Chapter 7: Haunted Bonds

This was the first time I’d taken on a job like this. Before, to pay off my debts, I’d helped a friend in real estate "clean" a few haunted houses—meaning I’d stay in houses where people had died, to prove they were safe. I’m not afraid of much, least of all ghosts or spirits. As long as the money was right, I’d stay anywhere. After a while, I even gained a bit of a reputation among agents.

It started as a joke—“Arrey Rohan Bhai, aap hi sambhalo, hamare agent ka bhi dhadkan ruk gaya hai.” I’d eat leftover aloo curry from a steel dabba, sleep on the floor, and tell the neighbours, “Dekho, kuch nahi hai yahan. Sirf hawa hai, aur tumhara darr.” Soon, word spread, and property agents would ring me up for help—sometimes paying me with cash, sometimes with groceries or a bottle of cheap whisky. Ghosts? I’d seen worse—loan sharks banging on my door, recovery agents threatening my children.

This mother and daughter had heard of me through an agent. But what they wanted wasn’t to "clean" a haunted house, but to "sever" a bad love entanglement.

It sounded filmi, almost like something out of those late-night news stories about tantric rituals and haunted possessions. Still, I needed the money, and something in the mother’s eyes told me this was not just another job.

The victim was a girl named Sneha, in her early twenties, just graduated from college, now curled up in her mother’s arms. She looked lifeless, her face pale, dark circles under her eyes.

Her hair was matted, and her fingers shook as she clung to her mother’s dupatta. She reminded me of my own daughter after a fever—eyes half-closed, lips dry, the life drained out by something no doctor could name. Her mother, Priya, kept stroking her hair, whispering “Bas, beta, sab theek ho jayega.” But Sneha just stared at the window, lost in some other world.

According to her, it started three months ago, just after Chaitra Navratri. She began to dream frequently of a strange man. At first, she thought she just wanted a boyfriend—that it was on her mind during the day and entered her dreams at night—so she didn’t take it seriously.

It was that season when the scent of jasmine hangs in the air and every neighbourhood hosts its own jagran. Maybe, like many young girls, she thought a bit too much about romance—about holding hands in the park, about what her future might look like. But the dreams came again and again, until even her friends started to notice she was growing quieter, more withdrawn.

In her dreams, she and the man got along well. They travelled together, went on dates, but she could never see his face clearly. She just had the feeling he was young and handsome. After a while, the man asked if she was willing to be with him officially. Lost in the sweetness of the dream, Sneha agreed without hesitation.

She described it softly, voice trembling—how she felt wrapped in a strange warmth, as if someone was watching over her all the time. It was only after she said yes that the dreams changed, and the world she thought was safe turned dark and cold.