polished off the kosha mangsho (spicy slow-cooked mutton) like it was a competitive sport. I didn’t even get a second helping!”

Goopi snorted with laughter. “Bappa da and leftover mangsho? You’d have to be dreaming.”

Paglu adjusted his neatly combed hair with a resigned look. While the rest of us had schoolboy scruff, Paglu always managed to look like he’d just stepped out of a salon. Top of his class and perpetually underestimated, Paglu had the answers to half our problems, but Bappa da rarely gave him a chance to speak.

We were mid-bantery, the air filled with laughter and floor full of kochuri crumbs, when the rooftop door behind us slammed open. Biltu, the neighbourhood kid with a mop of messy hair and a forever confused expression, burst in like a bat out of hell.

“Dada!” he cried, clutching his knees to catch his breath. “Bappa da… my cycle—it’s gone! Stolen! Maa kheye phelbe amake (Maa will kill me)!”

A hush fell over the group. Bappa da rose to his full height, puffing out his chest. “Stolen? In my para? Under my watch? Who dares such audacity?”

Paglu raised a brow. “Maybe the ghyabla goru took it.” We giggled.

“Shut up!” Bappa da barked. “You have no shame! The kid is in distress. He needs our hellp.” He crouched down to Biltu’s level, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, chhoto. Bappa da is here. By sundown, your cycle will be back, or my name isn’t Harimohan Banerjee!” He said it with such dramatic flair, it almost felt like he was gazing into an invisible camera addressing an invisible audience. “Come on boys, we’ve got a crime to solve.”

“You, Jhontu!” Bappa da barked, his voice echoing down the narrow lane. “Stop clutching your ribs like some dying zamindar and go talk to Kalachand kaku. That paanwala knows everything that happens in this para. If there’s been a theft, he’s heard about it.”

I groaned inwardly but didn’t dare protest. Bappa da’s orders weren’t suggestions, and besides, my wheezing wouldn’t get any sympathy. Bappa da considered my chronic ailments a minor inconvenience compared to the importance of our “investigation.”

Kalachand kaku was sitting behind his tiny paan stall, meticulously folding betel leaves. The air smelled of tobacco and lime paste. I approached hesitantly, clearing my throat to catch his attention.

“Kaku,” I began, trying to sound casual, “Seen anything… err… unusual today? Like someone walking around with a shiny BSA Delite bicycle?”

Kalachand kaku looked up, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Unusual? What do you mean? Are you here to tell me something or just poke around?”

“Both, maybe?” I tried to chuckle but ended up coughing instead. Kalachand kaku shook his head, muttering something about nosy kids before waving me off.

Meanwhile, Goopi was supposed to be questioning the rickshaw pullers near the crossing, but when I passed by, I found him perched on a wooden bench, completely engrossed in a heated argument between two local fishmongers.

“What are you doing, Goopi?” I hissed, clutching his arm. “We’re supposed to be finding the bicycle!”

He grinned sheepishly. “I was asking them if they saw anything, but then they started arguing about who sells fresher ilish. Couldn’t resist staying for the drama.”

“Drama won’t help Biltu!” I snapped, dragging him along.

By this time, Paglu had already returned to Bappa da, looking thoroughly exasperated. “Bappa da, listen to me. The cycle’s been stolen, right? So, logically, we should check the pawn shops or ask the kabadiwala if someone tried to sell it. It’s simple!”

“Simple?” Bappa da said, puffing out his chest. “Paglu, crime solve kora shudhu logic diye hoy na; ota holo instinct-er byapar. (Paglu, solving a crime isn’t about logic; it’s about instinct.) And my instinct tells me the thief is someone close to the para. Someone who knows Biltu and his habits.”

Paglu pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Instincts are just feelings wrapped in ignorance.”

“Oi, none of your lectures now,” Bappa da snapped, turning to scan the street like a hawk. Suddenly, he pointed a dramatic finger. “There! Dhananjay dadu!”

“What about him?” I asked, baffled.

Dhananjay dadu was an eccentric old man who lived alone in a crumbling house at the end of the lane. Known for scavenging junk and muttering to himself, he was the sort of person kids avoided after dark.

“He’s the thief,” Bappa da declared with such conviction that even I almost believed him. “Who else would steal a bicycle in broad daylight? He probably needs the parts for his collection of rusty garbage!”

Paglu crossed his arms. “That’s a wild guess, not an instinct.”

“It’s the best kind of guess,” Bappa da shot back. “Now come on, soldiers! Let’s interrogate him.”

Dhananjay dadu (dadu is how you address your grandfather or someone of that age) was sitting on his rickety verandah, sipping tea from a chipped cup when we stormed into his courtyard like a band of misfit detectives. His crinkled eyes widened for a split second before narrowing suspiciously. The smell of damp earth and the faint aroma of his tea mingled in the air, but Bappa da was oblivious to all that as he marched forward like a general ready to make an arrest.

“Dadu!” Bappa da thundered, pointing an accusing finger. “Confess! Where is the stolen Hero Ranger?”

Dadu blinked, unfazed, and placed his cup down carefully. “Hero Ranger? Ei chhokra, eisob ki abol tabol bokchhis re tui? (What nonsense are you yammering about, boy?)”

“Nyakamo koro na! (Don’t play innocent!)” Bappa da’s voice boomed, echoing through the courtyard. “You think you can fool me? I know your tricks. You’ve been spotted sneaking around my para, collecting junk. A bicycle’s perfect for your schemes!”

“Bappa da, I don’t think—” I started to interject, but he silenced me with a wave of his hand.

“Silence, Jhontu! Elders are talking. This is a serious matter,” he barked, then turned back to dadu. “Tell us the truth, or face the consequences.”

Dadu’s face twisted into an expression of exasperated disbelief. “You’ve lost your marbles, have you? I’m seventy-two, and you think I’m sneaking around stealing bicycles? You’re stupider than you look!”

“Bappa da,” Paglu said quietly, gesturing to something on the ground. “There’s no evidence here. Maybe we should—”

“Evidence? Evidence!” Bappa da cut him off dramatically. “Evidence is for amateurs. I’ve got instinct!”

“Ei instinct-e ekdin amader khyat kore debe. (Instinct that’s going to get us thrashed someday),” Paglu muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Meanwhile, Goopi had slipped away. I spotted him peeking into dadu’s open doorway, his face half-hidden by the wooden frame.

“Kichhu peli? (Found anything?)” I whispered as I shuffled closer.

“Just some old newspapers and a rusty tin box,” Goopi whispered back, his accent making the words sound almost musical. “Nothing remotely bicycle-shaped.”

While this was happening, poor Biltu sat in a corner of the courtyard, sniffling like a broken water tap. He was clutching his knees, his tears creating dark patches on his shorts. I felt a pang of guilt watching him, but before I could console him, dadu’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“Toder kache boroder proti sroddha bolte kissu nei. (You kids have no respect for elders!)” he thundered, rising to his feet with surprising agility. “Porashona ba kono kajer kaj na kore, tora rastar kukurer moto ekhane-okhane ghure beras, aar jake take dosh dis! (Instead of studying or doing something useful, you run around like stray dogs, accusing people left and right!) Stupid, overconfident little brats!”

“Overconfident?” Bappa da’s chest puffed out indignantly. “I’m not overconfident. I’m—”

CRASH!

We all froze. Goopi, in his quest for clues, had accidentally knocked over a flowerpot. The shattered pieces lay on the ground, the marigold plant half-uprooted.

Dadu’s face turned a shade of red I had only seen on ripe tomatoes. “Haramjadagulo! Amar jinishpotro bhangchis? Bero bolchi ekhon, bero! Noyto pulish-e dhoriye debo! (You little devils! Breaking my things now? Get out of here before I call the police!)”

“Pala, sobai pala! (Retreat, all retreat!)” Bappa da yelled, grabbing Biltu by the arm and making a dramatic dash for the exit. The rest of us didn’t need further convincing. We bolted, Paglu muttering something about how this was “another Bappa da special disaster.”

As we ran down the lane, dodging stray dogs and bewildered pedestrians, Bappa da huffed, “Well, it’s obvious now. Dadu’s no thief.”

“I agree,” Goopi said, his breath coming in gasps as he struggled to keep up.

“And what about the flowerpot?” Paglu smirked.

Bappa da waved a hand grandly, as if dismissing the very concept of blame. “Nyaybichar-er pothe ektu-adhtu jhamela howata shabhabik. (It was collateral damage in the quest for justice.) A small price to pay for maintaining the law and order of my para!”

We had barely caught our breath when a rickshaw puller, brushing off the dust on his hands, leaned over to Bappa da with a scheming look on his face. “Listen, babu,” he said, his voice low and cautious, “(Ei ektu age, bajarer konay ek shala cycle thelchhilo. Dekhei mone holo maalta fondi aatchhe. Mone hoy tomader jinish oi shalai merechhe.) I saw a man a few hours ago, pushing a bicycle near the market. Looked suspicious, like someone who was trying to keep it low-key. Could be your thief.”

Bappa da’s eyes lit up like a pujo lighting. “Aha!” he declared, smacking his fist into his palm. “This is it! The lead we’ve been waiting for!”

“Where’s the market?” Paglu asked, already scanning the street.

“Straight ahead,” the rickshaw puller gestured down the narrow lane. “Go straight, then turn right by the sweet shop. You’ll see the man. (Tobe shabdhane, or sathe panga nite ektu bhebe chinte jeyo.) But be careful, he’s not someone you’d want to mess with.”

Bappa da didn’t listen to the warning—he was already striding ahead like an army commander marching into battle. We followed, of course, mostly because it was easier than arguing with him.

The market wasn’t far. The moment we turned the corner by the sweet shop, the scent of fried samosas and spicy chutney hit us, making my stomach growl despite the chaos of the situation. There were vendors shouting their wares, a cow lazily chewing cud in a corner, and a noisy street vendor pushing a handcart full of gleaming metal buckets.

“There!” Bappa da shouted, pointing at the man with the cart. “That’s him! The thief!”

I squinted at the man, but he looked completely unremarkable. He was older, with a thick moustache and a faded lungi, pushing his cart down the road. “Bappa da, that’s a handcart. Not a bicycle. This cannot be him,” I said, but my voice was drowned out by Bappa da’s exuberance.

“Details, Jhontu! Details!” Bappa da barked. “Toke ashol jinishṭa dekhte hobe, shudhu opor-opor dekhle hobe na. (You’ve got to look beyond the obvious.) Can’t you see? This is a clever disguise. He’s trying to fool us with that handcart!”

Before I could argue further, Bappa da charged ahead. “Stop right there!” he bellowed, startling the man.

The street fell into a sudden silence. The man with the cart froze, his hands clutching the cart’s handles, his eyes wide with confusion. Everyone was looking at us. Meanwhile, Bappa da, oblivious to the chaos he was causing, marched up to the man and pointed a finger in his face.

“Where’s the bicycle?” Bappa da demanded, voice filled with authority.

The man blinked, completely lost. “Ki cycle? Ki phaltu kotha bolchhis re? (What bicycle? What nonsense are you speaking, kid?)”

By now, the entire market had caught wind of the scene. Vendors, shoppers, and even a couple of curious children gathered around, murmuring.

“Bappa da,” Paglu muttered under his breath, “this isn’t our guy. He’s just selling buckets.”

“Shut up, Paglu! You don’t understand the depths of my investigation!” Bappa da shot back. “This is all part of the plan.”

At this point, the man’s frustration bubbled over. “Are you mad, all of you?” he snapped. “Eto hottogol kiser korchhis tora re? Ami besh nijer moto chhilaam! Bhaag tora ekhon theke, amar anke kaaj! (I’m just doing about my day! Stop causing a ruckus! I have work to do.)”

Suddenly, a shopkeeper from the market—a burly man with a thick beard—came storming over. “What’s going on here?” he roared. “You kids are disturbing my customers!”

“Wait a minute,” Bappa da retorted, raising a hand. “Ekta case hoyechhe aar amra ekhon er todonte achhi. (A crime has been committed and we’re in the middle of an investigation.)”

At first the shopkeeper was glaring at all of us. Now he turned to Bappa da. “Toder ki mone hoy, ei bajarṭa bujhi toder baaper? (You kids think you own this market, huh?) Causing trouble, breaking my peace. I’ll make sure your parents hear about it!”

“We were just—” I started, but the shopkeeper cut me off.

“Paala! Shob kota ekhan theke paala bolechhi! (Out! All of you, out of the market!)” he yelled, waving his arms like a man trying to shoo a bunch of crows.

I glanced at Bappa da, who was standing tall, unfazed by the shopkeeper’s fury. He straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. “Don’t worry, sir,” Bappa da said with unshaken confidence. “We’ll leave now, but mark my words—this thief will be caught. The investigation will continue, and justice will prevail!”

Paglu muttered something about “justice” and “getting slapped in front of a whole market,” but Bappa da paid him no mind. He was already striding off, leading us with the kind of determination that only he could muster.

“We’re on the right track,” Bappa da continued as we walked away from the market, our heads ducking to avoid more angry glares. “Maybe he didn’t steal the bicycle, but that man was guilty of something, I can feel it in my bones!”

“I think you felt it in your stomach,” Goopi whispered, earning a sharp elbow from Paglu.

“Ahh,” Bappa da sighed, rubbing his stomach. “Jhontu!” he bellowed, “Ja diki baba, amar jonno kichhu ledikeni niye aay to. Jaa! Bhishon chaap achhe to, mathata ektu thanda hok. (Go get some ledikeni for me. Keeps the brain sharp.) Can’t solve a mystery on an empty stomach.”

I didn’t protest. What was the point? There goes my ten rupees into Bappa da’s belly.

We were all crouched behind a stack of crates near the tea stall, watching a man in a stained kurta sip his chai with suspicious slowness. Bappa da had already concocted an elaborate story about how this man might be involved in a bicycle racket, possibly hiding stolen goods under his cart. The man, oblivious to our intense staring, looked more like he was trying to keep his tea warm than plotting anything criminal.

“Alright, this is it!” Bappa da whispered, holding up a finger like he had just made a groundbreaking discovery. “Dekhechhis oi loktar ekdom chorer moto ekta chehara. (He’s got a guilty look, look at him!) And that cart, it’s exactly the kind of thing a man like him would use to hide a stolen bicycle. Wait for my signal—”

“Bappa da,” Paglu interjected, a sly grin forming on his face. “Ebhabe ochena lokeder sondeho na kore borong Biltu-ke jigyesh korlei bhalo hoy na je o cycle-ta last kokhon dekhechhilo? (Instead of chasing random suspects, why don’t we just ask Biltu when was the last time he saw his bicycle?) I think it was never stolen at all. Biltu’s probably forgotten where he left it.”

Bappa da’s expression turned as sour as the tea the man was sipping. “What did you just say, Paglu?” he hissed. “You think I haven’t thought of that?” He straightened up, puffing out his chest. “I’m the one leading this investigation, not you. But—” There was a moment of tense silence as Bappa da squinted at Paglu, as if he was trying to decide whether to accept this blasphemy or stick with his gut instincts. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, he muttered, “Fine. We’ll go ask Biltu. But if it doesn’t work, you are buying me one full plate of jilipi.”

I half-expected Paglu to grin smugly, but instead, he frowned. “Where is Biltu?”

It was only then that we realised Biltu was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared somewhere between the tea stall and the alley where we had last seen him crying over his missing bicycle.

“Biltu? Where’s Biltu?” I asked, looking around frantically. “He was just here!”

Goopi, who had been quiet for the past few minutes, suddenly piped up. “I know where he is.”

“Where?” Bappa da barked, his patience thinning by the second.

“Puran mondirtar kaase ekkhan jaga aase, heihane polara marbel khele. (There’s a place near the old temple where kids play marbles),” Goopi said in a meditative tone. “Biltu is the best at marbles in our para. He’s probably there. Let’s go check it out.”

Bappa da narrowed his eyes, his ego still slightly wounded but his curiosity piqued. “Fine. But if he forgot the cycle in a marble pit, he’s having the worst of me.”

Huddled close, we moved briskly toward the old temple. The damp scent of wet earth mingled with the faint tang of incense, and from afar, the soft clatter of marbles reached my ears like a distant echo of childhood.

Bappa da muttered under his breath the whole way, clearly still annoyed by the suggestion that the bicycle might not have been stolen. Paglu and I exchanged glances, both of us wondering if we were actually getting closer to solving anything, or if we were just about to be swept into another wild goose chase.

As we neared the temple courtyard, Goopi pointed to a group of boys sitting cross-legged, tossing marbles with intense focus. In the centre of them was Biltu, taking aim at one of the marbles.

“There he is!” I whispered, but Bappa da was already charging ahead, practically bulldozing through the group of boys.

The instant Biltu spotted Bappa da, his focus snapped. His hand twitched, the marble flew off course, struck a stone, and vanished into the bushes.

We were all gathered near the old temple with Biltu. Bappa da was pacing back and forth, muttering to himself like a man preparing for a great battle. His hands were behind his back, and he looked like he was on the verge of solving a great mystery. I, on the other hand, was trying to ignore the sharp ache in my stomach. My ailments always seemed to act up when Bappa da had his “investigative moments.”

“Alright, listen up!” Bappa da finally declared, pausing mid-stride. “We’ll retrace Biltu’s steps. We’ll check the school gate, the corner shop, and all the places this kid had been to. He couldn’t have just misplaced it so easily. Someone must have stolen it!”

Paglu raised an eyebrow, clearly more skeptical than usual. “You’re still sticking with the stolen theory, Bappa da? I think Biltu just forgot where he left it.”

Bappa da glared at him, but his jaw tightened. “You’ll see, Paglu. It’s always the ones who think they know everything who miss the most important details. Trust me, I’ve got a nose for these things.”

Goopi chuckled under his breath. “Ar ehon tomar nak ki koy, Bappa da? (And what’s your nose telling you now, Bappa da?) That the thief is probably hiding behind that lamppost?” He gestured lazily, mocking Bappa da’s probable next great revelation.

But Bappa da wasn’t deterred. “Quiet, you! We’re going to follow the trail, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” With that, he started walking toward the school gate.

Biltu, whose marble game had been interrupted, was quietly walking behind us, clearly uncertain about the whole situation but willing to follow.

I followed behind, hoping that maybe we’d find some answers and this would be over. I glanced at Paglu, who was shaking his head slowly. “We’ve been at it for hours,” he muttered to me, his voice barely audible. “Don’t you think it’s more likely that Biltu just forgot?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” I replied. “But who am I to question Bappa da’s genius?”

We were passing the school gate when Bappa da suddenly stopped, eyes narrowing. “Aha!” he shouted, causing a few pedestrians to glance at us curiously. “This is it. This is where the mystery deepens.”

I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I knew better than to question Bappa da when he had his mind set on something. He pointed dramatically at a nearby alley, his finger jabbing the air like he was presenting a winning argument.

“See that alley?” Bappa da asked, voice dripping with conviction. “This is where the criminal struck. I bet my last ledikeni that Biltu’s bicycle is hidden there!”

We trudged over, stepping over a stray dog that lazily flicked its tail as we passed. And then, right at the end of the alley, there it was—an abandoned bicycle leaning against the wall. The frame was a bit dirtier, and it had no seat cover, but the general shape, the faded red paint—it all matched.

Bappa da stepped forward, puffing out his chest like a rooster about to crow. “Ei to! Ami case-ta singlehandedly solve kore dilam. (This is it! I’ve cracked the case singlehandedly.)” He gave it a hearty pat as though he’d just solved an international crime.

Biltu stepped closer, inspecting the cycle. He tilted his head, his face scrunched in confusion. “I… I don’t think this is mine,” he said, running his fingers over the handlebar. “Seat-er cover-ta nei. Aar chaka gulo-o alada lagchhe. (It’s missing the seat cover. And the wheels look different.)” He looked up at Bappa da, still uncertain.

Bappa da’s expression didn’t waver. He knelt down beside the cycle, gesturing wildly with his hands. “Biltu, bokar moto kotha bolish na. Eta tor-e cycle. (Biltu, don’t be ridiculous. This is your cycle.)”

Biltu said nothing, but his eyes lingered on Bappa da for a long moment. It was clear that, although he wasn’t fully convinced, he feared Bappa da too much to question him. Instead, he gave a small shrug, a resigned look on his face. “Alright, Bappa da. If you say so.” He glanced at the cycle again, his hands resting on the handlebars.

Goopi leaned in for a closer look. “Amar mone hoy Biltui thik-oi koitase. Cycle-da same-oi dekhte, kintu— (I think Biltu’s right. It looks similar, but—)”

Bappa da cut him off, waving a dismissive hand. “Details, details. This is definitely Biltu’s! It’s just a little modified. The thief must’ve removed the seat cover to hide the evidence! Classic move.”

We all looked at each other in confusion, but Bappa da was on a roll now, not about to back down. He puffed his chest out, putting on a self-important air. “Kolkata pulisher amake chakri dewa uchit (Kolkata police should hire me),” he declared, “I’ve solved this case faster than they ever could. This cycle is Biltu’s, and the case is closed. Done. Solved. Over!”

Paglu, who had been unusually quiet, couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “You really are something, Bappa da. This ‘investigation’ might go down in history as the quickest one ever.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bappa da said, clearly pleased with himself. He bent down to adjust the cycle’s handlebars, as if somehow solidifying his theory. Then he got up and patted Biltu on the shoulder with a thud that nearly sent him stumbling.

I exchanged a glance with Paglu and Goopi, both of us struggling to suppress our laughter. We’d been dragged through the streets, investigating every nook and cranny of the neighbourhood, only to find that Biltu’s cycle was likely never stolen to begin with. But that didn’t stop Bappa da from calling the case closed with all the flair of a seasoned detective.

“Amar mone hoy ehon ekdu pet puja kora dorkar amrar (I think we’ve earned ourselves a snack),” Goopi said, already eying the sweet shop in the distance.

Bappa da shot him a look. “Yes, yes, good idea,” he agreed. “We should celebrate. Treat for all from me. Jhontu go buy some.” I groaned.

After spending another five rupees on sweets, we were on our way back to the adda, all of us in varying degrees of disbelief. I kept glancing back at Biltu, who was trailing behind us, one hand holding the bicycle land the other one shoved deep into his pocket, clearly still trying to figure out exactly what had just happened.

“Can you believe this?” Paglu muttered, still not convinced. “Even if the bicycle was stolen, how did it end up in that alley? Why would the thief leave it there unlocked? We still don’t know this, and Bappa da’s out here acting like he solved the case of the century.”

Bappa da, of course, was taking it all in stride. “Ami toke ki bolechhilam, Paglu? Eta simple goyendagiri. (What did I tell you, Paglu? It’s simple detective work!) The mind of a genius, my friend. I should be running the police academy. They’d be begging for a lesson.”

Goopi, who had been quiet for a while, suddenly straightened up as though he’d just been struck by a revelation. “Wait a minute.” He squinted at Biltu, who flinched in surprise. “Kire Biltu, tor cycle-e to neel ronger handle bar aasilo, thik na? (Biltu… didn’t your bicycle have blue handlebar grips?)”

Biltu stopped in his tracks, eyes widening slightly. “Yeah… it did.”

I froze. The moment Goopi uttered, everything clicked. The bicycle we found in that alley—it has no blue grip on it. No grips at all. Just the plain, worn-out handlebar, not like the one I remembered from the morning. Then I realised something, and suddenly, the familiar churning in my stomach returned, sharper this time—I was certain I would need a bathroom anytime.

“Biltu,” I said slowly, piecing it together. “Aaj sokale tui tor cycle-ta amar okhane rekhe gechhili na? (Didn’t you leave your bicycle at my place this morning?)”

Biltu blinked, looking a little lost. “I… yeah, I did leave it there. I didn’t want my mother to catch me bringing it back in after taking it for a spin, you know. She’s always on my case about studying, not riding bicycles in the morning. So, I thought I’d leave it at your place before school. But…” He trailed off, staring at me as if the realisation was just dawning on him. “But I forgot all about that. I guess I just didn’t remember…”

Goopi and Paglu both stopped and stared at Biltu, their faces reflecting the same stunned expression. It was a moment of complete silence, broken only by the distant clang of a tram bell.

Biltu looked like he was about to cry, so all eyes turned to Bappa da. Surely, he’d be squirming now, caught red-handed in his own bluster about recovering the stolen bicycle. But to everyone’s amazement, he stood tall, completely unfazed, a smug grin spreading across his face.

“Hah! I knew it all along,” Bappa da declared, puffing out his chest with theatrical flair. “I knew the bicycle wasn’t stolen. Not for a second!”

“What?” Paglu couldn’t stop himself.

Bappa da raised a finger in the air, adopting the air of a seasoned professor about to deliver a groundbreaking lecture. “Eta shuru thekei shposhto chhilo. (It was obvious from the start.) Biltu, being the forgetful young lad that he is, must’ve simply forgotten where he left it. Naturally, that was my first deduction.”

Paglu’s jaw dropped, a mixture of disbelief and outrage flickering across his face. “I don’t believe it! If you say you knew that, why would you have us crisscross the entire para for hours? Care to explain that?”

“You see, that was all part of the plan,” Bappa da replied smoothly, brushing off Paglu’s indignation like a speck of dust. “I let you all run around so you’d learn a valuable lesson: always double-check before crying theft!”

Paglu threw his hands up in exasperation. “Ami to chechiye chechiye bollam je cycle-ta churi hoyni. (It was me who pointed out that the cycle might not have been stolen!) Meanwhile, you were busy accusing random bystanders of theft like some overzealous zamindar!”

Bappa da waved off the complaint with a practiced nonchalance. “Oh, ota? Ota shudhu ektu natok chhilo, botso! Tomader goyenda buddhi baranor ekta fondi. (Oh, that? Mere theatrics, my boy! Part of my strategy to sharpen your detective instincts.) After all, where else would you get such hands-on training? This isn’t a Feluda story, mind you. Mysteries don’t just fall into your lap every day here in Bose Pukur. You should be rather thankful for the opportunity.”

We all stared at him, stunned. Even Paglu had to give up and roll his eyes. He was clearly fuming, but even he couldn’t help but be amused by the way Bappa da was spinning this whole thing.

“Of course, Bappa da,” Goopi said sarcastically, but with a grin. “You must’ve totally planned for that bicycle to be hidden in an alleyway as well.”

“Exactly!” Bappa da didn’t miss a beat. “And that’s why I’m the master of this craft.”

I rubbed my forehead, still trying to get a grip on what had just happened. “I… I remember now,” I muttered, more to myself than to anyone else. “Biltu left it at my place. With all the stomach issues I’ve been dealing with since morning, I completely forgot about it too.”

The others looked at me, exchanging knowing glances. Paglu raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Forgot? Jhontu, I think you’d forget your own name if it wasn’t written down somewhere.”

Goopi snickered. “Next time, you should start carrying a notebook or something. Write down everything—might actually save us some trouble for once.”

Bappa da, of course, wasn’t having any of it. He clapped me on the back. “Oder patta disna, Jhonotu (Don’t listen to them, Jhontu),” he said with the exaggerated solemnity of a courtroom lawyer. “A true detective doesn’t scribble notes like some clerk. No, no, you’ve got to store them up here.” He tapped his temple with a flourish. “That’s what makes the great ones stand apart. They’re just envious because they couldn’t crack the case.”

With that, he struck a dramatic pose, looking off into the distance like a hero on the verge of a grand speech. “But I should say, true detective work isn’t about sprinting after suspects or scurrying through alleyways like rats. It’s about studying people, understanding their quirks, waiting for that one perfect moment when all the pieces fall into place. A good detective doesn’t get bogged down by the trivialities of the chase. A detective… keeps his cool.”

“Yes, even when he’s caught red-handed,” Paglu muttered under his breath, but Bappa da was too absorbed in his own grandeur to notice.

Bappa da continued, with full force. “I once solved a case just by listening to the way a man chewed his paan, marking his every step in the dust with my sharp eyes. In fact, let me tell you about that time I cracked the case of the missing mangoes, even though the culprits had already eaten them…”

I never heard the rest of it. I was already halfway home, racing for the bathroom.

I’m hiding behind a potted plant. Yes, I’ve sunk that low. A six-foot monstrosity of fake leaves and dust-covered plastic orchids. It smells faintly of Odomos and regret.

I could’ve said no to this wedding. I did say no to this wedding—twice. But Simran cried on the phone, and what was I supposed to do? Let her sob her way down the aisle alone?

Anyway, here I am. Dressed in borrowed finery, wedged between a pillar and an artificial jungle, hoping no one notices me. Spoiler alert: they will.

“Oh my gawd!”

And there it is. The sound of my social demise, wrapped in tulle and sequins. Five minutes in and Simran has spotted me.

She’s terrifying. A six-foot Amazon of bridal chaos straight out of Greek mythology. She’s probably glowing with excitement—but it’s hard to tell under what looks like the entire contents of a jewellery store.

“Over here! Over here!” she shouts again, waving like I’m a lost child at a fair.

I step out, awkwardly adjusting my saree, which is already rebelling against my existence. Sarees are beautiful, elegant, and completely impractical. It’s less of an outfit, more of a fabric-based booby trap.

“Simran,” I say, plastering on a smile. “You look…” like you’ve robbed a small country of its gold reserves “…stunning.”

She beams, oblivious. “And you made it! I was starting to think you wouldn’t!”

I shouldn’t have. I really shouldn’t have.

“Of course,” I say, nodding as if this entire ordeal was my idea. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Come, come!” She grabs my arm and drags me into the crowd. It’s like being pulled into the vortex of a human hurricane.

The courtyard is chaos. A sea of silk and sequins, everyone shouting over the blaring Bollywood music, which seems to have only two volumes: loud and ear-bleedingly loud.

Aunties are everywhere, clutching their clutches, judging everyone and everything. One of them eyes me suspiciously. The classic “Who is she, and why is she here?” look. Never gets old.

Simran introduces me to approximately a thousand people, none of whom I’ll remember. They’re all cousins. Everyone here is a cousin. Cousin by blood, cousin by marriage, cousin by some vague emotional contract signed in the 1970s.

“This is my friend!” Simran says for the hundredth time.

“Hello,” I say, waving like an idiot for the thousandth time.

One of the cousins—a man who looks suspiciously like he’s just woken up from a nap—stares at me blankly. “Who?”

“She’s my friend,” Simran says, squeezing my arm like she’s branding me. “My best friend.”

That’s news to me, but sure. Let’s roll with it.

“Ah,” the cousin says, nodding sagely, as if he’s finally understood quantum physics after a lot of struggle.

Simran beams at me. “Isn’t this incredible? Look at all of this!” She gestures grandly, taking in the glittering chaos.

“It’s… a lot,” I say.

She laughs, tossing her head back like she’s in a shampoo commercial. “Oh, you’re terrible. Come, I need you to—”

“Simran!”

Her mother appears, materialising out of thin air like some sort of heavily bejewelled spectre. Mrs. Kapoor is a force of nature. If Simran is a hurricane, Mrs. Kapoor is the tectonic plate shift that caused it.

“There you are,” she says, glaring at Simran as if she’d just found her after hours of searching. Her gaze shifts to me. “And who is this?”

“She’s my friend, Mum,” Simran says, exasperated. “You’ve met her before.”

Mrs. Kapoor narrows her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

Oh, good. I’m invisible. That’s actually a relief.

“She’s my friend from college,” Simran says, her voice sharp. “Remember? I told you she was coming!”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Kapoor says, which is neither a yes nor a no but definitely a go away.

Simran sighs. “Mum, please. We’re in the middle of something.”

“Middle of what?” Mrs. Kapoor snaps. “The music’s off-key, the caterers are confused, and I just saw your father eating pani puri in the middle of the reception!”

Scandalous. Someone call the press.

Simran groans and turns to me. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Oh, I’ll move. I’ll move so far, they’ll need a search party to find me.

Wait, why does Simran of all people have to go check on these? Nope, I don’t wanna know. The less I know the better my chances of getting outta here.

But before I can bolt, Simran disappears into the chaos, leaving me stranded with her mother.

Mrs. Kapoor eyes me critically. “So,” she says. “What do you do?”

Why does this question always feel like a threat?

“I, um…” What do I do? I exist? I survive? I panic at weddings? “…work in, uh, media.”

“Media?” she repeats, like I’ve just confessed to being a professional criminal. “What kind of media?”

“Digital,” I say, which is vague enough to sound important but meaningless enough to avoid follow-up questions.

“Hmph,” she says, clearly unimpressed.

I force a smile, already plotting my escape. But before I can, she leans in, her tone conspiratorial.

“Did you see what Tara is wearing? Compared to you, she’s practically dressed.”

She didn’t actually say the latter part, but that’s clearly what she meant. Wait, Tara? This wedding just become interesting.

And just like that, I’m in.

The gulab jamuns look really good.

I am standing by the dessert table, stuffing my face with gulab jamun because, frankly, I deserve it for surviving this long. And just as I’m contemplating whether I can sneak another one without being judged—I hear her.

“That’s not how you eat those.”

I turn, and there she is. Tara. The one Mrs. Kapoor was exalting about. Tara is the groom’s ex. THE EX. And Mrs. Kapoor of all people decides to take her side instead of the recently anointed best friend of the bride.

Tara is, well, gorgeous, obviously. The kind of gorgeous that makes you hate your own face a little. She’s wearing a saree that screams “I don’t even have to try” and has this air of casual superiority, like she’s here purely for sport.

“Sorry, am I using the wrong spoon?” I say, licking syrup off my fingers like a feral child.

She smiles. It’s not a nice smile. It’s the kind of smile people use when they want you to know they’ve already decided you’re beneath them. “No, it’s just… it’s better if you don’t double-dip.”

Oh, good. We’ve started with condescension. This’ll be fun.

“Noted,” I say, grabbing another gulab jamun, because if I’m going to be judged, I might as well earn it.

“You’re… Simran’s friend, right?” she asks, cocking her head.

There’s something about the way she says “friend” that makes it sound like an insult. I nod. “Yes, her best friend. And you’re…?” I know exactly who she is, but I’m not about to let her know that.

“I’m Tara,” she says, like it should come with a drumroll. “I used to date Raj.”

Ah, there it is. The flex. She could’ve easily said she’s a model who got featured on Vogue (which, by the way, she totally did; don’t ask me how I know; no, I’m not secretly obsessed with her) and it would have been a strong flex, but no, she chooses to drop this.

“Used to,” I repeat, just to make sure we’re all on the same page here. “Past tense.”

Her smile tightens. “Yes. But we’re still… close.”

Translation: She’s already mentally signed the wedding card from Raj and Tara.

“How lovely,” I say, because sarcasm is a reflex at this point.

“I mean, it’s not like he and I have any unfinished business or anything,” she adds, in a tone that suggests they absolutely do. “But, you know, when you’ve been together for so long, there’s always a connection.”

Oh, for God’s sake. She’s practically carving their initials into the dessert table.

“Right,” I say. “Well, Simran and Raj seem very happy. So. That’s nice.”

Her eyes flicker, just for a second. And then she leans in, dropping her voice like we’re sharing secrets. “Did you know he proposed to me first?”

I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

She shrugs, all faux-casual. “Oh, it was years ago. Obviously, it didn’t work out. But still… it’s funny, isn’t it? How life works.”

Funny. Hysterical. I’m in stitches. Why is she telling me this?

“Yeah,” I say, tilting my head. “Hilarious.”

She smiles again, satisfied, like she’s just planted a flag on Mount Smug. “Anywho, enjoy the wedding,” she says, patting me on the arm like I’m a child who’s just learned to tie her shoes.

And then she walks off, her saree trailing behind her like a victory banner.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the gulab jamun. Did that actually just happen? Did I just get negged by a woman in designer silk?

Simran appears out of nowhere, her bangles jingling as she grabs a piece of kaju katli. “What’s wrong with your face?” she asks.

“Your future husband’s ex girlfriend just told me he proposed to her first,” I say, still processing.

Simran pauses mid-chew. “Tara?”

“Yeah.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. She’s been telling that story for years. It was barely a proposal. He asked her if she wanted to move in, she panicked and ran off to Europe for six months.”

Well, that’s… underwhelming.

“Right,” I say. “Good to know.”

Simran grins and pops the rest of the sweet into her mouth. “Don’t let her get to you. She’s just here to remind everyone she could have been me if she wanted. But she isn’t. So.”

Fair enough. If I were Tara, I’d want to rub that in too.

“Anyway,” Simran adds, brushing crumbs off her hands, “stop standing around looking traumatised. You’re making the dessert table look depressing.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

She laughs and disappears into the crowd, leaving me alone again. I look down at the gulab jamuns in my hand.

Right. One for Tara, and one for me. That seems fair.

And I shove them into my mouth, because some victories are small, sticky, and unapologetically sweet.

Simran’s mother is wailing.

Not the delicate, ladylike kind of crying, either—no gentle dabbing of the eyes or artful sniffles. This is full-volume sobbing, the kind that makes everyone in a five-meter radius freeze mid-conversation and glance around nervously, as if someone’s just announced a death in the family.

She’s standing in the middle of the mandap—the mandap, the ornate centrepiece of this wedding circus—surrounded by half-finished flower arrangements and a very confused pandit who looks like he’s reconsidering his life choices.

I really shouldn’t be this close. This is dangerous territory. But chaos is like a magnet, and here I am, front-row seat to the meltdown.

“Where is the caterer?!” Mrs. Kapoor wails, clutching her saree like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

Simran, her perfect bride mask slipping, hisses, “Mum, calm down!”

“Calm down?” Mrs. Kapoor’s voice climbs several octaves, drawing in more spectators like a particularly dramatic street performer. “The samosas are missing! How can anyone calm down when the samosas are missing?”

Right. Because nothing says ‘sacred union of two souls’ like deep-fried snacks.

I sidle closer, trying to stay unnoticed, which is impossible because no one here knows me, and I’ve already been labeled “that random scrawny friend.” A random scrawny friend who is now in the front row of a meltdown.

“I told your father to handle it,” Mrs. Kapoor continues, waving her hands like an opera singer mid-aria. “And what does he do? He orders paneer tikka! Paneer tikka! Like we’re running some kind of cheap canteen!”

Simran presses her hands together like she’s praying. “Mum, please. The samosas don’t matter. Nobody cares about the samosas.”

Mrs. Kapoor gasps as if her daughter just suggested dismantling the Taj Mahal. “Don’t care? Simran, do you even know your own guests? These people live for the starters! If there are no samosas, they’ll talk about it for years! YEARS!”

Honestly, she’s not wrong. Indian aunties can hold a grudge longer than most international conflicts.

“Okay, okay, Mum,” Simran says, panic creeping into her voice. “I’ll call someone. We’ll fix it.”

“Fix it? FIX IT?!” Mrs. Kapoor rounds on her, eyes blazing. “How are you going to fix it? Are you going to magic samosas out of thin air?!”

I’m trying to think of something witty to remark when Simran grabs my arm suddenly, nails digging in like I’m a human life raft. “Come on, do something!”

“Me? What am I supposed to do?” I whisper-shout, because apparently I’ve been conscripted into the Great Samosa Crisis of 2024.

“Find Dad!” she snaps, pushing me toward the crowd. “He’s probably hiding near the bar.”

Smart man. Wish I’d thought of that.

I weave through the throng of overdressed wedding guests, dodging cousins, waiters, and a man with a suspiciously large plate of biryani. The air smells like perfume, sweat, and escalating drama.

Sure enough, I find Mr. Kapoor leaning casually against the bar, sipping something amber-coloured and looking remarkably unbothered by the chaos unfolding on his watch.

“Uh, hi,” I say, startling him slightly.

He glances at me, then back at his drink. “Ah, you’re Simran’s friend.”

“Yep,” I say. “Also apparently your wife’s personal assistant. She’s having a bit of a… moment. Something about missing samosas?”

He sighs, a man defeated by decades of marital skirmishes. “I told her the paneer tikka was enough.”

“Yeah, that’s not working for her,” I say. “She’s, um… you could say… not calm.”

He nods knowingly. “She never is.”

Fair point.

“Could you maybe, I don’t know, do something?” I ask, gesturing vaguely toward the mandap.

He downs the rest of his drink, sets the glass down with a decisive clink, and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

Do you, though?

I follow him back to the scene of the crime, where Mrs. Kapoor is now shouting into a phone in a mix of Hindi, English, and pure rage. Simran looks like she’s aged ten years.

“Darling,” Mr. Kapoor says, stepping into the fray with all the calm of a man who’s perfected the art of selective listening. “It’s just samosas.”

Mrs. Kapoor spins on him, eyes narrowed. “Just samosas? JUST SAMOSAS?!”

Oh, boy. He’s dead.

Before she can launch into another tirade, a waiter appears, carrying a tray piled high with—you guessed it—samosas.

“Madam,” he says, almost trembling. “We found them in the kitchen.”

Mrs. Kapoor stares at the tray like it’s the Holy Grail. “Finally,” she mutters, snatching one and inspecting it critically.

Simran looks at me, her expression a mix of exhaustion and relief. “Why did I even bother with this wedding?”

“Because you love him,” I say, shrugging.

She raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”

I smirk. “Well, you love champagne, and he’s paying for an open bar. Close enough.”

She snorts, but before we can elaborate, Mrs. Kapoor is back, barking orders at a waiter about the centrepiece on table three.

“Is that marigold?! Who chose marigold? I specifically said roses!”

I nudge Simran. “She’s like a stereotypical saas straight out of an Ekta Kapoor drama.”

For those of you who dunno, Ekta Kapoor is (rather, used to be) the queen of melodramatic Indian soap operas. And a saas is the mother-in-law who makes your life a living hell, always plotting, always scheming, and always a little too invested in your business. Think of her as the villain, but in a sari.

“You think she’d notice if I eloped?” Simran whispers.

“Oh, absolutely. She’d notice if you sneezed wrong today.”

Simran smiles weakly. “You see why I need the champagne?”

“Say no more. I’ll pour.”

As Mrs. Kapoor starts looking for fresh excuses to unleash her fury on her next victim, the world doesn’t end, the aunties don’t stop whispering, and the wedding machine lurches back into motion.

But let’s be honest. This is only the beginning.

The groom’s friend is drunk.

Not tipsy, not pleasantly buzzed. Drunk. The kind of drunk where you’re not entirely sure if he’s about to give a toast or confess to a series of crimes.

He’s holding the mic in one hand and a half-empty whiskey glass in the other, swaying slightly as he stares out at the audience like it’s a hostage situation.

“Um,” he says, clearing his throat loudly. “Hi. Hello. I’m Rohan. For anyone who doesn’t know me… well, shame on you.”

Ah, yes. The timeless art of starting a wedding toast with passive aggression. Bold choice.

I’m seated at the edge of the crowd, safely hidden behind an oversized flower arrangement. It’s the perfect vantage point—close enough to hear everything, far enough to pretend I don’t exist when this inevitably goes off the rails.

Rohan takes a long sip of his drink, smacking his lips afterward. “Okay, so. Where do I start?”

Anywhere, mate. Just start.

“I’ve known Raj—” he gestures vaguely toward the groom, who is smiling the tight, forced smile of a man who regrets every decision that brought him to this moment—“I’ve known Raj since we were kids. And let me tell you, this guy…” He pauses dramatically, leaning closer to the mic. “This guy is a legend.”

There’s a polite smattering of applause. Mrs. Kapoor glares at Rohan like she’s considering storming the stage.

“Legend,” Rohan repeats, as if we didn’t hear it the first time. “I mean, you wouldn’t believe some of the stuff we’ve done together. Like, remember Goa, bro?”

Raj’s eyes widen in panic. “Nope,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on!” Rohan laughs, slapping the mic against his thigh. “Goa! The tequila! That night on the beach with the…” He trails off, catching the bride’s icy glare. “…uh, the… stars. Yeah. The stars. Beautiful night.”

Beautiful night. Beautiful save. Although I’m fairly certain Simran is plotting his murder as we speak.

Simran leans over to Raj, whispering furiously. He nods, looking more terrified by the second.

Rohan, blissfully unaware of the social carnage he’s causing, barrels on. “But honestly, Raj is the best guy I know. I mean, yeah, he’s made some questionable choices—like, remember that time you tried to date two girls at once?”

The room collectively gasps. Someone drops a fork.

Raj buries his face in his hands. Simran’s nostrils flare so wide I half expect her to inhale Rohan on the spot.

This is good. This is so good. Someone pass the popcorn.

“But, hey,” Rohan says, holding up his glass, completely missing the nuclear fallout around him. “That’s all in the past, right? Because now, he’s got you, Simran. And you…” He squints at her like he’s trying to figure out if she’s real. “You’re… wow. You’re just… incredible. Like, stunning. Like, if I wasn’t Raj’s best friend…”

“ROHAN!” Raj barks, leaping out of his chair like he’s about to tackle him.

Rohan laughs nervously. “Kidding! Just kidding. Relax, bro. She’s all yours. For now.”

For now?! Is this man trying to die tonight?

Simran stands up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Rohan,” she says, her voice sugar-coated venom, “I think you’ve said enough.”

“Oh, come on!” he protests, waving his drink around. “I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet!”

“Rohan,” Raj says, his tone dangerously low.

“Fine, fine.” Rohan raises his hands in mock surrender, nearly spilling his drink. “I’ll wrap it up.” He clears his throat again, squinting at the mic like it’s personally offended him.

“So, uh… here’s to Raj and Simran,” he slurs, raising his glass high. “May your love be as epic as our Goa trip and as strong as this whiskey. Cheers!”

The audience is silent. Dead silent.

Then, somewhere in the back, an uncle coughs.

Mrs. Kapoor stands up, clapping slowly and deliberately, her expression screaming I will burn this guy to the ground.

Simran sits down, crossing her arms and glaring daggers at Raj, who looks like he’s actively trying to sink into the floor.

Rohan stumbles off the stage, grinning like he’s just delivered the toast of the century. He passes me on his way to the bar, raising his glass in a mock salute. “Nailed it,” he says.

Oh, Rohan. You beautiful idiot.

Simran’s voice cuts through the stunned silence. “Hey,” she hisses, jerking her head toward the bar. “Fix this.”

“Me?” I hiss under my breath. “How am I supposed to fix that?”

She doesn’t answer, just glares at me like I’m the reason her wedding is teetering on the brink of disaster. Not the fault of the human train wreck currently ordering another double whiskey.

But on the bright side, nothing says ‘true love’ like an accidental confession about a love triangle at a wedding. Oh, this wedding can’t possibly get any more comical. Spoiler alert: it does.

Simran pulls me into a side room, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my arm like talons. The door slams shut behind us, muffling the distant sound of aunties debating the dessert table and Rohan ordering yet another whiskey.

She whirls around, her dupatta flying like a cape. “I need to talk to you.”

Oh, God. This is either going to be a confession, a murder plot, or both. Please let it be both.

“Sure,” I say, leaning casually against the wall as if my heart isn’t pounding. “What’s up?”

Her eyes dart around the room, searching for… what, exactly? Hidden cameras? Spies? The last shred of her sanity?

“I can’t do this,” she blurts out.

I blink. “Do what?”

“This. All of this.” She gestures wildly, encompassing her designer lehenga, the endless gold decor, and presumably ‘the entire institution of marriage.’

Classic case of pre-wedding jitters. Or maybe she’s just realised she was born in a family that thinks samosas are a life-or-death situation.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

Simran takes a deep breath. “I think I’ve made a mistake.”

Oh, this is juicy. Someone call Netflix. This is season finale material.

“What kind of mistake?” I ask, because apparently, I’m the designated therapist at this disaster of a wedding.

She looks down at her hands, twisting her diamond bangle nervously. “I… I don’t think I love him.”

Oh!

“Right,” I say, because what the hell else do you say to that?

Simran lets out a frustrated groan, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. “I mean, I thought I did. Or maybe I just convinced myself I did because it made sense, you know? He’s nice. He’s safe. He’s…” She pauses, wrinkling her nose. “He’s stable.”

“Sounds thrilling,” I mutter.

“Plus, ‘Raj and Simran’—it has got a nice ring to it, no?”

“Seriously? That’s your big reason?”

She glares at me. “Don’t.”

“Sorry,” I say. Not sorry at all.

For the uninitiated, DDLJ—or Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge—is basically the ultimate Bollywood romance. It’s this film where Raj chases Simran across Europe and India, because, well, love. Oh, and for Indian girls? They’re not just characters—they’re the couple. The one they all grew up dreaming about. So yeah, I’m not really surprised that Simran decided to marry Raj just because his name is Raj. Facepalm.

Simran stops pacing and looks at me, her face a mix of panic and determination. “But then… then he showed up.”

Wait. Who’s he?

“Who?” I ask, because I am physically incapable of not prying at this point.

Simran hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip. “My ex.”

There it is. Cue the dramatic music.

“Your ex is here?” I say, my voice rising an octave. “At your wedding?”

She nods miserably. “He wasn’t supposed to come! I didn’t even invite him! But my cousin thought it would be funny to—”

“Wait,” I interrupt, holding up a hand. “Why would your cousin think it’s funny to invite your ex-boyfriend to your wedding?”

Simran shrugs helplessly. “Because she’s a sadist?”

Fair.

“And now what?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You’re just realising you’re still in love with him? At your own wedding?” That too after I’ve already suffered through three hours of speeches and samosa drama?

She winces. “I know. I know. It’s terrible.”

“Terrible doesn’t even begin to cover it,” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “This is… this is a Bollywood plotline. All we need is a dramatic rainstorm and a slow-motion hug.”

Simran laughs weakly, but it quickly dissolves into a sob. “What am I going to do?”

I stare at her, completely at a loss. Because, let’s be honest, I did not sign up for this level of emotional heavy lifting. I thought I’d be sipping champagne and making snide comments about Raj’s looks, not navigating the ethical minefield of runaway brides.

“You could…” I trail off, realising I have absolutely no idea what to suggest. “Um. Well, you could just… marry him and hope for the best?”

She glares at me again. “That’s terrible advice.”

Accurate.

“Fine,” I say. “Then don’t marry him. Call it off. But you’re going to have to tell everyone, and it’s going to be messy, and your mother will probably faint, and—”

“Stop!” she snaps, holding up a hand. “I can’t. I can’t. It’s… it’s too late.”

“Simran,” I say, softening my tone, “it’s never too late. Well, okay, maybe it’s too late once the vows are done, but we’re not there yet?”

Simran shakes her head, tears streaming down her face now. “I don’t know what to do.”

Neither do I, but hey, at least I’m not the one wearing a ten-kilo lehenga and hundreds of thousands of rupees’ worth of regret.

Before I can say anything else, there’s a knock at the door.

“Um… Simran?” Raj’s voice calls out, muffled but unmistakably concerned. “Are you okay in there?”

Simran freezes, her eyes wide with terror.

Well. This just got much more interesting.

The ceremony is officially underway, and I’m doing everything I can not to roll my eyes. The priest is speaking in a language that I don’t understand, but I’m fairly certain he’s just repeating the same lines over and over.

Simran’s hands are shaking beside me. I glance at her. She’s staring at the altar with the look of someone who’s about to start a very public meltdown. Exactly the vibe you’d expect from an Indian bride. I’m not surprised.

She tilts toward me. Her voice is barely a whisper. “I can’t… I’m not sure anymore. What if I’m making a mistake? I think I’m still in love with Ranbir.”

Okay, I thought this was over. Looks like there’s still a bit of drama left.

I lean over to her, trying to be comforting but secretly loving the fact that this is happening right now. Like, come on. It’s the kind of mess that makes you glad you’re not the one in the hot seat.

“It’s okay,” I whisper back, my lips curling into a grin. “You’re not the first person to have a panic attack…” or a rekindling of feelings for a former lover “…at her own wedding. You’ll be fiiiiiine. Look at all the drama your mother has already caused. What’s one more if you decide to skip town for the night?”

That’s… bad advice. I’m a bad friend. But I’m really good at making terrible decisions. So.

Simran looks at me, wide-eyed and terrified, and I can’t help but laugh softly. I should be comforting her, right? But it’s like the universe has handed me a front-row seat to the kind of trainwreck I can’t turn away from.

Before Simran can respond, the groom’s ex—yes, THE ex, Tara, who was once featured in Vogue and ran off to Europe when Raj asked her to move in—walks past us. She’s gliding in slow motion, like a bird of prey, but with the elegance of a swan. You can practically feel the drama radiating off her.

Simran stiffens next to me, and I just know what’s coming. The ex shoots Simran a glance—slow, deliberate, the kind that says, “I know what you’re about to do, and I’m here for it.”

I’m practically salivating.

“Well,” I whisper into Simran’s ear, barely containing my excitement, “if you decide to abscond, at least the groom would have options.”

Simran looks at me, panic in her eyes. “What do you mean by—?”

But before she can finish, the priest—or, the emcee of the wedding ceremony, as I like to think of him—calls for the vows.

Simran’s eyes widen, and I can see the gears in her brain working overtime. She’s about to bolt. I can feel it. I’ve seen it a million times in movies, but I’ve never actually seen it happen in real life. Until now. Thank God I came to this wedding.

“Simran,” I hiss, my voice low but filled with a little too much glee. “Do it. Just start walking toward the gate. Then run. I’ll cover for you.” Well, sort of. I mean, I have no actual plan.

Simran freezes. She’s weighing it all. Tara’s still lurking around, and I can see the bride-to-be and the girlfiend-that-was having some silent, dramatic stare-off, with the entire wedding audience just… waiting. Simran’s heart is pounding so loudly (or, is it mine?), I swear I can hear it.

And then, just as she stands up straight, ready to run, the groom—sweet, oblivious, and possibly an idiot—turns toward her.

“Simran, you ready?”

God. That’s the worst thing you could say to someone who’s already halfway out the door.

She doesn’t bolt. But you can see it in her face—she wants to.

Instead, she takes a deep breath, straightens her back, and looks at me. “I can’t.”

I raise my glass of whatever-was-left-from-the-pre-wedding-toast. Reverse psychology. Always works. You tell someone to do something, they’ll probably do the exact opposite. People always let you down someway, don’t they?

Simran exhales sharply, like she’s accepted her fate. Maybe it’s the realisation that the world’s watching and you can’t just run off to a beach every time you feel like you’ve made a mistake.

I mean, that’s my personal philosophy, but we don’t all have the luxury of impromptu tropical getaways—especially not when you’re the bride.

The music swells, and everyone’s attention shifts back to the altar. I sip my drink a little too smugly. I mean, I single-handedly saved this wedding from complete disaster, didn’t I?

Wait…

Simran suddenly storms off the stage like she’s auditioning for MTV Splitsvilla: Dramatic Exit Edition. Her wedding dress billows behind her as she marches down the aisle, making everyone scramble to get out of her way. It’s honestly impressive—I’ve never seen anyone leave a wedding with this much grace. Bollywood should take note.

The groom doesn’t even try to look cool when he rushes after her. He stumbles, trips on his own feet, and somehow manages to slightly knock over a vase. His desperation is practically a living thing now, just like the pile of confusion sitting in his chest.

This is better than Bollywood. Seriously, I should charge for the rights to this. The absolute chaos. The pacing. The twist ending that even I didn’t see coming.

Meanwhile, the music skips.

The DJ stumbles with the turntables, looking as clueless as a goat in a library. I swear, if it weren’t so predictable, I’d be impressed.

The guests are starting to murmur, all whispering at once, like they’ve been handed a front-row seat to a disaster and are desperate to have a piece of it. The aunties in the front row are shouting something about tradition. A couple of uncles are shaking their heads, pretending they’re too dignified to get involved. While I’m sipping my drink. Slowly. Deliberately.

I think weddings are nothing but funerals with better catering. Think about it—both are full of uncomfortable outfits, awkward reunions, and someone crying in the corner. The only real difference? At a wedding, they’re burying your freedom instead of your body. But this one was different. I’m glad I came.

Raj is still sprinting after Simran, who’s practically out the gate. At this point I’m pretty sure he’s just running for the sake of running. I’d be tempted to shout at him, “Mate, give it up,” but why spoil the spectacle?

Tara, sitting there smugly glances up from her phone just long enough to catch a glimpse of the trainwreck she’s witnessing. She gives a little snort, like she knew it was all going to happen this way.

I can’t wait to see what she posts later. “Just your average day at a wedding: chaos, heartache, and bridal meltdowns. #blessed.” I bet she’s writing that caption right now.

I wonder what’s going on in Simran’s ex’s mind right now. He’s probably considering sprinting faster than Raj to impress her.

The music cuts out completely. A waiter drops a tray of champagne glasses. Someone’s phone goes off—loudly—and no one bothers to silence it. It’s as if the whole thing has become a circus, with each disaster just adding fuel to the fire. Everyone’s too uncomfortable to leave, so they just stand there, pretending this isn’t the most awkward thing to ever happen in public.

And I’m here for that exactly.

The wedding’s pretty much dead in the water at this point. Simran and Raj? They’re probably not going to fix this, even if Raj somehow manages to catch up with her. The bride and groom’s parents are too busy arguing over whose fault this is, which is truly the best part of a wedding—when the finger-pointing begins. Let’s be honest, Mrs. Kapoor will clock me first. Right after she’s finished her dramatic wailing, of course. Priorities.

I’ve always been confused, but now I’m thinking I might want to have my own wedding one day. But only if the bride (that’s me) storms off, leaving everyone in a state of confusion. Otherwise, it’s a waste of time, really. Just putting it out there.

Ajinkya begins, a bit nervous.

From what I know, it was the month of February when Sid set the scene. Paris, cold as a butcher’s steel, with a wind that could slice you right in half. I’d say he planned every detail—the city, the gallery, even the faint whiff of bergamot he’d picked up just for the occasion. Because that was Sid’s way. He didn’t stumble into things; he sculpted them.

You’d have thought it was a romance movie, the way he described it to me later, all breathless on the phone like he’d just climbed out of bed with a model. He’d watched Evelyn for weeks, trailing her in that careful, predatory way of his. Not obvious, just close enough to catch her rhythms. He knew her favourite pieces in the gallery, could recite them like holy scripture. And he knew she liked to linger by the Rothkos—“transcendent,” she once told him, though I bet she didn’t know why.

So he waited, silent as a ghost, and when one day she was alone, he stepped forward, slow and deliberate, made a half-turn like he’d only just noticed her. According to Sid, he didn’t flood her with compliments—no, he wouldn’t show his hand. Instead, he praised the art in a low, thoughtful tone, with that little hitch in his voice just vague enough to invite her in.

Evelyn’s sharp, you know—sixty-something with an eye like a diamond cutter. She could sense most men’s intentions the way a cat sniffs out poison. But Sid? He’s a damn anomaly. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t gawk or swoon, just shared that quiet admiration, gently brushed against her loneliness like it was his own.

Soon he was weaving in these little parallels, one by one. A story of a lost love, and a failed marriage. Sid had done his homework, of course—knew her late husband’s whole bio, right down to his obsession with chess. Sid even faked a passing knowledge of the game, told Evelyn about a fierce match he’d played with some unnamed lover, his tone dark and deep like he could barely bring himself to relive it.

By their third meeting, she was hooked, though she didn’t know it yet. He remembered every bit of trivia she’d let slip, turned each crumb into a feast. He found a battered first edition of Madame Bovary—her favourite novel, had her favourite cabernet decanted and ready before she even glanced at the menu, knew precisely when to leave her wanting more and when to swoop in with a gentle, consoling hand. I’ll admit, I envy him a little. How does one become that perfect echo, that flawless mirror of someone else’s heart?

Sid praised Evelyn like she was Athena herself. Lauded her independence, admired her wit, even made her laugh at herself, which no one had dared in years. With Sid, she felt bright, sharp, resurrected in some way. He fed her dreams of lazy mornings in a vineyard they’d “someday buy together,” just him and her against the world. I’ve met her on their wedding. She believed it wholeheartedly. Hell, even I believed it for a minute.

Would you say your brother has always been like this? The voice inquires, the face revealing no emotion. Outside, the Mumbai rain is pouring relentlessly, hammering down as if it has a score to settle.

Ajinkya takes a sip from his coffee, clears his throat, and resumes.

Yes, kind of. But it’s more complicated than that. You see, Sid is my stepbrother. When I was about three, my mother passed away from malaria. My father remarried, and Sid was born from that second union. My stepmother treated me as if I were her own child, and I always felt lucky for her kindness, especially after hearing so many tales of wicked stepmothers. With hardly any memories of my real mother, I fully embraced my stepmother. This affection naturally extended to Sid, whom I loved deeply.

But fate had other plans. Our parents died in a railway accident while we were still in school. It hit both of us hard, but Sid felt it more profoundly. He’s not a bad guy, really. You could say the tragedy unleashed something in him.

Ajinkya pauses, letting the weight of those words settle for a moment. The face across is still expressionless. After a moment of stillness, Ajinkya continues.

Back in school, Sid was already testing boundaries. He started tricking classmates out of their lunch money with these ridiculous “investment opportunities.” Told them they could double their money for the end-of-year trip. He had them eating out of his hand.

Sid had a gift. His quick thinking and persuasive nature won him a small army of friends, all too eager to believe in his schemes. But it was never just for the money; it was about the thrill. He loved the game.

He failed his exams miserably, yet somehow managed to win the principal’s favour. He helped organise a sports event at our school and was a talented footballer, leading us to a championship victory. Impressed by his efforts, the principal gave him a pass. He graduated with the lowest marks possible, but he did it. I suppose you could say he learned early on how to navigate the system.

Ajinkya pauses once more, searching for any sign of interest. Continue, the voice prompts, almost dismissively.

As time went on, Sid’s escapades only grew more nefarious. It was like watching a talented painter slowly morph into a graffiti artist, each stroke bolder and more reckless. Despite his intelligence, he dropped out of college before finishing his second semester, choosing instead to set up an illegal betting operation. He drew people in with the same seductive promises he had once used on his classmates—easy money and the thrill of victory.

I tried to talk sense into him more times than I could count. “You’re smarter than this,” I’d say, exasperated. “You don’t need to do this.” But my words were like water on stone; they slid off his back with an indifference that was both familiar and frustrating.

For a while, it worked. He made good money, riding high until the inevitable crash came. The betting centre was shut down in a blaze of legal fireworks—cops raiding his little den of vice while he slipped through the cracks. He pivoted quickly, of course.

Next, Sid turned to selling pirated software, movies, and games. He targeted college students and fresh graduates desperate for free or cheap access to the latest releases. He set up a network that was slick, almost professional, and for a couple of years, it flourished. He had an uncanny ability to identify the hunger for something just out of reach. It was like he could smell desperation in the air, and he thrived on it.

Then came the scam emails. The low-hanging fruit of his operation. He’d sit there, tapping away on the computer, spinning intricate webs of deceit to trick people into sending him money under false pretences. It was like watching a slow-motion car crash—you couldn’t look away, even though you knew where it would end.

But I must add, though our paths had become very different, Sid still loved and respected me. When I got a scholarship to study abroad, but found myself short on money, it was Sid who swooped in to save the day.

“I’ve got you covered, big brother,” he had said, in a warm and reassuring voice. “It’s my gift to you. For looking out for me. It’s the least I can do.”

I never learnt where Sid got the money, and he never accepted it back. I was grateful, of course, but there was a gnawing feeling in the back of my mind. His gift felt more like a tether than an act of brotherly love. With every transaction he made, I wondered what price he was truly paying. But still, there was that flicker of admiration. In his twisted way, Sid was always looking out for me, even as he spiralled deeper into his own chaotic world.

Ajinkya rises from the chair, shifting his weight as discomfort from sitting too long creeps into his back. He begins to pace the room, before continuing with his story.

But it’s not like Sid has had a Midas touch all his life. Far from it, actually. For every crazy scheme that worked, there was a graveyard of misfires.

There was that time he decided to ‘make it big’ the honest way. He pulled together a few friends, pitched them on this high-minded idea of eco-friendly travel accessories. You’d think Sid was selling the cure for the planet, the way he went on. They borrowed big and started hiring people left and right, all fired up about “changing the world.” It went under within a year. The debt alone nearly buried him. That was the first time I saw him truly shaken, like maybe he didn’t have it all figured out after all.

But of course, Sid didn’t stay down for long. He bounced back with this grand idea that he needed a “clean break,” so he borrowed some money and took off for Europe to “find himself.” There, he met an heiress—young, blonde, practically dripping diamonds. They fell headfirst into one of those whirlwind romances, all candlelit dinners and rented yachts. For a while, I think Sid genuinely believed he’d found the fairy tale. He spun her a story about being some exotic businessman. They danced through Paris and skied the Alps, until, inevitably, she found herself a real prince. Left him without a second thought.

Sid came back humbled. But, naturally, the break didn’t last. Once he recovered financially, he dumped all of it into a new idea, one that promised to revolutionise urban farming with some “groundbreaking” technology. He was so excited—talking about how they were going to feed cities, reimagine agriculture. And then, just as quickly, the whole thing imploded. Overnight, he was back to square one, and this time I could hear the strain in his voice, a heaviness I hadn’t heard before, like this was the end of it. No more.

That was when he met a retired banker. Sid called it pure chance, but I seriously doubt that. He’d been drinking alone in some hotel bar, spinning tales to anyone who’d listen, when this guy—older, amused—came over and struck up a conversation. I guess he found Sid’s relentless ambition… endearing, or at least entertaining. He offered Sid a temporary job as his personal chauffeur for the rest of the summer.

It didn’t pay much, so at first I didn’t really understand why he took it. But that gig turned out to be his lifeline. He got introduced to people, the kind who could open doors with a single call. Soon enough, Sid wasn’t just chauffeuring; he was going to exclusive galas, getting invitations to private events, building his own network of well-placed friends. He may not have been rich, but he was back in the game. Come to think of it, I bet he planned all of it.

Ajinkya returns to the chair, settling back down as he collects his thoughts.

I think this was a major turning point. After that, Sid’s actions started getting more and more sinister. Even marriage didn’t slow him down or anchor him in any way it was supposed to. Though he was married to his college sweetheart, he spun off into multiple affairs like it was his second nature. Then, one day, he vanished on a trip abroad—saying it was for work but offered no further details. He was gone for seven months, returned with a girlfriend in tow, and not long after, the news broke: she was expecting. Sid left his wife without so much as a backward glance, as if she never mattered.

People whispered that this new girl was the one he’d finally settle down with. They were “serious.” But it didn’t last. She went back to her family, and Sid, in true form, simply continued ahead, unbothered, unaffected, like it had been nothing but a layover on his way to some larger destination.

Ajinkya pauses for a moment before resuming.

Over time, Sid’s reputation grew darker. He leaned into it, actually seemed to enjoy it, as if notoriety was an accessory he wore just as easily as his designer watches. Fleeting romances with married women, glamorous socialites who thought they’d be the one to tame him—they were all sidetracks, little indulgences that fed his growing reputation.

He became a fixture at Mumbai’s most exclusive parties, a regular sight at events dripping with money and status. More often than not, you’d see him rubbing shoulders with movie stars, draping an arm around some fashion icon, sharing a drink with a business mogul. He charmed the room with that easy smile, a glass of champagne in hand, the centre of attention even among the powerful and wealthy.

When you look at him, it’s obvious why he draws people in. Sid looks the part. Unlike me, he takes care of himself. Great hair, impeccable skin, and an edge to his style that made him look younger than he had any right to at forty-three. You put us side by side, and, honestly, I’d look like his dad, not his older brother. Age and responsibility etched lines on my face, and maybe I accept that with a shrug, a sort of surrender to the everyday life I’ve chosen in the States with my wife and kids.

How did you keep hearing about Sid even after you moved abroad? The voice finally asks, breaking its long silence.

Mostly secondhand. Friends who knew I’d want to keep up with him sent stories across the ocean. And Sid himself, on those rare, slurred late-night calls, filled in the gaps. He never called me when he was on top, never to gloat. I’d hear from Sid only when he was alone, when the charm had dulled, the crowds had thinned, and he was left with that hollow, unsteady feeling he’d never admit to anyone but me.

I was his only true friend, and I knew it. The only person he wouldn’t dupe, wouldn’t dress up his misery for. Sid trusted me in that strange way he had—total honesty only when the lights were dimmed and the laughter had faded. He’d call me with his voice thick from whatever was in his glass, and he’d talk for hours about the big, empty spaces in his life that no party, no conquest, could fill. He’d trail off, drunk and sad and lonely, and I’d listen, the only constant he had left to lean on. In those wee hours of the morning, I really felt sorry for my brother.

And the last you heard from Sid was after Evelyn? The voice enquires.

I can tell you that Sid never lifted a finger at her. Never told Evelyn to cut anyone off outright. I’m sure because that isn’t his style. He is way more… delicate.

I don’t have all the details, but I can tell you it would have started with the small, unnoticed things. Say, if one of Evelyn’s many cousins tried to reach out for a dinner or weekend getaway, Sid would sigh, talk about how Evelyn was ‘simply too exhausted these days’ or that ‘the doctor really advised against too much excitement.’

He knew Evelyn would lean on his word. It would be almost impressive—how he would never actually forbade her from seeing anyone, just sowing a quiet doubt, and make her question if she had the energy, the stamina, the time. Her friends and cousins, so used to her warmth, would slowly start sensing a distance, but Sid would always give them a reason to chalk it up to Evelyn’s ‘new life’—a natural shift, he’d call it, with marriage.

Evelyn, for her part, had grown increasingly reliant on Sid. This I knew from the way she behaved whenever we met. She’d been through a lot in her life and had carried a lot of it alone. Now, here he was, attentive, caring, always nearby with a reassuring smile or an arm around her when she felt unsure. She started to feel that he was the only one who truly had her best interests at heart. Family was family, yes—but Sid was her husband. Her rock, she must have told herself. He might have even planted the idea that ‘they’ might come after her for her wealth once she was gone, leaving her to ask him how to ‘protect her interests.’ This most likely made her rewrite her will with his name at the top—leaving him a significant portion of her wealth and estate.

You must know what happened after that, right? The voice asks, a hint of curiosity creeping in this time.

Yes. A few months after the new will was finalised, Evelyn died in a riding accident. As far as I know, she’d been riding since she could walk—horseback was second nature to her. But on one sunny morning, she went out on her favourite mare and never came back. They found her at the base of a hill, her neck at a terrible angle, her helmet cracked. A ‘tragic misstep,’ they called it, but no one who knew Evelyn could believe it.

I flew there as soon as I could. Her friends, her cousins—all of them were looking for answers, foul play was on everyone’s lips. Sid had already wrapped himself in the shield of grief and loss, tears at the ready. My brother was genuinely sad. I cannot tell if he really loved her or not, but he was sad on that day.

Can you share what happened at the funeral? The voice seems to be getting more and more eager.

At the funeral, Sid moved around like a shadow—impeccably dressed but unassuming, his suit tailored just so, his watch understated, his face the very picture of dignified sorrow. He kept his hands folded in front of him, head bowed ever so slightly, saying little but speaking volumes with his silence. You wouldn’t think he was the centre of anyone’s attention.

Did you notice anything unusual?

Yes, I saw her—Clara. Evelyn’s daughter, back from the life she’d built away from her mother. We all knew she existed, but no one had met her, not even Sid. It was odd, though, how quickly he drifted over to her, how his hand found her shoulder, so light it might’ve been mistaken for a breeze. I remember she had looked up, startled but relieved, and he steered her away from the crowd, the hand now resting on her back, just a comforting anchor. As he drew her into a quiet corner, something didn’t sit right. It was too smooth, too well-practiced. It didn’t feel like they were meeting for the first time.

I was there for a while so I know that in the days that followed, Sid moved in gently but deliberately, threading himself into Clara’s life with that calculated softness he had mastered over years. She stayed at the estate for a month. Whenever she seemed overcome, he was there to murmur that he, too, was a survivor of Evelyn’s loss. They shared a wound, he told her, as though that tied them closer than blood. He planted memories, careful anecdotes about Evelyn’s supposed last thoughts and wishes, each one painting a mother who had missed her daughter but had been too proud, or too afraid, to reach out. He spun tales of Evelyn sitting up late, mentioning Clara with misty eyes, wishing they’d had a chance to bridge the gap.

Did Sid tell you about all this?

No, but it wasn’t like he was hiding it from anyone, and I have eyes and ears. It worked. Bit by bit, I could see Clara leaning on him, seeking him out as though he were the last tether to Evelyn’s memory. Sid even began suggesting that Evelyn had left the door open for reconciliation, a pathway that was only too clear now that she was gone. It was a well-worn tactic of his—the same one he’d used with Evelyn herself, presenting himself as the person who truly understood her when no one else did.

How did others take it?

Of course, Evelyn’s cousins weren’t so easily convinced. They’d seen him circle her life, tightening his grip, and now they watched his intimacy with Clara that even Evelyn didn’t have, with barely veiled suspicion. They were waiting for him to slip, to show his hand, and when he took Clara under his wing so soon, I could feel their eyes on him, weighing each move, each whispered word. They knew something wasn’t right—they could feel it just as I did.

Ajinkya has been sitting in a stiff-backed chair all this time, the harsh fluorescent light casting shadows across his hands, clasped on the cold metal table in front of him. The room’s been smelling faintly of disinfectant and old coffee, the walls bare except for a two-way mirror that has been giving him the unsettling sense he was being watched, scrutinised, peeled apart. Across from him, the man’s gaze didn’t waver, his expression impassive, patient.

Ajinkya’s mind felt like it was running circles around a single, gnawing truth he didn’t want to acknowledge.

That’s all I have—Ajinkya blurts out—I swear I don’t know where Sid is right now. I haven’t heard of him ever since he eloped with Clara.

Alright! You’ve been helpful so far in this investigation. But tell me something, why now?—the man across asks—why give up Sid after all these years? From what I understand, he had never put you or your family in harm’s way.

The words lingers, and Ajinkya swallows hard, feeling his reasons tumble inside him like loose stones—honesty, integrity, justice. But deeper down, a cold and familiar resentment is twisting his gut.

For years, I told myself it was about principles—Ajinkya begins, his voice low, a bitter edge slipping through. —Sid wormed his way into Evelyn’s life, hell, maybe even her death. And Clara? She trusted him. She thought he was some lifeline, someone who’d understand. But Sid doesn’t care. He never did. He has this… callousness that still turns my stomach, this ability to look people in the eye, tell them he’s their hero, and then leave them shattered, wondering where they went wrong.

He stops, looking down at his hands. —But it’s more than that. It’s… more than that.

The truth is, if I have to be completely honest... I’ve built this life, you know—a wife, kids, a house with a mortgage I’ll probably die still paying. Stability. It’s what we’re supposed to want, right? But all this time, I’ve watched Sid drift through life with this arrogant, effortless charm. He walks into a room, and people give him everything. He doesn’t work for it, he doesn’t even pretend to care, and yet he gets the world handed to him on a silver platter.

Ajinkya shakes his head, bitterness twisting his face. —I’ve been out here holding the pieces together, playing the good guy. And Sid… Sid’s out there burning the world to ashes, and somehow, he always comes out clean. Always.

He leans forward, gripping the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold onto. —And I wanted him to pay. Just once. I wanted him to feel what it’s like to lose, to actually face consequences. There should be some justice. —He sighs, a hollow laugh escaping him. —Maybe I wanted to be the one who made him fall. That’s why.

The man holds his gaze, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he reaches into his jacket and places a sleek black phone on the table, and slides it toward Ajinkya.

Ajinkya picks it up. Then comes a voice—low, cool, tinged with something that sounds almost like amusement. I needed to know if I could trust you, brother. Now I know.

Ajinkya’s blood freezes.

Sarah and I made sense. There’s a purity in things that fit. No drama, no grand gestures. She’d laugh at my jokes before I even finished them, and I’d finish her sentences when she trailed off, like we shared one mind. It wasn’t just easy, it was natural. No one could look at us and not think, “There it is. The perfect couple.”

Sarah had her consulting gigs, and I had my work, and we’d come together at night, unwind in the safety of each other. She was strong, so sure of herself, the kind of woman who made other people look twice. Not because of her looks, though she was beautiful, but because of her presence. Sharp-minded, principled, funny in that quiet, clever way.

It’s strange to think back now. How simple it all seemed. How effortless. But there’s a weight to that kind of simplicity, too. A kind of predictability that makes you wonder if something’s missing. That’s where it started, I think.

People don’t talk about perfection much—maybe because they don’t want to admit how fragile it is. I did love Sarah. Deeply. I still do. And the other women… they were like side quests, like in a video game. Just little distractions. Nothing of importance. More like cigarettes at the end of a long day.

But I do have to admit, if anything, it all made me appreciate Sarah even more. I think, in some twisted way, those side quests reminded me why I always came back to her. She was home. She was the real thing. Everything else was fake. Fifteen years together. You can’t throw that away, not for something temporary. Dammit I miss her so much!

I liked the women I was with. They were interesting, funny, different. Each one had something that pulled me in. Take Jenny—wild and unpredictable, someone who reminded me what it felt like to lose control, to let go of the reins for a bit.

The way I saw it, I was playing a role. Like slipping into someone else’s skin for a while, like being in a movie where you know the script and nothing can touch the real you. There’s a kind of freedom in that, in pretending for a little while.

One-night stands? Not my style. Too shallow. I craved connection—a sense of something real-ish, something that felt… substantial-ish. There’s that illusion, you know? That you’re peeling back layers, really discovering someone. That’s the real high. Not just the thrill of the chase, but the way it makes you feel like you’re diving into something meaningful… ish.

But you see, connection is a messy, slippery thing. You think you’ve got it, but it’s more like fumbling in the dark, pretending the pieces fit when they don’t. I loved chasing it. But I also knew it was a lie. Like one of those cheap puzzles where the edges look right, but when you stare long enough, you see the gaps. The fit is never perfect—it can’t be.

What I wanted wasn’t connection, not really. Just the feeling of it. Enough to make it seem almost true. But “true” was the story I fed myself, a script I could live in temporarily, something to keep me moving. Those moments weren’t love or meaning; they were placeholders. Temporary flashes to make me feel like I wasn’t hollow. Like something mattered, even if it didn’t.

I’ve always been good at knowing when it’s time to move on, when to make a clean exit. Before anyone could get hurt. Isn’t that the way things should be? Everyone leaves happy, none the wiser.

There’s this idea that love and faithfulness are supposed to be synonymous. I think that’s flawed. Monogamy, at its core, is just a construct. We dress it up as respect or morality, but maybe it’s just fear. Fear of being alone, fear of being exposed. People love to think they own each other in relationships, but really, it’s more like renting—temporary, with terms and conditions.

Jenny was chaos wrapped in skin, a tornado in heels. She swept into my life like a gust of hot wind, and suddenly everything was dizzy and off-kilter. It was always like that with her—there’s no warning, no plan. Just her. I should’ve hated it, the unpredictability of it all, but instead, it was like a drug. The thrill, I suppose, was in not knowing. People say the unknown terrifies them, but isn’t it also where we feel most alive? You can’t feel the drop unless you’ve stood at the edge first.

I remember this one night, it was her idea to break into the rooftop of a building. It was closed off to the public, which only made it more appealing for her. There’s something primal about breaking rules—it’s like we’re rejecting the civilised selves we’ve worked so hard to build, reclaiming some part of us that has always craved destruction. Her eyes lit up when she said it, like we were teenagers again, as if there was something delicious about doing the wrong thing. That look—wild and reckless—used to make me feel more alive than I usually felt.

That was the thing about Jenny: she made the world tilt just enough to be dangerous, but never enough to crash. It was as if she’d figured out that the secret to life isn’t in the stable things—houses, jobs, relationships—but in the moments that defy logic, the moments that unravel you. We’re all unraveling anyway; most people are just too scared to admit it.

So we get up there, and the air is thick with summer heat, sticky and oppressive, but Jenny is laughing like it’s the best place in the world. She climbs onto the ledge, arms stretched wide, the city sprawled out beneath her like she owns it. “Come on,” she says, her voice daring me, teasing. She knows I’ll follow.

I get up there, but my heart’s not racing from fear. No, it’s the nearness of her, the way her skin glistens under the moonlight, the way her hair falls in wild tangles across her face. It’s like I’m in an alternate universe, and consequence doesn’t exist in this version of reality.

We kiss, hard and fast, like we’re starving for it. That’s what Jenny did—she turned everything into hunger. There was no room to be gentle with her. She didn’t believe in moderation. The way her nails dug into my back, the way she bit my lip—it was all electricity and friction, a reminder that we’re more animal than human.

I’ve always thought civilization is just a fragile, desperate cover for the wildness we all carry. We pretend we’ve tamed it, boxed it up, but it’s there, waiting. Control? That’s a fairy tale we tell ourselves. With Jenny, I didn’t have to play along. I could drop the mask, strip it all away, and just exist in the raw.

For a moment—a breathless, burning moment—I convinced myself it was enough. That I could live off the fire, off the reckless, all-consuming heat of it. Like it could fill me, sustain me. But truth has sharp edges, and it always cuts through. Even in the middle of it, there was that small, gnawing voice, whispering what I already knew: Jenny wasn’t real. Not real in the way that mattered.

She was a flash, a spark, a moment. And moments don’t last. They pass. And the worst part? Even when I was with her, I could already feel the question pressing in, cold and hard: How many more of these before the thrill runs dry? Before I run out of road? And when that happens—then what? Another Jenny?

I had met Payal online, through a dating app. The first time I saw her in person, the air in the café felt different. It was quiet, tucked away from the world, like a forgotten corner of the city where time slowed down. She walked in with that serene grace, as if she belonged everywhere and nowhere at once. She didn’t command attention, but she had mine, effortlessly. It’s always like that with people who seem comfortable in their own skin—they remind you how unsettled you are in yours.

She sat down, and there was no rush. We just… existed for a moment. I felt the air between us, full of anticipation but free of urgency. She ordered her coffee black, no sugar, and I couldn’t help but smile at how that fit. No embellishments, no layers. Payal was straightforward, and that’s what I found both alluring and unsettling about her.

“How was Singapore?” I asked, though we’d already covered it in our texts. It was strange how everything felt more real face-to-face.

She laughed, and I noticed how her laughter didn’t fill the room; it just lingered in the space between us. “Busy. Beautiful,” she said. ”But it makes you feel small, like the city’s moving faster than you can keep up.”

There it was—that reflective part of her. She was always thinking, always dissecting life as it happened. It was what drew me in, the way she questioned everything without ever sounding like she was trying too hard. A person like that, someone who’s always searching for meaning, makes you wonder if you have any to offer.

Our conversation naturally slipped into philosophy—because with Payal, it always did. She told me about a paper she was writing on ethics and intention, whether the motive behind an action mattered more than the result.

“I think,” she said, tapping her spoon against the edge of her cup, “that people like to think they’re good. Intention is a safety net—it’s how we sleep at night. Even if the outcome is a mess, we comfort ourselves by believing we meant well.”

Her words hit deeper. I smiled. “So, if I screwed up but didn’t mean to, I get a free pass?”

She chuckled, and the sound eased something in me. “Not quite. But it’s how we justify things, isn’t it?”

I reached across the table, lightly brushing her hand. She smiled, almost shy, and for a split second, I fantasised if this could be enough. If Payal could be what I needed—someone solid, someone who didn’t ask for chaos but offered calm. Maybe this could work, especially if things went south with Sarah. But that thought faded almost as quickly as it came.

She told me a story about a mix-up at the airport, and I laughed. I liked this, I liked her, but it was different from the kind of connection that pulled you in and shook you to your core. With Jenny, everything was fire and danger, adrenaline and recklessness. Payal was a slow burn, a steady warmth.

Our eyes met, and for a second, I thought she knew. That she could sense my thoughts. She didn’t say anything, though. Instead, she rested her chin on her hand and said softly, “You know, I missed this. Just talking.”

The house feels bigger now. It shouldn’t. It’s the same damn place it’s always been—same walls, same furniture, same useless decor Sarah insisted on keeping. But without her, it echoes. Every step I take seems louder, as if the space itself is trying to remind me that she’s gone.

I sit in the kitchen sometimes, staring at the empty chair across from me, where she’d sip her coffee, half-listening to whatever I was rambling about. I miss that. Not the conversation, but the sound of it—the hum of her presence, filling the gaps in my day.

There’s a strange comfort in those small routines. Maybe that’s why people cling to them—because they’re a way of pretending that nothing has changed, that the world still spins the same way. We build our lives around little habits, things so mundane we don’t even notice them until they’re gone. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the smallest parts of someone can leave the biggest gaps. Sarah’s laugh, her half-hearted sighs when she’d lose patience with me… all these small sounds, now replaced by silence.

The mornings are the worst. Without her next to me in bed, waking up feels wrong, like I’m missing the other half of my routine. She’d always get up before me, just early enough that I could hear her fussing with her hair, opening drawers, making that quiet little life of hers before mine even started. Now, the mornings are just still. Too quiet.

I try to keep busy, but it’s hard to fall back into the rhythm of things. Without Sarah here, everything feels slightly off-balance, like the gears are grinding a little too hard. I didn’t realise how much I relied on her to keep things moving. Maybe that’s what people mean when they talk about losing a loved one—it’s not just the emotional stuff, it’s the practicalities, the way someone else quietly takes on half your life without you noticing. She was always good at that—keeping things even, balanced. I didn’t have to think about it. Now, I do. All the time.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Payal more and more. She’s reliable, steady, in the way Sarah was. Not exactly, but close enough. She’s kind, and I respect her, but I can already feel the weight of expectation between us. She wants something serious, something real. And I keep asking myself if that’s something I even want to give her. I wish she was a little more independent.

Then, there’s Jenny. She’s a temporary escape, not a future. With her, it’s like being caught in a storm. You cannot deal with that every day. That’s why we’re not exactly dating anymore. We meet once a month now. Or less. It’s better this way. It gives me time to miss her, to build up that craving again. I’ve always liked her better in small, spaced-out doses. Keeps things fresh. It wasn’t even my idea—she broke it off an about a year back after I “failed to show enough interest.” She wanted something more consistent, more involved. But then, a few months after our split, I got that late-night text from her: Hey, what are you up to? And just like that, we fell back into the old routine.

I miss Sarah everyday. It’s strange how grief distorts everything. They say time heals, but I don’t think that’s true. Time just stretches the space where someone used to be until it becomes something you live around, like a scar. And in the meantime, I’m here, stuck between two women who each represent fragments of what I had but neither of whom can fill the whole. It’s like, without Sarah, I I’m trying to fill a void with the wrong pieces.

I wonder if I’ll ever stop thinking about Sarah. In all my life, I’ve never met a better, smarter, and funnier person than her. Perfect and balanced in almost every sense. The sad realisation is slowly starting to dawn on me that maybe I’d never get someone like her.

There’s a part of me that still expects to hear Sarah’s footsteps in the hallway, to see her walk through the door like she’s always been here. Maybe that’s what grief is—living with ghosts. Not the kind that scare you, but the kind that linger, soft and sad, reminding you of the life you used to know.

Singapore is good. The air is cleaner, the streets brighter, and life feels… orderly. It’s been a year since we moved here. Payal thrives in this kind of place. She’s settled into her role at the university like she was born for it, her lectures on ethics and logic drawing in students who look at her like she’s some kind of intellectual goddess. I can see it on her face when she talks about them, the way her eyes light up. She’s happy here. Happier than I’ve ever seen her, maybe. And I think, this is it.

But there’s something about orderliness that makes you feel both secure and trapped. We crave stability, or at least we’re told we should, but stability can be a cage too. I tell myself it’s enough. That she’s enough. Payal doesn’t push me. She doesn’t expect me to be more than I am. Isn’t that what we’re taught to want? Peace. No chaos. A life with someone who makes sense.

Maybe this is what a fresh start looks like—settling down with someone like Payal. Someone who won’t rock the boat. I could be that person for her. I could come home every night, have dinner with her, listen to her talk about whatever lecture she’s preparing. I could play the part. Life with Payal moves in predictable rhythms—nothing unexpected, no wild swings of emotion, no dangerous highs or lows. There’s comfort in knowing what comes next.

It’s funny though, how we chase excitement until we’re exhausted by it. And then, when we finally get the calm we thought we wanted, we feel like something’s missing. Maybe we just don’t know how to be content. We’re always looking for something to fill the void. Payal doesn’t need to know about Sarah. Or Jenny. Or the girl I met last week. It’s not like it changes anything.

Payal says that philosophers often like to talk about duality—the way we’re constantly pulled between opposing forces. Order and chaos, love and lust, comfort and thrill. I wonder if anyone truly finds the balance or if we’re all just oscillating between extremes, trying to convince ourselves that we’re content with one when we secretly crave the other. I’m no different.

Last week, I was in Mumbai and caught up with Jenny. A few drinks, some reckless flirting, and then we’re tangled up in each other again. We didn’t even plan it. It’s just what we do. Like clockwork. Jenny’s still wild, still that storm I let myself get pulled into. But storms pass. They don’t linger. Payal, though, she’s the calm, the place you return to after the chaos. Maybe that’s why I need both of them—Jenny for the thrill, Payal for the quiet. Two sides of the same coin.

As I sit here, watching Payal from across the room in our tiny apartment in Singapore, I realise she’s becoming Sarah. Not in the ways that set my heart on fire—not the spark—but in the way she’s filling that space. The space of someone I might say I love. Someone who keeps me grounded, someone who gives my life structure.

Mukul’s room, one of two on the upper floor, was barely big enough for a bed, a study table, and a metal trunk where he kept his books and clothes. The plaster on the walls had peeled away in patches, exposing the dull grey underneath. The ceiling fan wobbled when it spun, creaking softly in the silence of the night.

Bhola, the other boy who lived next door, was also preparing for IIT, but Mukul rarely spoke to him. Bhola was younger, more carefree. Unlike Mukul, Bhola wasn’t weighed down by past failures. He could still laugh at things. So thought Mukul.

Mukul’s life was difficult. Every day was a reminder of how close he was to falling short again. His family was far away, back in Ujjain, and though they never said it, Mukul could feel their hope turning into quiet resignation.

It pressed down on him, just like the Kota heat, just like the ticking of the clock on his table. Each hour that passed brought him closer to the exam, but never closer to relief. Most nights, the strain of it all made it hard for him to sleep. He would lie awake, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the creaks of the old house, feeling the emptiness that filled the room.

That was when Mukul started hearing the footsteps.

Kota in the early 1990s wasn’t exactly the bustling coaching capital it is today. Bansal Classes had just been set up and the city had begun to fill with boys like Mukul.

The city smelled of burning tobacco and dusty roads. It had a heat that clung to your skin long after sunset, making you sweat even in your sleep. The narrow lanes were lined with cheap dhabas and tea stalls where the clink of steel glasses and the murmur of late-night students were constant. Mukul knew those lanes well. He had been here for a while after all.

Mukul was 18, and this was his third attempt at cracking the IIT entrance. All his classmates from school were already in college—some in their second, even third years. They didn’t call or send letters anymore. He was the only one left, still struggling. Still running after a dream that felt further and further away.

The window in Mukul’s small room overlooked a narrow alley where stray dogs barked at odd hours, and the rickshaws rattled by early in the morning. Sometimes, when he studied late into the night, he could hear the faint hum of prayers from a distant temple, or the echo of a train horn, long and mournful, cutting through the stillness. But mostly, there was the oppressive quiet.

Until that summer in July.

The sounds came at midnight. Footsteps. Quick, light steps, like a child running across the roof above his room. They started from one end, rushed to the other, and then stopped. Then started again after a minute.

Thud-thud-thud!

Mukul was usually deep in his studies when he started hearing the sounds. He didn’t pay much attention to it. Must be some stray animal scurrying across the tin roof. But the sounds came back, again and again. Some nights they were absent, and that almost made it worse. The silence made him slightly tense, waiting, wondering if the footsteps would return.

After a few weeks, Mukul couldn’t stand it anymore. He asked Mr. Bhatia, who lived downstairs. The man just shrugged, wiping his glasses with the corner of his kurta. “We hear nothing. Must be the stray cats.”

Mukul knew it wasn’t cats. There was a rhythm to the sound, a pattern that felt too human. He decided to ask Bhola. It was one of the first times Mukul had spoken to his neighbour.

Bhola, leaning in the doorway, grinned and shook his head. “Footsteps? At night? No, yaar, I hear nothing like that.”

But the sounds continued. Thud-thud-thud!

Days passed, and Mukul felt the tension crawling under his skin. Every night he lay awake, waiting for the footsteps, counting the seconds between the first step and the last. His studies suffered. His mind was filled with dread, not just about the exams, but about what was happening above him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was up there.

Then, one evening, there was a knock on Mukul’s door. It was Bhola, standing in his boxers, eyes wide, his usual grin gone.

“I heard it last night,” Bhola whispered. “The footsteps. On the roof. It’s real.”

Mukul felt a strange mix of fear and relief. He wasn’t imagining it. He wasn’t alone. That night, the two boys decided to investigate. They waited until the footsteps started—soft at first, then louder, like someone running back and forth just above their heads. Their hearts pounded in unison as they crept up the narrow staircase leading to the roof.

It had rained last night. The air was cool, tinged with the smell of damp earth and distant smoke. The sky was thick with clouds, and only a sliver of the moon peeked through, casting faint shadows on the rooftop. The sound of their own footsteps on the concrete seemed louder than anything they’d heard before. The roof felt old, like it could give way any second.

Mukul’s torchlight cut through the darkness, sweeping over every corner of the roof. There was nothing. Just old, broken tiles, a rusty water tank, and piles of dust gathered in the corners. No child, no animal. No explanation.

They checked again, walking from one end of the roof to the other, their breaths shallow, their senses sharp. Mukul’s throat was dry. Every crack, every creak made him jump. But the source of the footsteps was nowhere to be found.

Bhola knelt down near the edge, running his hand along the rough edges of the roof. Still nothing. The wind picked up, carrying with it a faint scent of something rotten, like decaying leaves or spoiled food. The boys lingered a while longer, waiting, watching. But the footsteps had gone silent.

The next night, the sounds came back, as if taunting them. Mukul and Bhola went up to the roof again and again, night after night, but each time, they found nothing.

The next door neighbour, Mr. Dalal, mentioned a child who had fallen from one of the roofs years ago and died. Someone talked about a kabaddi player who had hanged himself in the roof after a bitter defeat. Mukul didn’t know what to believe, but he couldn’t ignore the stories. He began thinking about renting a different place. The sounds continued for a few weeks, then, without warning, they stopped.

Mukul felt a sense of relief. The nights were quiet again, and he could finally sleep. But little did he know, the worst was yet to come.

Mukul began studying late into the night, often staying up until 2 am. His eyes burnt from exhaustion. The fan creaked above him, moving hot air around. He was behind in his studies. The footsteps had made everything worse, breaking his sleep, making him anxious. His classmates had already moved on, and he had a lot of catching up to do.

Although it wasn’t cold, Mukul couldn’t sleep without putting a cotton sheet over him. He’s had this habit since he was a kid. One night, after finally falling into a deep sleep, Mukul felt the sheet slip off him. Half asleep, he pulled the sheet back over himself and rolled to his side. He didn’t think much of it.

But it happened again. A soft, slow tug, like someone gently pulling it away. And again. Not every night. Just like the footsteps—unpredictable, creeping into the quiet.

Each morning, when Mukul woke up, an uneasy feeling clung to him, like something was off. He brushed it aside, convincing himself it was just stress, exhaustion—his mind playing tricks on him. The last thing he wanted to believe was that a ghost might be lurking. He’d had enough with the footsteps already.

A few nights later, it happened again. This time, he was just falling asleep when he felt the sheet being pulled. His mind was foggy with fatigue, but the feeling was real. Slow, deliberate. The sheet slid off him like someone was standing at the foot of his bed, pulling it inch by inch. His mouth went dry, and the cool night air touched his skin.

There was a presence. Mukul could feel it. His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t want to open his eyes. He wanted to believe it was Bhola, playing a prank on him. But then Mukul realised—the door was locked from the inside. There’s no way Bhola could get in. His breath caught in his throat.

A cold sweat prickled on the back of his neck. He slowly opened his eyes, squinting in the darkness, hoping—praying—it was nothing.

Then, he saw it, and it made his blood run cold.

At the foot of his bed stood a figure. Tall, gaunt, with long, tangled hair hanging over its face like a shroud. The skin beneath was dripping with pus, oozing down in thick globs mixed with blood. The smell hit him, rancid and sharp, like something rotting in the summer heat. His stomach churned. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, unable to scream.

The figure’s skin was pale, almost grey, peeling in places, and in others, raw and wet. Its eyes glowed—burning red and yellow. They stared at him, unblinking. And from its mouth hung a black tongue, dripping with spit, stretching unnaturally long.

Mukul felt paralysed. His body wouldn’t move. He wanted to scream, but his throat tightened. The figure smiled—an awful, twisted grin that stretched its face unnaturally, the skin cracking as it did. Mukul could hear the faint sound of skin tearing, the crackle of it like dried leaves being crushed.

The figure moved. Slowly. Its hands reached for the bed, fingers long and thin, nails black and sharp. Mukul could feel the bed shift. His heart pounded in his ears, so loud it drowned out everything else. His chest was tight, like he couldn’t breathe.

Then, suddenly, Mukul jolted awake. His body drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as if he had been running. His room was quiet again. It had been a nightmare. Just a nightmare. But the terror lingered, clinging to him like the Kota heat, and the feeling that something was very, very wrong wouldn’t go away.

Mukul fell sick after that night. Not with fever or anything he could explain easily—this was something deeper. A kind of fear that rooted itself inside him, making him weak. He couldn’t sleep, not really. Even when his body was exhausted, his mind refused to let him rest. The nightmares hung over him like a shadow, even though he was awake.

He didn’t tell anyone. Not his parents. What would he say? That he was seeing ghosts? They wouldn’t believe him. And with everything else—his exams, his future hanging by a thread—how could he admit to something so unbelievable? They were already disappointed in him. Now, with this haunting him, how would he study? His future felt like it was slipping away, and he was powerless to stop it.

Nights were the worst. He spent them in sheer terror. The tube light in his small room stayed on, but it didn’t help. The feeling of something lurking at the edge of his vision never went away. His mind was too tired to focus on anything. He tried to open his books, tried to study, but the words blurred on the page. The fear swallowed everything. He sat motionless in his class, unable to process anything. He barely ate. Dark circles formed under his eyes, and his skin looked pale.

Bhola wasn’t around. He had gone back to his village—someone had died in his family. By the time Bhola returned, Mukul was desperate to tell someone, and he knew Bhola might understand. After all, they had heard those footsteps together. So one evening, when Bhola knocked on his door, Mukul spilled everything—the nightmare, the apparition, the sleepless nights. Bhola listened.

That night, on his request, Bhola agreed to sleep in Mukul’s room. He brought his bedding and laid it out on the floor beside Mukul’s bed. This gave Mukul some reassurance. It was the first night Mukul had slept in weeks—a deep, dreamless sleep. He slept for 20 hours straight, missing his classes, missing the world. When he finally woke up, his body felt lighter, his mind clearer.

For the next few nights, Bhola slept in Mukul’s room. Sometimes Mukul would sleep on the floor, and Bhola would take the bed. They started a routine. On some nights, they’d study late, then fall asleep without thinking about it. Other nights, they would talk—Bhola, always cracking jokes to lighten the mood. He was three years younger, but sharp. There was something endearing about him, his easy smile, his carefree attitude. Mukul saw him as a younger brother.

One night, as they studied, Bhola looked up from his book and said, “You know, we should make my room our study room. That way we won’t have to move stuff around all the time.”

Mukul thought it was a great idea. They turned Bhola’s room into a proper study space—desks pushed together, books neatly stacked on the shelves, a table clock ticking away the hours they spent working. Mukul’s room became their sleeping and gossiping space. Occasionally, other students from the neighbourhood would join in after dinner, swapping stories together.

Their days were structured now, like a rhythm they’d fallen into. They’d wake up early, have tea together. After class, they’d come back, sit in Bhola’s room and study for hours. At first, they’d work in silence, but soon Bhola would start tossing in witty remarks. He had a way of making everything feel a little lighter. For Mukul, life finally felt normal again. The constant weight on his chest had lifted—if only for a little while.

Months had passed. No footsteps. No ghosts. The exams were nearing. Mukul felt prepared. The mock tests went well. For the first time, he believed he had a real chance of cracking the entrance.

Then one night, it happens again.

Mukul feels the sheet tugging at his feet, just like before. A firmer pull this time, as if someone is trying to yank it off completely. He opens his eyes, blinking in the dim light. Bhola must be playing a prank, he thinks.

When Mukul glances to the floor beside his bed, it’s empty. There’s no bedding, as if Bhola was never here.

Mukul’s heart skips a beat. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and his body stiffens. Slowly, hesitantly, Mukul turns his gaze toward his feet.

And there it is.

The same ghastly apparition from his nightmare—the wet, stringy hair hanging over its face, drenched as if it’s been caught in a storm. Mukul’s stomach churns. He wants to look away, but he can’t. His body is paralysed in fear. His eyes are locked on the figure. Blood and pus ooze down its skin, dripping onto the floor in slow, sickening, thick drops. The sound is faint but horrible—like something squelching.

He can see its mouth, wide open in a twisted grin. A long, black tongue slithers out, twitching, like it’s ready to taste human flesh. A foul stench of decay fills Mukul’s nostrils, so strong that he feels bile rising in his throat.

Then Mukul notices something even more terrifying.

Its face. It looks different this time. It looks like—like Bhola.

The apparition, with all its horror, is wearing Bhola’s face. The same soft features Mukul had grown used to, twisted now into a grotesque mask of death. Bhola’s eyes, Bhola’s mouth, but all wrong. The skin is torn, hanging loosely in places, and the smile is something not human—a dark, sinister grin that stretches too far, too wide.

Mukul’s breath catches in his chest. His hands grip the sheet, knuckles white, frozen. His mind races, half-convinced he’s still dreaming, praying to wake up. But the terror is too real. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He wants to scream, but his throat feels dry, stuck.

Then, the thing moves.

It takes one slow, deliberate step toward him. But before it could do anything, Mukul snaps. He puts all his effort and he screams. A raw, guttural scream, louder than he ever thought possible, ripping through his throat. But the thing doesn’t stop. It’s coming closer, the wet hair brushing its face aside, revealing Bhola’s disfigured features in full.

Mukul’s body shakes violently. His heart is pounding so fast it feels like it might burst. He screams again, over and over, desperate for someone to hear him. The thing was crawling onto the bed now, its hands outstretched, mouth gaping wide, with its long, black tongue hanging out.

It’s not a dream. Mukul is convinced. It’s real. It’s happening.

Mukul’s voice cracks as he keeps screaming, but the sound is strangled now, weaker. His throat burns. His body is stiff with terror, limbs locked in place.

But Mukul doesn’t stop. He screams until there’s nothing left inside him, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper. His whole body is drenched in sweat. His chest rises and falls in short, shallow breaths, his eyes wide and staring at the thing.

Mukul’s screams tear through the quiet night.

The Bhatias downstairs rush up the narrow stairs to his room. The Dalals, The Guptas, and several neighbours follow.

The door slams open, and they find Mukul sitting upright on his bed, his face pale, eyes wide with terror, screaming his lungs out. Sweat pours down his face, his body trembling.

“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Bhatia cries, her voice sharp with concern and annoyance. “What are you screaming for? You’re waking up the whole street!”

Mukul doesn’t answer. His screams die down, replaced by heavy, ragged breaths. He looks at Mrs. Bhatia, but it’s as if he’s looking through her—distant, unfocused.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Mr. Bhatia grumbles, shaking his head. “Boy’s lost his mind with all this pressure. It happens.”

The neighbours murmur in agreement. The stress of the exams, the isolation—everyone knows Kota can do this to students. Mr. Dalal steps forward, his face stern but not unkind. “You should see a doctor,” he says. “We’ve seen kids like you. Too much pressure, too much studying. You need rest.”

Mukul doesn’t respond. He sits there, eyes glazed over, barely blinking.

Mrs. Bhatia asks, “Where’s Bhola?”

Mukul’s eyes flicker at the mention of Bhola, but he remains silent. Too tired to speak. He looks around the room. His desk is here. His books too. Weren’t they supposed to be in Bhola’s room? They’d moved all the study materials there, hadn’t they?

Mr. Dalal’s eyes narrow. “Bhola, Where is he?”

They all turn towards Bhola’s room, noticing the door is shut, locked from the inside.

“That boy can sleep through anything,” Mrs. Bhatia says with a nervous chuckle. No one laughs.

Mr. Dalal knocks on Bhola’s door. Hard. “Bhola? Bhola, wake up!”

Silence.

The air feels heavy now, thick with unease. A few of the neighbours exchange uneasy glances. Mukul doesn’t come out. He continues sitting on his bed, staring into the void, his lips trembling.

Mr. Dalal knocks again. Louder this time. “Bhola!”

Nothing.

The hallway is filled with a tense, oppressive quiet. Even the crickets outside have gone silent. Mr. Dalal swallows, then looks at Mr. Bhatia. “We need to break it down.”

Mr. Bhatia nods, his face pale. Together, Mr. Dalal and Mr. Gupta shove their shoulders against the door, wood creaking, hinges groaning. One more hard push and the door crashes open, sending a cloud of dust into the air.

The room is dark. A faint breeze blows in through the half-open window, making the curtains flutter. The smell hits them first—a stale, musty odour, like something that’s been left too long to rot in the heat.

“Bhola?” Mrs. Bhatia calls, her voice shaking.

There’s no response.

Bhola is lying in his bed, facing the wall, his back toward them, completely still. A thin sheet covers half of his body, and the rest lies tangled at his feet. His breathing is inaudible.

“Bhola, wake up!” Mr. Dalal shouts, walking over to him.

No answer.

The tension builds. Mr. Dalal moves closer, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches out to tap Bhola’s shoulder. “Bhola?”

Still nothing.

Everyone is holding their breath now. A few steps closer and Mr. Dalal grips Bhola’s shoulder, pulling him onto his back.

The sight makes the air freeze in their lungs.

Bhola’s face—twisted, contorted in an expression of pure, unholy terror. His mouth hangs open, the skin of his lips stretched tight, revealing darkened gums and a blackened tongue, swollen to an unnatural size, protruding grotesquely. His eyes are wide open, bulging from their sockets, bloodshot, and lifeless, staring into the void with a fixed, ghastly stare. His face is bloated, bruised with streaks of purple and blue.

Mrs. Bhatia lets out a sharp gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “Oh my God…” Her eyes roll back, and before she can say another word, she faints. Mr. Bhatia lunges forward, desperately trying to catch her.

Bhola’s mouth remains open, frozen in a scream that never came out. For a moment, no one moves. The room is dead silent, except for the faint buzz of flies now hovering near the bed.

Mr. Dalal stumbles back, his hands clutching the back of his head, unable to look away from the horror. “This—this isn’t natural,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

No one says a word.

Mukul stares from the doorway, his face as pale as a ghost, his eyes expressionless. He notices the face of Bhola. It’s the same twisted, horrifying face he saw in his nightmare. Then suddenly, he hears footsteps on the roof.

Thud-thud-thud!

I took the train to Madgaon from Vasco. A cab would have cost a thousand bucks. A general class ticket costs only thirty.

It’s 6:30 in the morning. People are squatting in the corridors. It’s overflowing. A place that can accommodate 80 is accommodating 200. There’s literally no place to walk within the compartment. It’s a sardine can. No room to breathe, let alone move.

A vadapav wala comes. He’s part of the rail crew, but a contractor. He’s employed by the govt. But technically not. Meaning, no job security and no insurance. How he weaves through the crowd is in itself a story. I contemplate buying one. But I decide against it.

It’s raining. It stops for some time, then starts again.

Most of my fellow passengers are daily labourers. I’m not exactly sure, but they have to be. By their looks, clothing, and languages. Speaking of languages, there are all kinds of languages spoken inside the compartment: Hindi, Odiya, Bengali, Kannada, Konkani, and what not.

There are people on the upper bunks, where there shouldn’t be people, only luggages. I see a lot of Skybags branded bags. Most likely first copies.

Looks like the 30 mins journey is gonna take 60 mins to reach Madgaon. Indian Railways!

An engine passes as our train waits. A kid sitting on the top bunk looks like he’s straight from Africa. He’s not though. He’s speaking fluent Maithili. Or, is it Odiya?

We’re passing through the coastline. Looks nice. The door is closed. So I don’t see much. I’m standing next to it. At least twenty people are squatting around me. Moving even an inch is impossible. Yet, people are walking around all the time. Over other people. Nobody seems to mind.

I see a lot of bluetooth earphones and semi-expensive mobile phones. YouTube playing. There’s Facebook and WhatsApp. Instagram as well. Entertainment is important. They’re watching both Indian and foreign memes. What a girl in a sleepy U.S. town does is available in a general class in Goa at the speed of light. Technology!

The train picks up speed. The vadapav guy is still here. He can’t leave until the next stop. Trapped. Unlike the other compartments, there’s no direct passage to this one. Better keep this one separate. Lest the labourer class gets on the sleeper class or, godforbid, the AC class. Nobody wants that. Especially when people have paid good money to keep labourers away. A train in India represents both the cast and the economic divide in India.

30 mins has already passed. We aren’t even halfway there. The train picks up speed again. The stench has reduced. Thank god!

It’s 7:07. I feel sleepy. I already had a good night’s sleep. But I would love to sleep some more.

Madgaon is the first station after Vasco. The compartment is already more than full. I wonder how many more people will get on at the upcoming stations. This train is going to Shalimar, Kolkata. There are 40 stops. I counted. If people get on at every stop, they would have to stack themselves on top of each other. Glued together by their sticky sweat. How else?

I observe a guy. White chappals. Black T-shirt. Big blue watch. Dark skin. I observe others. Orange T-shirt. Grey T-shirt. Dirty green T-shirt. The youngsters are slightly flashy. The colours are loud. They’re the “chhapris.” I see one chhapri taking a video of the sea in the rain. It looks hazy and blurry. But he seems satisfied.

There’s only one lady in the compartment. She’s Bengali. I know this because she’s wearing the traditional shakha-pola.

People are seated on the floor, arranged just like they would be during a wedding ceremony in a North Indian village. But hardly anybody knows anyone here.

The vadapav guy is here again. He’s stopped circling and has settled beside me. The bread smells good. But I resist. Too much carb. There was a time I wouldn’t have thought twice before having one. Not anymore. There are many things I don’t do anymore.

I’m waiting for the station to arrive. Soon. So is the vadapav guy. No sale here. Soon.

After a while, the weather becomes good. Almost cosy. It’s 7:37. Madgaon is almost here. It’s about time I get down. Thank god!

It’s a general belief that the real India lives in the general class of trains. They say we should experience it at least once. But 60 mins is already way too much time to spend in “real India.” I don’t belong here. The station arrives. It’s about time. I get off and go back to the fake India where I’d come from; where I belong.

I wake up and see it. A bottle of perfume on my dresser. It isn’t mine. I know it isn’t mine. Sweet and floral, the kind of scent I’d never buy. My own perfume is tucked away in the drawer, the way I kept it. I pick up the bottle, turning it over in my hands. The label is unfamiliar. Strange. So strange.

I’ve lived in this studio apartment in Malviya Nagar ever since I moved to Delhi. Tiny. Just a kitchen, barely big enough for a table, and a bedroom that looks out over the street.

This is the first time something strange like this has happened.

My name is Kalindi. I grew up in Jamshedpur. I spent my whole life there until I came to Delhi to study Psychology at Lady Shri Ram.

Unlike my batchmates, I live alone. They cram into PGs, sharing rooms, sharing lives. I can’t. I prefer to be on my own. I go to classes. I come back to my apartment. I study. I like the routine. The predictability is reassuring. But now…this. This disruption.

A few days later, it happens again. This time, books. New books I’ve never seen, never bought, piled neatly on my bedside table. Titles that don’t ring any bells. I flip through them. A bookmark falls out, marking a page. No receipt, no note. Just…books.

Is this some sort of a joke? A prank perhaps? Someone breaking in, leaving things behind? That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

It started small, months ago. Things easily dismissed. A pen not where I left it. Clothes in my closet, hanging differently. I brushed it off. But now, now it’s more. More obvious. More frequent.

Weeks pass. I find more things. Makeup in my drawer. Lipstick shades I’d never wear. Bright. Bold. Clothes, too. A red dress. Shimmering. Not mine. Not my style. I never wear bright colours. I never want to stand out. But there it is, hanging in my closet as if it’s mine.

Could they be Sarla Mausi’s? This was her apartment once. Sarla Mausi worked as a columnist in Delhi. She was more than an aunt. My best friend. My confidante. Closer than my own mother. She passed away in an accident when I was in Class XII. She was supposed to get married a month later. I had cried for days. But no, these dresses aren’t hers. These are new, tags still on them. Fresh. Untouched.

“I fear disappearing. Not just fading away. No. Like I was never here. Like I’m falling into some dark hole. No one sees me. No one knows I’m gone. My life, just a flicker. Blink, and it’s over. Sometimes I picture myself lying there, dead in my apartment. Days pass. Weeks. My body, decaying. No one comes looking. No one even realises I’m gone.”

I don’t have many friends. Never did. Growing up, I had a few, but only because it was convenient. Not real. I try, I really do, but I’m not good with people. It’s no different now. I mostly keep to myself. I hardly talk to others.

But suddenly, strange things are happening. People I’ve never spoken to are waving at me. In the college corridors. Smiling. A girl from my class calls me by a nickname, “Kallu.” Kallu? No one calls me Kallu. Never have. I smile back. I nod. I pretend to understand. But I don’t.

After lectures, classmates stop me. They talk about picnics. Parties. They say I’m going. That I’ve already been. But I haven’t. I don’t do parties. I’ve never been to one. Ever. “You were hilarious last night, Kallu!” they say. “We couldn’t stop laughing.” Hilarious? Me? I don’t tell jokes. I try to smile. I try to nod. Play along. But I feel lost. Nothing makes sense.

I clearly remember I was home last night. Reading in my room. Like always. Wasn’t I? I think about it again. Just to be sure. Yes, I was alone. Undoubtedly. Not with them. Not laughing.

And Ratan—the boy I’ve admired from a distance for so long—comes up to me. Smiling like we’re friends. “I didn’t know you liked theatre,” he says. “Didn’t expect to see you at the show yesterday.”

“I—uh, yeah,” I say, my voice wavering. “It was… umm… interesting.” I’m lying through my teeth. I haven’t been to any theatre for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what else to say.

Every time something like this happens, I find an excuse to leave. I laugh, awkwardly. I mumble something about having to go, and I walk away.

What else can I do? Talking is already hard. Socialising for me is trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. And now, this? I’m supposed to play along with these strange stories about myself that I don’t even recognise. It’s overwhelming.

These unusual events keep happening more often. They’re becoming increasingly frequent with each passing day. And the strangest part? I don’t have any memory gaps. None. I’m not blacking out. I remember everything. What I did. What I wore. What I ate. Where I was. Every. Single. Detail. No blanks. Yet, there are these ghost events—things I never attended, but people say I did. It feels like there’s another me. Out there. Living a life I don’t know.

“Legacy… it’s complicated. It’s not just money or success. It’s more. It’s what we leave behind. How we touch the world. How we shape it for others. I think of legacy as proof. Proof that I mattered. That I was here. It’s my way of reaching beyond time. Trying to make something last beyond me.”

It’s all a prank. It has to be. A cruel joke. And everyone’s in on it. I can almost picture them, whispering in the café, laughing behind their hands. It’s so clear, isn’t it? Those friendly smiles, the greetings, like we’re old friends. They’re faking. All of them.

I’m not the kind of person people notice. I don’t get invited to parties. I don’t hang out with the popular crowd. But now, they talk to me like I’m always there. Like I’m the centre of everything. It’s a cruel, evil joke. And I’m the butt of it.

But it soon becomes confusing. One day, Prof. Sharma stops me after class. Talks about my seminar presentation last week. “You were brilliant,” he says. I just stare at him. What presentation? I’ve never spoken at any seminar. I don’t think I can put myself through the torture of a public presentation. “You must have me confused with someone else,” I tell him. But he insists.

Professors don’t prank students. They can’t be part of this. They don’t play games. They’re serious people. If Sharma Sir thinks I was at that seminar, if he’s sure of it, then… what’s going on? What does it mean?

It’s not just the professors. My parents, too. I call my mother from the telephone booth downstairs. She starts talking about how much I loved playing the sitar as a child. “Oh you were so good,” she says. “Your teachers were always impressed. I wish you’d kept it up.” The sitar? I’ve never touched one in my life.

I try to tell her about it. That absurd things are happening to me. But she doesn’t listen. “Oh! You’re just stressed. Studying too much perhaps.” She keeps talking. I don’t probe further. Then father chimes in. Now they’re telling me how much they miss me—remembering vacations I never took, birthdays I don’t recall, friends I’ve never met. They talk like I’m someone outgoing, always in the middle of things. “You were so popular,” father says. “Everyone liked you.”

A wave of nausea hits me. The telephone receiver starts to feel heavy in my hand. Popular? Me? In what world? When I try to make enquiries, they dismiss my questions with a casual wave. “Oh, you must have forgotten. It was a long time ago after all.”

But no matter what they say or believe, I know for a fact that none of these memories are mine. They belong to someone else. Someone I don’t know. I have to get to the bottom of this.

“Sometimes, I wonder if my parents really love me. Of course, they do. It’s obvious. But do they love me for me? Or just because I’m their daughter? If I wasn’t their child, I wonder if they would care. Would they even notice me? If I was just some other girl, someone they didn’t know, would they still love me? I don’t know. I can’t help but think they wouldn’t.”

An envelope arrives. My parents send my old photographs. I had asked for them to investigate the matter. I pull them out, one by one. I look for myself in them. But I’m not there. I see someone with my face, my hair. But she’s not me. There’s something different. Something off. I can’t explain it. At this point, I’m not even surprised.

I stare at the photos. Look closely. I try to search for something familiar. Anything. But there’s nothing. No recognition. I close my eyes. Strain to remember. Where was this photo taken? What was happening? I hope for a spark. A memory. Nothing. Just emptiness.

I had asked for my old journals too. The ones I’ve kept since school. I flip through the pages. I search for myself in the words. But nothing feels right. As expected. The entries, the thoughts… they don’t match. They talk about things I don’t remember. Feelings that aren’t mine. The handwriting is mine, but it isn’t. Familiar but strange. Like someone else wrote in my journal, pretending to be me.

I keep reading. Page after page. This person’s thoughts, their experiences… their joys, their fears. They don’t feel like mine. They’re foreign. Like I’m reading someone else’s story. Picnics I’ve never gone to, friends I’ve never known, emotions I’ve never felt. It’s like looking into a mirror, but the reflection isn’t mine. The person gazing back is someone else.

What’s happening to me? It feels like I’m slipping. Why can’t I remember? It feels like I’m losing myself. My memories, my thoughts—everything is tangled. Blurred. The lines between who I am and who I’m supposed to be are fading fast. I’m scared. Terrified. I don’t know what’s real. Am I losing my mind? Do I have some kind of mental disorder?

“What does it mean to be remembered? If it’s the memories we leave behind, then… if we die and no one remembers us, did we ever exist? The fear of being lost to oblivion is more than just feeling scared. It’s like staring into the void. Like endlessly falling into an abyss. Does any of it matter in the long run? Our lives. Our stories. When all is dead and forgotten, and nobody remembers anything, did we even exist in the first place?”

I might be suffering from split personality disorder. It sounds absurd. Like something from a book or a film. Not something that happens to someone like me. But what if I’ve actually lost my mind? I can’t shake off this feeling. I’ve always had this existential dread of being forgotten. Now, it feels like I’m forgetting myself.

I sit in the library, surrounded by books of psychological disorders. Pages and pages of case studies. Words that seem to know more about me than I do. Split personality disorder. Delusional disorder. Multiple identities. Stories after stories of people who lose time, who wake up and don’t know what they’ve done. I close the books and bury my face in my hands. I’m mentally drained. This is not at all helping.

Few days pass. Something stranger starts to happen. My shadow. It lingers after I move. Just for a split second. But I notice it. I try to ignore it. But it happens again. And again. Now it’s hard to ignore.

Desperate to escape my own head, I decide to got to the movies. It doesn’t help. I do some shopping. Mostly books. Still nothing. I come across a local fair in Old Delhi which I decide to check out. The colours, the noise, the people—I hope they’ll distract me. At least for a couple of minutes.

I weave through the crowd, the smell of spices and incense thick in the air. I pass by a blind faquir. He’s sitting on a tattered rug. His eyes are clouded but they seem to follow me. As I walk by, he starts chanting in a low, gravelly voice. His words are lost in the noise, barely audible amid the clamour. All I hear is, “Jaya Harish! Jaya Harish! Jaya Harish!” It doesn’t make sense. Just some mad faquir, I tell myself. I quicken my pace and leave.

In the nights, things start to become worse. I hear whispers. They come from the dark corners of my apartment. The places where light doesn’t reach. The words are muffled, wrapped in gauze. I can’t make out what they’re saying. But I hear them. I pull the covers over my head. It happens almost every night. I’m scared stiff. It has become impossible to sleep. I decide I have to get out of here. Before it gets any worse.

“Loneliness isn’t just being alone. It’s more than that. It’s feeling cut off, like there’s this glass wall around you. You can see everyone, but you cannot reach them. You’re on the outside, looking in. The world goes by, and you’re not a part of it.”

I decide to take a few days off and go home. There, I lie in bed all day, feeling adrift. I don’t sleep much, but at least I’m not hearing voices here. My parents can see something is bothering me. They don’t understand when I try to tell them. So they take me to someone who might — a psychiatrist.

I want to be honest with the doctor, but how do you explain you feel like your life is being taken over by an imposter without sounding schizophrenic? How do you tell you’re seeing shadows and hearing voices without sounding insane?

I tell her I’m encountering ghost events I don’t recall. I’m terrified and it’s hard to sleep at night. I try to be as honest as I can without sounding insane. She hears the whole story and writes me a prescription. I don’t find terms like “Dissociative Disorder,” “Delusional Disorder,” or, godforbid, the S-word in her diagnosis.

“Provisional Diagnosis: Adjustment Disorder. Stress from significant life changes, leading to symptoms of dissociation.”

It’s stress after all. I’m relieved.

The pills help. The first night, I sleep for fourteen hours straight. It feels like I haven’t slept in a decade. I wake up feeling much better. No more strange whispers. No more lingering shadows. No one’s taking over my life, not here at home at least.

I stay home for a week. I feel much better. I want to stay longer, but I’ve missed so many classes already. Before I leave, my mother hands me a stack of letters. “These are Sarla Mausi’s,” she says. “Her poetry, her writings, everything is here. She loved you. She would want you to have them.”

I read them in the train to Delhi. Somehow, I can relate to Sarla Mausi’s writings more than I can relate to my own journals. Although she claims these are fictional accounts, they read like someone’s diary.

She writes about her love for cooking, her crushes, her insecurities. The pages are scattered, not in order. They jump from her college days to her school days to her work days. I’ve got a feeling she labeled them as “writing exercises” so no one would bother with them. To me, they seem like her actual thoughts.

Normally, I wouldn’t read someone’s private thoughts. But when my own journals feel foreign to me, there’s a certain solace in taking refuge in someone’s thought who was so near and dear to me.

But, it takes a dark turn soon. She narrates strange experiences in her stories. Encounters she can’t remember. Ghost events. Just like mine. People treating her like she’s someone else. Her own family. Her sister. Her fiancé. Like someone is taking over her life. She sees shadows at the edges. Hears whispers at night. She feels like she’s losing her mind. My blood runs cold as I read. Did Sarla Mausi have the same issues that I’m having?

She writes about something called the Chhaya Purush. A Shadow Being. An evil entity that feeds on one’s fear and insecurities. It takes the form of its host, trying to possess them. My throat tightens. Could it be…? The same thing that haunted my aunt is haunting me now? Chhaya Purush. Why does it sound familiar? My hands tremble as I turn the pages.

The entries are fragmented, torn apart, incomplete. But one thing is clear—Sarla Mausi was terrified. She writes about how this Shadow Being was trying to take over her life. How she feels herself slipping away, losing control. Just how I’m feeling.

A horrible thought crosses my mind. Did she really die in an accident? From what I remember, she was always jovial and full of life. Nothing like what it describes here. But I’ve also heard she was troubled. That she had mood swings, bouts of depression. What if these strange experiences drove her to madness? I can’t help but think that maybe she couldn’t take it anymore. What if she… she took matters into her own hands?

The thought horrifies me. No, it can’t be. I would have known if this were true. What’s worse is there’s no way to confirm. My parents would shut me down before I even finish asking.

I clutch the pages to my chest, feeling sick. My heart races. Feels as if it’ll burst out of my chest. What if the same is happening with me? What if this Shadow Being is trying to take over me too? What if it’s only a matter of time before I lose it completely as well, just like Sarla Mausi?

Chhaya Purush. I know I’ve heard this term before. In the library? No. In the movies I watched recently? No. Someone in class mentioned it? No. Wait. I remember. I heard it at the local fair.

“They say, there are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave or cremated. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time. I fear I’ll have the third death well before the others.”

I don’t believe in ghosts. Or evil entities. But I can’t ignore the dreams I’ve been having lately. The pills help me sleep better. But I’m having vivid dreams now. I check with my doctor. She changes the pills. But the dreams don’t change.

In my dreams, I see a girl who looks like me. She has my face, my hair, even wears my clothes. But she’s not me. There’s something different in her eyes. A brightness, a spark I’ve never seen in my reflection. Her voice is strong, confident. Not like mine. Her smile is wide, self-assured. The complete opposite of mine.

I see her in my apartment, moving around like she belongs. I see her in my college, in my classroom, talking to my classmates, laughing — her hands gesturing wildly. She seems so much at ease, so comfortable. She’s not just part of the conversation; she’s leading it. Everyone listens. They hang on her every word. This girl… who wears my face but has none of my hesitations.

It’s unsettling. Feeling like a stranger in your own life. Watching someone else live it better than you ever could. Even in your dream. But the dreams keep coming. Night after night. They grow clearer. More real. I see her going to the movies with her friends, taking weekend trips. She’s always surrounded by people. Her laughter rings out, so bright, so joyful. So… not me!

What’s frightening is that these aren’t just dreams. They’re real. The events I see while asleep, they’re actually happening. People stop me after class. They talk about those moments. And they think it’s me. It’s not me.

I realise the faquir that day at the fair wasn’t chanting, “Jaya Harish! Jaya Harish!” I couldn’t understand him. But now I know. It was, “Chhaya Purush! Chhaya Purush!”

I look it up at the library. “The Chhaya Purush is a being that represents the shadow self of a person. It is said to feed on a person’s negative emotions—fear, guilt, jealousy, and insecurity. The more a person succumbs to these emotions, the stronger the Chhaya Purush becomes.” Apparently, Sarla Mausi wasn’t making this up.

“The Chhaya Purush starts by subtly altering the person’s life, inserting itself into their daily routines and relationships. As the entity grows stronger, it starts to replace the person in their own life, making the person feel like a ghost in their existence. Its ultimate goal is to take over the person’s life completely, erasing their identity.”

The Chhaya Purush is a mythical entity. I don’t really believe its existence. But I know this much is true. An imposter has taken over my life. Chhaya Purush or not, I’ve been feeling like a stranger in my own life. That’s certain.

One night, in my dream, I see the imposter in a café with Ratan. They’re talking, laughing at some shared joke. Later, they go see a movie together. The next day, when I’m in college, Ratan walks up to me. He smiles, talks about the café, the things we laughed about, the movie we watched. “I had a great time,” he says. “Let’s do it again.” I nod numbly. But I know I wasn’t there with him. I remember sitting alone in my apartment, reading a novel. It was the imposter who was with him.

Enough is enough! It cannot go on like this. I have to do something to make sure my life is mine and not the figments of an imposter’s actions. I’ve been on the sidelines way too long. It’s time I go on the offence.

“What is the purpose of existence? Why are we here? Is it to find happiness? To seek knowledge? To make a difference? I don’t know. It’s a puzzle with no solution. Sometimes, it seems like we’re just here to live and die. But, there must be more to it, right? Something deeper, something worth grasping. Otherwise, what’s the point of all this? Of waking up every day, of going about our lives?”

This imposter, this Chhaya Purush… I don’t know if it exists. But if it does, I know it lives where I don’t. In the crowd. Among people. In movies, in cafés, at parties, in groups. My story isn’t mine because I don’t have witnesses. No one to confirm my version. I need to take the game to its turf. I need spectators. People who see me, hear me, who can confirm I exist, not this imposter.

So, I decide. Spend more time with my batchmates, with Ratan. If I’m with them, the imposter can’t be. At least, that’s the theory. I test it by being with them for a day. I smile with them, joke with them. I put on a show. Talk about things I barely know.

I’m surprised. It’s easier than I thought. You know, to pretend. Also, they like this version of me. The fun, carefree one. They admire me. They smile back, and I feel something strange. Acceptance? Friendship? I don’t know. But it feels good. The best part? No bad dreams that night.

One night, we go to a café. I sit with Ratan. I’m slightly nervous. He looks surprised at first, then pleased. I listen. I laugh. I find myself enjoying his company, his stories, his jokes. His eyes light up when he talks about theatre and movies. I play along. I play the role so well. I almost believe it’s real.

The next morning, when Ratan brings up the café, his words match my memories. For the first time, I feel clear. No fog. No confusion. Not a ghost event. I was there. For real. I remember myself. And everyone remembers me.

A small victory. But a victory nonetheless. If this is how I defeat the imposter, so be it. I’ll spend time outside, put on my best smile, stay with people. Until there’s no room for it to exist.

I do it more often. Study groups, coffee breaks, anything that keeps me surrounded. The more time I spend with people, the fewer the ghost events. The more they accept me, the less I see the imposter in my dreams. I still find things I don’t remember—books moved, new decorations, strange journal entries—but less often now. They’re fading.

Maybe I’m winning. The thought gives me hope. I am living my life. Not someone else. Finally.

The imposter has likely retreated to the shadows, but it hasn’t given up. Now that my public life is in my control, with people always around, it’s trying to invade my private world instead. One day I see my wallet emptied on expensive clothes I didn’t buy. Dresses with bold colours in my closet. Dresses I’d never wear in a million years. In retaliation, I push back harder. I raise the stakes.

I start wearing those clothes. At first, it’s strange. Uncomfortable. I feel like a stranger in my own skin. But with time, I get used to them. I may not like them, but I don’t mind anymore. I’m winning. When it invades my journal, I start writing in it like the imposter. I mimic her handwriting, her tone. I don’t stop there. I start wearing her perfume, reading her books. I even start thinking like her, acting like her.

The more I do, the less she can.

“Memory is a strange thing. It’s all we have to hold on to, the only proof that we were here. That we lived. But memories fade, don’t they? They get distorted. Even lost. How can we trust them? How do we know what’s real and what’s just an illusion?”

For a while, everything seems fine. Better than fine, actually—everything is perfect. I go to college, spend time with my new friends, laugh at their silly jokes, enjoy my days with Ratan. There are no more ghost events. No strange objects appearing out of nowhere in my room. No eerie whispers echoing from dark corners. No shadows lingering on the edges. I’ve won. I’ve conquered whatever it was that tried to take over my life. I am in control.

Weeks pass. Then months. Then years.

I’m an M.A. student now. This is my final year at Lady Shri Ram. I’m graduating in a couple of months. Then I’m going abroad to pursue my PhD. Ratan and I got into the same college. I’m looking forward to it.

My apartment is buzzing with life tonight. All my friends are here. I moved out of Sarla Mausi’s old apartment a while back. My parents sold it, bought a new place in Saket. Bigger, brighter. I live here now. With my father retired, they often visit.

There’s Kishore Kumar playing on the cassette player. “Kalindi, I tell you yaar, you’re a genius with these playlists!” That’s Rashmi and Mansi admiring my collection. It’s my new hobby. Creating mixtapes. I smile at them.

It’s been some time since I’ve stopped my medication. I’m sleeping well without it. My doctor is pleased with my progress.

As more people join the little party I’ve thrown, I can feel the energy crackling in the air. Everyone’s gathered around. It feels like this is where I belong. I’m what my parents always describe me as. The person everyone loves to be around. The one who lights up the room. The life of every party.

The next morning, I wake up with a jolt. I don’t know why, but I feel a sense of dread, like something isn’t quite right. I look around my room. It feels strange. Like I’ve never seen it before. My eyes fall on the desk. There are books. Stacks of them. Books I don’t remember buying. Old ones, classics—Austen, Tagore, Dickinson. The kind I used to love. But I haven’t read these in years. Next to them, makeup kits, simple dresses. Modest, plain. The kind I would’ve picked a lifetime ago. But these are new.

A shiver runs through me. It’s been four years since something like this has happened. The imposter. Could it be back? I start rummaging through my things. This time, the objects feel different. Placed deliberately. Not like before, with subtle shifts and changes. It’s as if someone’s trying to make a point. A challenge perhaps. Maybe the terror isn’t over. Panic rises. What if I’m losing control again?

Then, I see it. A note. Tucked between the pages of one of the books. The handwriting—it’s mine. But not the one I use now. It’s the way I used to write. It’s a letter. And it’s from… me?

Dear Kalindi,

I need you to know. I tried to fight. I really did. I tried to hold on to myself, to stay real. I thought that by acting like you, I could beat you. I thought that if I was more like you—more confident, more outgoing—then I could win. But I was wrong. So very wrong.

The more I tried to be like you, the less I felt like myself. I started doing things I never would have done. Going to places I didn’t belong. Talking to people I didn’t know. Smiling, laughing, pretending. Every time I did, I felt a little part of me slipping away. And now, there’s nothing left of the real me.

No one remembers who I am—who you used to be. The one who was quiet, who loved classic literature and long walks. Even my parents have forgotten me. They look at you and see their daughter. I’ve become invisible, like a ghost. I’m right there, but I’m not.

I’ve always dreaded being dead and forgotten, with no one caring. I thought being remembered meant being seen. But being seen also came with the compromise of being someone else. Someone loud, someone bright, someone who could light up a room and catch every eye.

In trying to be someone else, I’ve lost everything that made me, me. The Chhaya Purush, the Shadow Being, the imposter has won. It fed on my fear of oblivion and my desperation to matter as it took over my life.

In my quest to defeat the imposter, I became the imposter. I became… you.

It is a figure of some unknown deity, its face calm and serene. Shikha is so proud of her find. Baba smiles and pats her head. Amma says it is a good bargain. Only Maa frowns a little. “We aren’t so rich that you’d spend your pocket money so freely.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Amma says. “She’s just a child. Now go, keep it in the puja place.”

“No! I want to keep it on the showcase,” Shikha insists. “It’s an antique. I want everyone to see it when they come over.” Amma chuckles.

We don’t know it now, but this is the moment after which everything starts to change.

Baba works as a clerk. He’s the quiet sort, with a smile that crinkles up at the corners. Maa takes care of the house, always bustling around, making sure everything is in its place.

There’s Amma, who’s full of stories from a time when the world was different. She sits on the veranda, telling tales to the neighbourhood kids. Her stories make them laugh and gasp in equal measure.

Then there’s Shikha, my little sister — the life of the house. She’s in Class VIII at Jagadish Chandra Girls’ School. Naughty as they come, but very sharp too.

And we have Sheru, our dog. He loves to spend all his time inside the house. Baba rescued him when he was just a pup. Shikha named him after a tiger, but Sheru’s anything but fierce. If a burglar were to come, Sheru would be the first to run off.

That’s everyone in my family.

Oh! I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Ashmita. I’m doing my B.A. Honours in History from Asutosh College. My friends tease me that I’m the most studious in class. I don’t blame them. But I know there’s one who’s as good as me — Soumendu.

Soumendu is my friend, my rival, and, though I’d never admit it, the one I have a bit of a crush on. We compete for the top marks, always pushing each other to be better.

Things are good. More than good. They are perfect — in the quiet, simple way of a happy family. Our small two-bedroom house in Jodhpur Park is always bursting with warmth. Until Shikha brings home the idol.

At first, it starts with small things. Things you wouldn’t notice unless you are really looking. A pot of milk boiling over because the stove is left on by mistake. Maa burning her tongue on hot tea. It happens. Little accidents. No one thinks much of them.

But then, it starts to get worse. More… pointed. One day, Baba trips while getting off the train and hurts his elbow very badly. Next, Maa makes my favourite egg curry. That evening, I vomit for hours.

Then Sheru starts acting strange. He won’t come inside the house. Just sits by the gate, growling. One day, Maa goes to give him food, but Sheru isn’t anywhere to be found. We search for days. I can hear his barking in my dreams, but he doesn’t come back.

One by one, the misfortunes line up like uninvited guests. One day, Amma slips on the stairs and breaks her hip. A month later, when his office downsizes, Baba loses his job. A few weeks later, Shikha falls off her bicycle and scrapes her knee so badly, she needs stitches. Then out of nowhere, Maa’s nerve pain becomes severe. She remains in bed for days.

Even our relatives aren’t spared. An uncle of mine has a shop in Bara Bazar. It catches fire. A distant cousin from Asansol contracts dengue. Another aunt suffers a debilitating stroke. A dark cloud settles over our family. Baba rarely smiles. Maa is always in pain. Amma starts muttering to herself, about despair and darkness. Very much unlike her usual tales. Shadows start to appear under her eyes.

I can’t help but think about the idol on the showcase. I feel it has something to do with all of this. As its eyes glint in the half-light, it feels like it has a smile that wasn’t there before. I tell myself I am just imagining it. But something keeps telling me, what if I am not?

The nightmares start small. At first, I see shadows in my sleep. I hear whispers. Sometimes, I am standing in the middle of a dark room. It’s empty, cold, like a winter morning. I turn around, but there’s nothing. Just an endless expanse of black. I can’t even see my own hands. This goes on for days.

A few weeks later, I see them in the dream. My family. Amma, Baba, Maa, Shikha. They are in the dark room with me, but they are not really there. It’s like they’re trapped behind some invisible wall. I can see them, but I cannot reach them. They’re calling out to me, their voices muffled. Baba clutches his chest in pain. Maa and Amma wince in distress. Shikha is crying, her hands outstretched towards me. I try to run to them, but my feet feel heavy, like they are stuck in mud.

I wake up with my heart pounding. My hands cold. It takes a few minutes to remember where I am. My room. Safe. I tell myself it’s just a bad dream. People have bad dreams all the time. I am studying too much, maybe. Too many problems at home. Too much pressure. I brush it off.

But the dreams don’t stop. They come every night. The dark room, the shadows, my family. Each time, they look worse. More tired, more desperate. And then one night, something changes. I see the idol. It’s there in the darkness. Its eyes gleaming. It’s smiling. That strange, knowing smile I thought I was imagining a few weeks back. It’s watching me, taking delight in my suffering.

I lie in my bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, my mind whirling. Could it be the idol? No, that’s absurd. It’s just a coincidence, I tell myself. Just a trick of the mind.

Few days later, something else happens. Something that deeply unsettles me.

One afternoon no one’s home and I find Amma in the living room. She’s on the floor, kneeling in front of the idol. Her face is blank, her eyes wide open but unseeing. In her hands, she’s holding a plate of rice, like she’s offering it to the deity.

“Amma! What are you doing?”

She doesn’t respond. She’s in some kind of trance. Her lips are moving, but no sound comes out. I pull her away, gently, but she resists. Her hands clutching the plate tighter. How did she even get here? With her hip, she shouldn’t be able to move. I manage to get her back to her bed. She lies down without a word.

A knot starts to tighten in my stomach. There’s something wrong in our home. Something terribly wrong in our family. And the idol is behind all this. I’m sure of it! I don’t know how else I can make sense of everything that’s happening.

I can’t think straight. I’m furious. I’m scared. I grab the idol. The smile on its face mocks me. I hate it. I hate what it’s done to my family. I don’t want it in my house, in my life, ever again. I direct all my rage and frustration at it.

I march outside. The drain near our house is just a few steps away. I fling the idol into it with all my strength, like the piece of trash it is. It lands with a dull splash, disappearing into the murky water. I feel a flicker of relief.

I decide I need to think. More than that, I need answers. It cannot go on like this. I need to know what this thing is and why it’s tearing my family apart. I head to college. The library is the place where I go whenever I need some solace.

I find Soumendu there, pouring over a stack of books as usual. He looks up as I burst in, disheveled and wild-eyed. “Ashmita? Where have you been? Is everything alright?” I must look as desperate as I feel. Amidst everything that’s happening, I’ve been skipping classes, which is so unlike me.

I sit down across from him. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my voice. I’m not sure how to begin. How do you tell someone that you think a piece of stone is cursing your family?

“I need your help,” I say. “It’s about this idol my sister brought home. I think… I think it’s doing something to us. To my family.”

Soumendu raises an eyebrow. “An idol? Sounds like something out of a ghost story.”

He doesn’t mean any harm, but I can’t stand his scepticism. I feel the frustration well up inside me. “I know how it sounds,” I say, my voice rising. “But I’m not making this up. I’ve been having nightmares. Amma is acting strange. Bad things keep happening to our family. There’s something seriously wrong.”

Soumendu looks at me closely, his expression softening. He’s known me for a while, and he can see that I’m not the type to play pranks or indulge in delusions. He nods slowly. “Alright, if you’re sure about it, I’ll help. Tell me everything.”

After I narrate the details, he realises the graveness of the matter. “I want to find out what it is,” I say. “If there’s anything about it in the books here. You’re good with research. I need your help.”

He thinks for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Let’s start with the anthropology and mythology sections. Maybe we’ll find something about ancient relics or cursed objects.” He gets up, and we head to the stacks together.

We spend hours combing through dusty volumes. Our fingers trace over ancient texts. Our eyes scan for anything that might resemble the idol Shikha brought home. Finally, we come across a few passages, scattered here and there, that catch our attention. They speak of deities bound in vessels, imprisoned for their misdeeds.

As we piece together the information, it starts to fit. We conclude the idol must be one of these vessels. A prison for a malevolent deity. But it’s not a perfect one, meaning the deity isn’t powerless even though it’s confined.

“Destroying the vessel harms not the deity bound within. The deity ever requires victims and seeks another vessel in time,” Soumendu reads on. “Casting it aside achieves naught. The deity clings to its prey unceasingly. The misfortune wrought by the deity cannot be dispelled. It may only be transferred to another, should they take the vessel willingly.”

I’m stunned. A part of me thought I was free of it. I realise now that throwing it away doesn’t solve anything. It will still continue to torment us.

Soumendu suggests that we give it away to someone else. If they take it willingly, it would transfer the misfortune away from us. But the thought of causing another family to suffer, to bring this curse upon them, is unbearable. I’ve seen how easily the deity can work its way into people’s lives. My heart aches at the idea. I can’t bring this curse upon someone else.

“I can’t do that,” I say. “I can’t wish this on someone else. My family’s going through so much already. I won’t make another family go through the same.”

Soumendu nods. “I understand. Then we need to find another way. Where is the idol right now?”

My stomach drops. I remember the drain. I realise I acted too hastily. If the idol is lost, the deity will torment us forever. It’s still latched on to our family. I run back home. I need to get it back before it’s too late.

When I reach the drain, it’s already too late. The cleaner had already been here. The filth and muck is piled up in a heap nearby, ready to be taken to the dump.

The foul smell makes my stomach churn. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I grab a nearby stick and poke at the sludge. The stick sinks uselessly into the mess. It’s not helping. I glance around, but there’s no one in sight who can help.

Dammit! I don’t have a choice. I kneel down. My fingers dig into the cold, slimy sludge. My mind races, thinking about what might happen if I don’t find it. Baba’s lost job, Maa’s constant pain, Shikha’s knee injury, and now…Amma. I can’t let anything more happen to them.

My hands are coated in filth, as I sift through the heaps. I feel something hard beneath my fingers—a stone, a piece of metal, maybe. Then, after what feels like forever, I find it. The idol. It’s smeared with muck. I pull it out, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread.

Soon, things take a turn for the worse.

A few nights later, Shikha starts to burn with fever. Her small body shakes under the weight of the blankets. Her skin hot to the touch. She had been unwell for a couple of days, but her condition has rapidly deteriorated tonight. The doctor’s face is creased with worry. He’s unable to pinpoint the cause of her illness.

Maa is sitting in the corner. She’s gently placing a wet cloth on Shikha’s burning forehead. Baba is pacing the room. I sit beside her bed. Despair gnaws at me. The misfortune keeps on escalating.

I consider the unthinkable. If I give the idol away to someone, perhaps Shikha will be spared. Better be someone else than us. It’s a cruel choice, but my sister’s life is at stake.

The doctor fears that Shikha will fall into a coma if something isn’t done soon. Baba and Maa decide to take her to the hospital. They ask me to stay back and look after Amma. She hasn’t been herself ever since I found her in front of the idol.

I stare at it, my eyes burning with unshed tears. I hate it. I hate it so much. But I can’t do anything. I’m helpless. And now Shikha is suffering because of me.

I start to sob. Feeling sorry about my family, I drop to my knees and beg to the deity. My voice trembles, tears stream down my cheeks. “Please, spare her. She’s just a child.” The idol is angry because I had discarded it. I admit my wrongdoing. “Shikha is innocent. If you’re angry, if you want to punish someone, punish me. I’m the one who upset you. Not my family.”

My breath comes in ragged gasps. I’m not sure if the deity can hear me, or if it even cares, but I keep praying. I beg. I plead. I promise to make amends, to do whatever it takes to make things right.

I don’t know how long I was there, hunched over the idol, whispering prayers. I fall asleep in the early hours of the morning. I sleep fitfully, my dreams a chaotic blur of fear and regret.

I wake at the first light of dawn to a knock at the door. It’s Minti Mashi from next door. There’s a call from the hospital. It’s Baba. The fever has broken. They’ll keep Shikha for a few more days, but she’s out of danger. A weight has been lifted off my chest. I’m so relieved I almost cry. Then, as I put the phone down, a thought suddenly occurs to me.

The words Soumendu read to me in the library echo in my mind: “Destroying the vessel harms not the deity bound within. The deity ever requires victims.”

The deity ever requires victims. These words play on a loop, lingering at the edges of my subconscious. I did not think much about those words. But now, I see their meaning.

The deity needs victims. That much is obvious. But why? Why does it crave suffering and despair? My thoughts race back to last night. I spent pleading before the idol, begging for Shikha’s life. It wasn’t any ritual that made the difference. It was my desperate plea, my sincere prayer. My complete surrender. My helplessness. I had worshipped the deity with all my heart. I hadn’t just gone through the motions. I had poured my soul into those prayers. And it responded.

Maybe it feeds on negative energy and despair because it doesn’t get any sincere worship. A realisation dawns on me. Like a key turning in a lock. The deity has most likely been left alone for a long time, neglected and forgotten. Without devotees, it has turned to tormenting, feeding on the only energy it can gather: despair.

Few days later, my suspicions are confirmed.

The late afternoon sun is casting long shadows in the living room. A warm breeze rustles the leaves of the old mango tree outside its window. I am in the kitchen, preparing tea, when I hear a knock. I wipe my hands on a towel and hurry to the front door.

Soumendu is standing on the threshold. “Hi, Ashmita,” he smiles. “I was passing by and thought I’d check in. How’s Shikha?”

I step aside to let him in. “She’s doing much better,” I say. “She was discharged a couple of days ago. She’s still weak, but we’re keeping an eye on her. Maa and Baba have taken her to the doctor. Come, I’ll bring tea.”

I lead him to the living room. We sit on the sofa with two cups. “What’s all this?” I ask, pointing to the stack of books he has brought along.

“I’ve been doing some research,” he says, opening one of the books. The pages are old and yellowed, filled with faded scripts and illustrations. “I found some details about the deity in the Asiatic Library. I’ve been spending quite a bit of time there lately.”

“I can see that,” I smile.

“The name of the deity is Kaalrupini.” Soumendu continues, his tone serious. “Have you heard of her?”

I shake my head. The name is unfamiliar. “Kaalrupini,” I repeat slowly, trying to absorb the syllables. “What does it mean?”

“Kaalrupini,” he explains, “means ‘the one who embodies time.’ She’s a goddess of time and fate. A powerful and ancient force. According to the texts, she was once revered by a small tribe. They worshipped her, believing she had the power to control their destinies. For a time, things went well. The tribe prospered, and Kaalrupini was honoured with rituals and offerings.”

I listen intently. Soumendu continues. “But then, things changed. The tribe started experiencing a series of misfortunes—crops failed, diseases spread, cattle died. The people lost faith in Kaalrupini, believing she had abandoned them. They stopped worshipping and turned their backs on her.”

“What happened next?” I ask, though I can already sense the answer.

“The goddess was furious,” Soumendu says. “In a fit of rage, she unleashed great calamities on the tribe. Storms battered their homes. Rivers swelled and swallowed their fields. Disease spread like wildfire. Crops withered to dust under the burning sun. They suffered immensely and were on the brink of extinction.”

“Before they perished, the last of the tribe’s priests cursed her, condemning her to fade into obscurity. They bound her spirit into a vessel, an idol, so that she could no longer harm anyone. Over time, as the tribe vanished, so did the memory of Kaalrupini. She was forgotten forever, just as the curse intended.”

I take a moment to let it sink in. I look at the idol on the shelf. “And that’s why she’s been causing all this suffering.” I say. “She’s been longing for someone to remember her, to worship her.”

Soumendu nods. “It makes sense. When you prayed to her, you acknowledged her existence. You gave her what she had been denied for centuries — devotion, respect. It’s probably why Shikha started getting better. The goddess was appeased, at least for a while.”

I realise it now. It’s so clear. For centuries, she had been trapped in that idol, hungry for worship, starving for devotion. But no one ever offered her any prayer or respect. No one knew about her. No one treated her as a deity. And so, she sought out suffering as a substitute. But that night, when I begged for Shikha’s life, I gave her what she needed.

I’ve been trying to fight her all this time, to resist her influence. But all she wants is to be acknowledges. To be remembered. All she seeks is devotion. If I can give her that, perhaps I can keep my family safe. Perhaps I can put an end to this suffering.

Soumendu responds, almost as if reading my thoughts. “Maybe she doesn’t want to harm anyone. Maybe all she wants is to be remembered. Like human beings, even the gods crave for attention.”

I look at the idol again. That tiny piece of stone. It’s hard to believe that such a small figurine could hold so much power. I’ll continue to worship her, I decide. If that’s what it takes to keep my family safe, I’ll do it without a question.

I begin my new ritual. I kneel before the idol. I place a small bowl of rice and a lit oil lamp beside it. My hands folded, I bow my head and pray. I pour all my hopes and fears into my prayers. I let the words flow from my heart. I ask the deity to spare my family. I request her to lift the misfortune that has plagued us. I promise to worship her faithfully. I pledge to honour her as a true deity.

Days pass, and I continue my daily worship. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, things begin to change. Shikha recovers completely and soon the house is filled with her vibrant energy. The shadows under Amma’s eyes fade. She regains her former self and starts to walk without pain. The neighbourhood kids flock to listen to her stories like before. Baba hears back from a job interview. They want him to start right away. Maa’s chronic pain eases. Her soft humming fills the kitchen area once again. One fine morning, as I’m about to leave for college, Sheru appears on our doorstep, tail wagging, as if he had never left.

The transformation is astonishing. A wave of relief and happiness has washed over our family. The normalcy we had been missing is finally restored. It’s as if a dark cloud has lifted. The air has become lighter. My family members, once weighed down by invisible burdens, seem to breathe easier. Even our relatives, who had been plagued by their own misfortunes, start to experience better conditions. The atmosphere at family gatherings is joyful once more.

As weeks turn into months, I continue my worship, and the positive changes continue. Life becomes not just normal but better than it was before. Our small house in Jodhpur Park is filled with happiness and prosperity.

Baba and Maa might have their doubts, but I’m certain this is the only way. The deity needs me as much as I need her. I have given her what she craves, and in return, she has spared my family.

Each day, as I kneel before the idol, my sense of having found a path to mutual harmony with the deity is reinforced. This daily ritual provides me with reassurance that darkness is kept at bay. For as long as I worship, I know we will remain safe. I never miss a day.

The summer heat is stifling, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement in the air. Summer holidays are about to begin. Baba is taking the whole family to Darjeeling. All of us are looking forward to it. Especially Shikha.

The semester exams are over, and today the results are out. Students are milling around the college courtyard, chattering and laughing. I feel a sense of calm confidence as I stand by the bulletin board, watching the crowd disperse. I know I’ve done well. I had worked incredibly hard this time. I can’t help but smile at the thought of my name at the top of the list.

As I push my way through the crowd to check the results, I hear someone call out Soumendu’s name. I turn and see him surrounded by a group of friends, all congratulating him, patting him on his back. My heart skips a beat. A sense of unease settles in my stomach. I make my way to the front of the board and scan the list. There, at the top, in bold letters, is Soumendu’s name.

He’s topped the class.

For a moment, I stand there, staring at the list, unable to process the words. My name is second. Soumendu, my friend, my rival, has beaten me. I can hear the sound of his laughter behind me. My hand clenches into a fist. I should be happy for him. I should congratulate him. But all I feel is a surge of jealousy. A sharp, bitter taste fills my mouth. Before I can stop myself, I think, I hope he gets what’s coming to him.

What? The thought is so unlike me, almost as if it belongs to someone else. I quickly push it away, ashamed of myself. I force a smile and make my way to Soumendu, congratulating him on his achievement. He smiles back. There’s a hint of concern in his eyes. He can sense the tension in my voice.

That afternoon, I walk home alone. My thoughts a tangled mess. I feel guilty for my spite, for the pang of jealousy I felt. It was just a passing thought, I tell myself. It doesn’t mean anything.

I am just finishing dinner when Minti Mashi knocks. I’ve got a phone call. At this hour? Must be something urgent. It’s one of my classmates, speaking in a rushed, panicked voice. There’s been an accident. Soumendu was hit by a car on his way home. He’s in the hospital, unconscious. He may not make it.

The phone slips off my hand. My heart pounds in my chest. My vision blurs. No, I think. No, this can’t be happening. I feel the walls closing in. The air has suddenly become thick to breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating. My spiteful wish is echoing in my mind, haunting me. I wished him bad luck, now his life hangs by a thread.

I rush home and head straight to my room. Baba calls out. They’re still finishing dinner. I ignore them. My legs feel weak beneath me. The idol of Kaalrupini is sitting on my desk, staring at me. It’s me, I think with horror. It’s through me.

Tears blur my vision. I sink to the floor, a sob escaping my lips. I realise that my attempt to alleviate my family’s suffering has only trapped me deeper in the deity’s grasp. All this time, Kaalrupini has been feeding off my emotions, my hopes, my fears. She’s no longer a forgotten deity trapped in an idol. My prayers, my devotion, my worship — they’ve given her strength. She has found her way into the world — through me. In trying to save my family, I have become her new vessel.

Neev, Anir, and I are chatting in the living room. We’re spending the night in the Karunamaya Hills in a century-old bungalow. Though old, the bungalow boasts a timeless elegance with its sturdy frames and intricate carvings. Perfect setting for ghost stories! This is Neev’s third one.

But Anir isn’t interested. “Ugh, stop it! I don’t want to hear any more.”

Just then, Mr. Keshuraj, the caretaker, appears in the doorway. Our umbrellas, drenched from the morning rain, had been left outside to dry. He keeps them in a corner. “I’m leaving for the day.”

“Goodbye, sir!” we reply.

Neev continues. “They say a boy died there long — ”

“I must tell you, it’s not a good night to tell such tales.” Mr. Keshuraj abruptly interjects.

“Why do you say that?” I ask inquisitively.

Mr. Keshuraj is a sturdy man in his forties with a quiet, authoritative presence. Though he’s from the city, many old bungalows in the area are under his supervision. “Each area has its own stories, old ones that have been passed down through generations.”

“Like what?” Anir asks, intrigued despite his earlier apprehension.

Mr. Keshuraj takes a deep breath, weighing his thoughts. “Some other time perhaps.”

“Please, tell us,” I urge.

He clearly isn’t in the mood.

“Come on sir, you can’t leave us hanging now,” Neev presses.

Anir chimes in. “Please, we really want to know. We came all this way.”

Seeing we’re not going to stop any time soon, Mr. Keshuraj finally relents. “Okay. There’s a story about a boy who once lived in these hills many years ago. He was deeply in love with a girl from the village. They were to be married, but something went terribly wrong. The girl disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and the boy, heartbroken, roamed these hills, wailing in his grief.”

“Seriously?” Neev asks, his scepticism evident.

Mr. Keshuraj nods solemnly. “Every year, around this time, people claim to hear his wail drifting down from the hills.”

“Do you believe in it?” I ask, intrigued by it.

“Whether you believe or not, it’s best to respect old stories,” Mr. Keshuraj’s gaze is distant. “Make sure to lock the doors and turn off the lights. And don’t go out at night. I must leave now. It’s already late.”

After our college excursion to Kanakinal ended, Neev was adamant about visiting the Karunamaya Hills which was just an hour away by train. “I read about it in a travel book,” his eyes gleamed with excitement as he told us about it. “It’s a hidden gem, still unexplored by tourists. We’ve come this far. It would be a shame to go back without paying a visit.”

We pooled together whatever pocket money we had. It wasn’t just the money. We had to fabricate a story for our parents, telling them that the excursion had been extended by a day. To our teachers, we spun a tale about visiting a distant relative of mine, and that we’d have to leave separately on the last day. Except the three of us, nobody knows where we are.

Every village has its legends. We don’t think much of Mr. Keshuraj’s story. But as the night falls, the atmosphere starts to shift.

The huge grandfather clock in the living room now reads 8:35 PM. The sounds of the jungle begin to fade. The wild animals that had been howling in the distance go silent. Nearby dogs, which had been barking sporadically, cease their sounds. Even the gentle drizzle that’d been going all day finally stops. There is no wind, no rustling leaves — everything is eerily calm.

Then, it begins.

“Did you hear that?” Neev exclaims.

At first, a faint, disconcerting sound begins to filter through the quiet. It feels like a baby’s cry coming from far away. We ignore it. But as it continues, it becomes undeniably clear what it is.

“What on earth is happening? Is this for real?” I murmur, as the wailing continues.

I’m still finding it hard to process it. I’ve heard countless ghost stories, always finding them more fun than frightening. But now, it feels like I’m living one of those tales.

“Didn’t the caretaker say that every year the spirit wanders through the village?” Anir suddenly remembers, his voice quivering.

“I don’t recall him mentioning that,” Neev retorts, masking his fear with scepticism.

“No, he did say it roams all night. I just assumed it stayed in the hills. Did he mention anything about it coming down into the valley?” My mind races to piece together Mr. Keshuraj’s words.

“The villagers either leave the valley or turn off their lights and lock their doors tight, fearing the restless spirit might cause harm in its grief-stricken state.” Mr. Keshuraj’s voice echoes in my head. It sends a chill through my body.

Karunamaya Hills is beautiful, especially in this rainy season. But the remoteness of the place is striking. We realise it soon after we arrive this morning.

Apart from the caretaker, we’ve seen only a handful of people. All hotels are closed, except for this bungalow. I should’ve known something was off. But then, how could anyone anticipate something like this?

“What was that?” Anir shouts, pointing at the window. “I saw something move.”

“Perhaps it’s just the leaves,” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

The wailing ceases momentarily before resuming with increased intensity. It starts to drizzle once more, the light rain tapping against the windows. The erratic shadows from the fireplace are dancing menacingly around the room. That’s our only source of light. The rest of the bungalow is cloaked in darkness.

“I swear I saw something,” Anir insists. “It was like a shadow moving past.”

“There’s nothing out there,” Neev snaps back, though his voice is unconvincing. “Stop scaring yourself.”

“We need to keep it together,” I say firmly, trying to take charge. “We’ll just have to wait for the night to pass.” But the night seems endless.

The wailing stops again.

I glance at the window, half-expecting to see a figure staring back at me. All I see is darkness. The houses nearby lay silent and still, their lights out.

What if it’s drifting down from the hills now? Wouldn’t the fire give us away? My stomach drops at the thought.

As if reading my mind, Neev asks, “Should we put out the fire?”

“But it’s the only light we have.” Anir swallows hard.

The idea of putting out our only source of warmth and comfort is terrifying, but so is the thought of drawing the spirit’s attention.

“We’ll have to do it,” Neev gets up. He crouches by the fireplace and reaches for the metal poker.

Anir is still hesitant. “Are we sure about this?”

“We have to,” I say. “We can’t risk being seen.”

As Neev smothers the flames, the whole room plunges into darkness, and the wailing starts again, much closer now. A bone-chilling sound, like a child’s cry twisted by a never-ending sorrow. It casts a heavy gloom over everything.

“Do you think it’s close?” Neev asks, his voice barely audible.

“I believe so,” Anir replies, his gaze fixed on the door. “It’s like it’s… right outside the bungalow.”

We continue sitting in the darkness, as our eyes adjust to it. Each of us is struggling to stay calm. Anir is gripping the chair tightly, his knuckles white. Neev tries the landline. It’s not working. All of us are shivering, both in cold and in fear.

“We need to do something. We can’t just sit here,” Neev starts getting restless.

“Like what?” I ask, my voice shaky. “Go out there and face it?”

“When we face it, at least I want to be ready.” Neev picks up the metal poker.

“I don’t think that would work,” Anir replies. “It’s a spirit. It’s an apparition without a body.”

“What makes you so sure?” Neev challenges Anir. “Have you ever actually faced one?”

As I secretly hope today isn’t the day I have to encounter one, the wailing suddenly stops. We hold our breath, waiting for the next sound, but it doesn’t come for a while.

“Maybe it’s gone,” Anir says, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

As if in response, the wailing starts again, this time from behind the bungalow. “It’s circling us,” I say.

“I can’t take this anymore,” Neev says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s getting on my nerves.”

“We’ll get through this,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Just… stay close, and don’t do anything stupid.”

Another pause in the wailing, and we hear a rustling sound outside. My heart pounds in my chest as I strain to listen.

“Do you hear that?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Neev’s eyes are burning with fear and excitement. “It’s right outside, and I’m gonna get it.” Neev rushes towards the front door.

The clock strikes twice. Dhong! Dhong! It’s 2:00 AM. Without the fire, the temperature has dropped noticeably.

Neev was crumpled on the ground when we found him outside, his face pale and his body limp. After being unconscious for almost an hour, he’s coming back to his senses slowly.

“How do you feel? Tell me you’re alright,” I urge, trying to hide my worry.

Neev blinks several times, his gaze slowly focusing. “I… I don’t know,” his voice barely more than a whisper. “Something was out there. I couldn’t see it, but I felt it.”

Anir leans forward, both concerned and afraid. “What exactly happened there? What made you scream?”

Neev struggles to sit up, his movements sluggish. “I screamed!? I don’t remember that.” He sounds surprised. “I remember feeling the spirit’s presence. It was like a shadow engulfing me. Like… like I was being pulled away from reality. Then everything went dark.”

“You vanished as soon as you stepped outside,” I added. “We were right behind you, calling out, but there was no response. Then we heard your scream, like you were being attacked. It came from the back of the bungalow where we found you.”

Was it Neev who screamed, or was it the spirit? It’s hard to tell. But one thing is clear: the wailing stopped after that.

With the first streaks of sunlight filtering through the window, we decide it is time to leave. We didn’t hear the wailing sound anymore. Neev got some sleep to recover. Anir and I kept watch all night.

“I don’t care if we get a taxi, a rickshaw, or if we have to walk to the station. We aren’t staying here a minute longer,” Neev declares. All of us agree.

Even though our train doesn’t leave until 10 o’clock, we think, anywhere but here. As we rush to gather our things, it starts to rain again. This time, quite heavily.

“Has anyone seen the umbrellas?” Anir’s eyes dart back and forth as he rifles through our scattered belongings.

“I think Mr. Keshuraj kept them beside the cupboard. Did you check there?” I reply as I hurriedly stuff clothes into my backpack.

“They must have fallen behind it,” Neev replies. “Let me look.” He’s doing much better, given what he just went through.

Neev hurries over to the large, creaky cupboard and crouches down, peering into the narrow gap. His fingers grope in the darkness, pushing aside dust and cobwebs, as his hand brushes against something cold and smooth.

“Look at this,” Neev says, holding up an old, dust-covered photograph. It is an old, sepia-toned image of a boy and a girl. They couldn’t have been older than us.

“Could it be them?” Anir’s breath hitches, his eyes widening with unease.

We flip it over and see a date written on the back: 1932. Next to it are the initials “N.M.” We can’t tell if these are the initials of the boy and the girl or perhaps the person who took the photo.

“Is… that…?” I begin, but my mouth goes dry as I struggle to find the words.

Anir’s face is pale, his voice trembling as he says, “It can’t be. This is decades old.”

As Neev looks at the photograph closely, his face drains of colour. The resemblance is undeniable — the same dark eyes, the same determined jawline. The boy in the photo is unmistakably Neev.

The rain stopped about an hour ago. The train is rattling along the tracks. Anir is sitting next to me. Neev is opposite us, staring blankly out the window. The landscape blurs past, a mix of fields and forests. Still in shock, none of us speak.

“What do we tell people?” Anir whispers in my ear.

“Nothing,” I reply firmly. “We tell no one.”

Soon after, Neev and his family move to another city. We keep in touch for a while, but over the years, it fades. Though the three of us have reminisced many times about our adventure in the Karunamaya Hills — or as we like to call them, the Wailing Hills — none of us ever mentioned the photograph Neev had brought back from the place.

“There are two ways to reach the falls. The usual way is to take a train there. All tourists do that. It’s boring! The less popular way is via the scenic route that runs through the jungle, parallel to the railway tracks. We’ll take that,” Moy had declared last night, helping himself with a bite of my samosa.

Moy and I went to school together, but ended up in different cities for college. I’ve come to visit him for the first time in six months. He was convinced that my visit would not be fulfilled without a trip to the Vanaprastha Falls. So here we are, surrounded by a hundred other tourists. But we hadn’t seen a single soul during our hike to the falls. It’s obvious they had taken the train there.

Vanaprastha Falls is nothing spectacular. It’s August, but the monsoons have been delayed. So, instead of a majestic cascade of milky white water, there’s just a tiny stream trickling downward.

We had left Porvathi at 8 in the morning. Now, it’s 5 pm, and we’re waiting for the 5:20 train to take us back to Sonakhet. From there, we’ll have to take the scooter back to Porvathi. Another 80 kilometres! The very thought of the journey is making me tired, and the humid weather isn’t helping.

The train arrives at 5:30, but to our dismay, it’s headed in the opposite direction, towards Anandi Bagh. As the throng of the eagerly waiting tourists clamour to board the train, it dawns on me what just happened. Vanaprastha station stands between Anandi Bagh and Sonakhet. The usual route that tourists take, the one we wanted to avoid, it starts from Anandi Bagh station, not Sonakhet.

We learn from one of the tourists that the next train to Sonakhet isn’t until tomorrow. But we can’t board this train and go home like the rest of them. Our scooter is still parked at Sonakhet.

As the train pulls away and the crowd disappears, an eerie stillness settles over the station, the lively bustle replaced by an almost ghostly silence.

It’ll get dark soon, so it’s too late to walk back now. Moy and I stare at each other for a moment, both of us a little embarrassed. We decide it’s best if we talk to the station master.

As we approach the small, dimly lit office, we see him already preparing to leave. He’s an elderly man with a weathered face. After we enquire, he mentions that a locomotive would be passing through at 7 pm.

“It doesn’t stop here, but if you wave at it, it might give you a ride to Sonakhet. It travels slowly, so it’ll easily spot you.” He hands us his torch. “Use this to wave at it. When you’re done, just leave it here,” he points towards a bench and leaves for the day. “It’s getting dark,” Moy observes a while later.

Vanaprastha is a tiny station, situated beside a bridge that looks over a cliff, in front of the Vanaprastha Falls. It is a dilapidated structure, with a red-tiled roof and peeling white paint. The chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl echo through the trees. There’s a vast stretch of jungle on both sides of the station and, except for Moy and I, not a soul around.

We settle onto a wooden bench. “If the engine doesn’t arrive, we might have to spend the night here,” I inform Moy.

“Yeah I don’t mind. Except for the mosquitoes maybe. And maybe jackals,” Moy chuckles. I agree nervously.

Exhaustion is weighing heavy on my eyelids. Despite the unsettling quiet, I manage to drift into a sleep.

I began to dream. Moy and I are walking back to Sonakhet early in the morning, but we soon lose our way and end up at a different station. Suddenly, a voice — my own voice — echo through the dream, and I wake up. My eyes flutter open, and I’m immediately struck by the darkness that has enveloped the station. How long have I been sleeping?

“Wake up!” I shake Moy’s shoulder. He gets up, rubbing his eyes. “Our ride has arrived.” I spot a colossal engine, its lights cutting through the night, coming in our direction.

“Looks like the station master was right,” Moy says, still half-asleep, but in a voice filled with relief.

I pick up the station master’s torch and wave it in the direction of the engine. The locomotive’s brakes hiss as it slows to a stop before us. The massive machine seems almost surreal against the backdrop of the deserted station.

Three gruff-looking men lean out from the side, their faces partially illuminated by the dim light of the station. Their eyes glimmer strangely. There’s something unsettling in their expressions.

“Need a lift?” One of them calls out with a gravelly and deep voice, carrying over the engine’s rumble.

“Yes, please. Till Sonakhet.” we reply.

“Climb aboard,” he says in the same gravelly voice.

After we get up and the engine starts moving, I sense something is not right. Despite the August heat, a sudden chill washes over me. Moy feels it too. There’s also a foul smell inside the engine, like something rotting.

Moy is standing opposite to me, closer to the pilot. With at least a 15-minute journey ahead, he decides to start a chat.

“So, are you from around here?” Moy asks the pilot.

No response. The pilot stands eerily motionless, like a statue. Moy doesn’t probe further.

We suddenly realise the two other crew members are nowhere in sight. I can swear they were beside us a minute ago. It doesn’t make sense.

Moy and I exchange nervous glances, but say nothing. Could they have gone outside to stand on the periphery of the engine, for a smoke perhaps?

I glance outside to look for them. The jungle seems to be closing in, as if the trees are leaning towards the engine. I wish we reach the station soon. Something feels off about this whole thing.

Meanwhile, the engine has accelerated and cutting through the forest at full speed. The foul stench has become stronger and the temperature has dropped further. Our breaths are now visible in the air.

“Where did the pilot go?” I hear Moy cry out, aghast!

I turn around to see the pilot who was driving the engine is not there anymore. “How’s that possible?! He was here just a moment ago!” I exclaim, equally surprised, realising the locomotive is hurtling forward with no one at the helm.

“I turned the other way for a second and he isn’t here.” Moy’s voice is now high with fear and shock.

“What is happening?” I hear myself trembling with fear. We’re trapped inside a ghost engine that has no pilot, surrounded by darkness and a dense jungle. That’s what’s happening. I try to stop the engine. I pull the brakes and press the buttons frantically, but nothing responds.

“We can’t stay here!” Moy’s voice trembles with urgency. “We have to get out!”

The engine seems to be gathering more and more speed. The foul smell is unbearable now. I look at him and nod, my own fear mirroring his. If we stay here we might not make it out alive. I know what we’ve to do. It’s our only chance. We have to jump!

Moy and I cautiously open the engine door, edging towards the precipice of the roaring locomotive, the cold wind slicing through our clothes. Every gust feels like a warning from the spirits that’s haunting the night. The locomotive’s relentless speed is disorienting. The ground below is a chaotic blur of shadows.

“Are we sure about this?” I ask, shouting at the top of my voice over the deafening sound of the engine.

“There’s no other option. We can’t sit inside this ghost engine.” Moy shouts back.

I open my mouth to say something else, but change my mind. We share one final nod. With our hearts pounding, summoning our inner courage, we jump.

The ground rushes up to meet us, the impact jarring our body as we tumble through the underbrush. As soon as we come to a halt, I can feel a gust of pain shooting through my limbs.

I groan in pain as I struggle to get up. I realise I don’t have the energy to move, as if every ounce of energy has been drained from my body during the fall. The jungle seems to press in around us. We cannot afford to linger.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I push myself up from the forest floor. My legs protest with each movement, pain shooting through me like lightning. I can see a deep cut on my right leg, just beside my knee, throbbing painfully.

“Moy,” I gasp through gritted teeth, “I don’t know if I can run.”

“Lean on me,” Moy urges as he struggles to get up himself. He takes my arm and wraps it around his shoulders after getting up. “I’ll carry you.” Despite the fear etched on his features, his voice is firm. Apart from a few bruises, Moy is largely unharmed. Together, we stagger forward, as fast as possible, his strength supporting me through this agonising pain.

The night air is thick with humidity. The jungle around us seems to blur into a maze of darkness and looming shadows. The sound of our hurried footsteps echo through the night, guided only by the filtered moonlight through the dense canopy above.

We periodically stop to survey the surroundings, making sure we aren’t going in circles. As we continue ahead, branches lash at our faces, roots threaten to trip us, but we push forward. We cannot afford to slow down.

Moy’s laboured breathing is matching mine. I think about the ghost crew for a moment. Could they be following us? I don’t dare to look back. I glance at Moy. His face is pale in the moonlight, exhausted with fear. I must be looking the same, I think.

An hour passes when a faint glimmer of hope flickers ahead — a shape taking a form amidst the darkness. Could it be a railway station, perhaps? Or was it a mirage, born of exhaustion and fear?

As we close the distance, the silhouette sharpens into clarity. The outline of a platform emerges from the shadows, stretching out like a welcoming embrace. Relief washes over us as we realise it’s real. Far away, we spot figures moving about — people waiting, trains standing idle. We see the name of the station.

“It’s Sonakhet!” exclaims Moy. It’s the very station where we parked our scooter. We’re saved.

The closer we get, the more real the station becomes, with the soft hum of distant conversations, the occasional clatter of luggage being moved, and the low, rhythmic murmur of the waiting train engines.

As we emerge from the trees onto the platform, we slow down to a stumbling halt, breathless and trembling, collapsing onto a bench immediately. The hard wood feels oddly comforting against our backs.

Is this it? Are we finally safe? The thought reverberates in my mind, a mix of disbelief and overwhelming relief. I scan the area, half-expecting something sinister to follow us out of the trees. A passing chaiwala asks if we want some tea. We gladly accept. Sipping our tea, Moy and I exchange a wordless glance, reassurance and exhaustion mingling in our eyes.

“I hope the ghost story is finally over,” he says, exhaling wearily.

“I surely hope so,” I reply, exhausted. “I surely hope so.”

I watch the chaiwala drift down the empty platform, his figure gradually swallowed by the darkness at its far end.

I notice the clamour of the railway station has suddenly disappeared. The distant clatter of trains, the murmur of voices, even the soft hum of the night — everything has fallen silent. I look around and realise the passengers, coolies, and railwaymen are all gone. It’s only us in the whole station. Not a single soul around.

Moy and I stare at each other nervously.