Chapter 2: The Old Man’s Warning

The next day, a ragged old man grabbed my arm and said, "Beta, tujhe kisi bhoot ne pakad liya hai."

I was just getting my morning chai at the tapri, trying to shake off last night’s exhaustion, when this old man shuffled up, his clothes faded and his white beard streaked with paan stains. His hand, rough and calloused, clamped down on me before I could even take a sip. I glanced around, embarrassed. The chaiwala’s eyes met mine, but he just shrugged, as if to say: old men and their stories.

"Aur woh bhi sabse khatarnak bhoot," he whispered, voice suddenly low. The chaiwala, mid-pour, paused to listen, while the old man’s eyes glittered with that fakir’s knowing—like he’d seen too much in this world.

1

I’m an atheist.

I don’t go in for any of this nonsense—no pandits, no black threads, no blessings. Amma does all the poojas, keeps tulsi in the window, but me? I believe only in what I see and drive. Amma had tied a lemon and green chillies under my bumper last month. I’d laughed then, but now I wished I hadn’t thrown them away.

I immediately tried to shake his hand off and walk away.

But to my surprise, this frail, shrivelled old man had a grip of iron—his hand felt as if it was welded to my arm. His nails dug into my skin, and I tried to jerk away, but it was like some invisible force was holding me in place. A couple of passersby slowed down, staring curiously.

He looked at me and chuckled, "Arrey beta, sun le ek buddhe ki baat."

He grinned, betel-stained teeth flashing, as if he knew how absurd he sounded but didn’t care a bit. There was something about his eyes—world-weary, sad, yet knowing—that made me pause for just a second.

"Nahin maana toh baad mein pachtayega. Tab tak der ho chuki hogi."

He shook his head with that Indian air of tragic inevitability, as though I was yet another fool headed straight for my own ruin. His voice lowered, rough as gravel, making the chai stall suddenly feel a lot colder.

I glared at him.

Just as I was about to curse him, he suddenly rolled up my sleeve. His fingers were cold, nails rimmed with red paan stains, as he pushed up my sleeve.

He pointed at my arm.

On what should have been smooth, fair skin, there was a faint red line. You wouldn’t notice it unless you looked carefully.

I quickly rubbed at it several times.

The red line remained—it wasn’t drawn on.

My heart started to thud loudly, as if the very gods were drumming warning beats. The old man’s bony finger didn’t tremble; he was so sure, so calm, as if he’d seen this a hundred times before.

The old man stared at me. He tapped the line gently. "Gaon mein ise bhoot ki dor bolte hain. Samjha? This is called a spirit’s red thread."

He said it with the weight of a hundred years, almost chanting the words like some old village tale. For a second, I remembered my dadi tying a red thread around my wrist, telling me it would protect me from buri nazar.

"Aaj raat ko phir aayegi tere liye."

His voice was a soft growl, sending chills through my bones. Even the chaiwala’s smile faded.

"Saat raat tak aayegi. Roz, yeh laal lakeer gehri hoti jayegi."

The numbers sounded like a curse. Seven nights—like some old black-and-white Hindi horror film.

"Saatvin din, tere is lakeer ke saath, chamdi utaar legi."

My stomach dropped. The sun seemed to lose its warmth for a moment. Somewhere, a dog barked, and I shivered as if someone had walked over my grave.

A chill ran from the soles of my feet right up to the top of my head.

It felt like an invisible wave, goosebumps breaking out all over my arms. I rubbed my hands together, trying to act normal, but my breath caught in my throat.

I was starting to feel afraid.

But outwardly, I stayed stubborn. "Arrey, chacha, yeh toh bas khujli hai. Kya bhoot-vhoot lagate ho?"

I tried to laugh it off, voice too loud, hoping someone else at the stall would join in and break this spell. But nobody said a word.

"Uncle, don’t think you can fool me with your ghost stories and scam me for money."

I looked him up and down, trying to sound tough. "Bahut dekhe hain aap jaise baba log—ek paise nahi milega!" I scoffed, but my voice was shaky.