Chapter 3: The Neem-Wood Talisman

Once, we shot a film deep in the Western Ghats—a place crawling with stories of chudails and restless souls. The director insisted on real tantrik rituals, soul-calling rites that attract things best left alone.

Locals refused to work after sunset. Every day, the pandit warned us: 'Don’t step out after 9 p.m.' Even the crows stayed silent in the afternoon.

To keep us safe, my guru went to Kashi, got a neem-wood taabeez carved by a sadhu who’d meditated for decades. The sadhu soaked it in holy water, blessed it, and said it would ward off disaster. My guru wore it close, always warm, carrying the faint smell of neem and sweat—like a piece of home tucked under my shirt. He’d mutter mantras before and after every scene.

After that film, my guru retired. He said he could feel death getting close. That talisman had saved him, and he guarded it fiercely. Now, he was giving it to me.

His hands shook as he gave it. “Yeh tumhaare liye hai, Rakesh. Aur kisi ko mat dena. Sirf ek baar bachayega.” I nodded, swallowing my pride and accepting it. He tied a red thread around my waist, its scent of camphor and sandalwood filling the air, chanting mantras that echoed from my childhood. My heart thudded with every knot.

After touching my guru’s feet and saying goodbye to Anju and Aarav in the hospital, I joined the crew. I knew danger was close, but didn’t expect it to start so soon.

Before I left, Anju pressed Aarav’s hand to my forehead. “Aarav ka haath, Rakesh. Iss se bada taabeez kuch nahi.” I nearly broke down.

At the set’s puja, the diya in my hand simply wouldn’t light. I tried again and again, but after one bow, it died. A terrible omen—karma blocking my path. My palms sweated, making it worse. I muttered prayers to Hanumanji, but the wick refused to catch. My mouth dried, the incense made my head spin.

Suddenly, the crew exchanged nervous glances. One spot boy whispered, “Shani ka saaya lagta hai.” The pandit, trying to hide his worry, began chanting louder. The makeup dada did a quick nazar utaaro with salt from his lunchbox. The air was thick with tension, as if waiting for a power cut in June.

Then, a thin boy squeezed through the crowd, offering a lighter. “Bhaiya, maybe the diyas are damp. Try this!” He smiled awkwardly. For a moment, I felt less alone—someone was on my side.