Chapter 4: The Warning Before Nightfall

04

Grandpa raised his voice, "Daro mat! Bulb phat gaya—abhi badal deta hoon."

He slipped on his chappals, climbed onto a blue plastic stool. A little niece tugged his kurta—"Dada ji, sambhal ke!"—before a cousin offered a torch from his phone. Grandpa brushed them off, screwing in the new bulb. The shop glowed again, the harsh white light banishing the shadows. Life snapped back—someone started serving samosas, as if nothing happened.

Arjun sneered at the stranger, arms crossed. "Suna na? Meri biwi boli. Ab nikal yahan se."

He leaned against the counter, flashing a victorious grin. The crowd murmured in agreement, eager to return to the wedding.

The man’s face darkened. "Woh dulhan nahi boli thi."

His voice was tight, scanning faces for an ally. He sounded like a man out of options.

Arjun waved him off, chin jutting. "Besharam! Meri biwi thi. Dubara bakwaas ki toh dikhata hoon!"

He stepped forward, chest puffed, a cousin clapping him on the back, "Bindaas hai apna Arjun."

Grandpa glared at the man, eyes like smouldering coal. "Bas karo, beta. Priya ki awaaz thi. Ab aur hungama kiya toh main bhi kuch nahi kar sakta. Chalo, nikal jao."

He raised a trembling hand, the gesture both a blessing and a threat.

The man protested, "Chacha ji, meri suno! Mere kaan tez hain. Bijli gayi toh awaaz dakshin-pashchim se aayi, jabki dulhan toh uttar mein baithi hai. Koi kuch kar raha hai—shava dulhan ka istemal ho raha hai sabko maarne ke liye."

He pointed, finger shaking. Some snorted, others stared at the southwest corner, fear growing.

Thunder crashed, the glass on the table vibrating. My fingers tightened on my dupatta, a single tear sliding under the gota of my veil as dread curled in my stomach.

Uneasy whispers filled the room. "Yeh shaadi toh bhootiyon wali ho gayi," someone hissed.

Grandpa’s tone turned to steel. "Beta, ab bas. Aur drama kiya toh yahan se bach ke nahi jaoge."

The men at the door straightened, ready to drag him out if needed.

He tried to push the man outside, but the stranger planted his feet, refusing to move. The tension was a taut string, every breath tight.

The man pleaded, voice breaking. "Agar shava dulhan ko nahi roka, sau kos ke andar koi zinda nahi bachega."

Even the bravest men shifted, afraid that turning him away would bring doom.

Grandpa snapped, "Apne kaam se kaam rakh! Nikal ja!"

He flung the door open, monsoon wind spraying rain into the shop. The words echoed the old belief—don’t let trouble in, or it will never leave.

He shoved the man out and slammed the door. Outside, rain hammered the street, darkness pressing close. A dog barked, then silence.

The man pounded the door, his voice muffled but desperate. "Chacha ji, dulhan mein kuch gadbad hai! Tab se hilli tak nahi hai, jaise kisi ne jod diya ho. Bilkul zinda nahi lagti!"

A few women hugged their kids tighter. The rain drummed on the tin roof, thunder rattling the windows. The crowd pressed closer to the silent, veiled bride.

Arjun snapped, voice cracking, "Kya dekh rahe ho meri biwi ko? Boli thi abhi! Us gadhe ki baat pe kyun vishwas kar rahe ho?"

Even he sounded uncertain, eyes flicking to his bride.

Just then, the bride’s arm twitched under the dupatta.

Gasps and nervous giggles erupted. Some women sighed in relief; others looked more frightened, clutching saree pallus like talismans.

Arjun grinned, forcing bravado. "Dekha? Meri biwi ki baazu hilli!"

But his voice wavered, the flickering light making even him look small.

From outside, the man’s anxious voice rose above the storm, "Andhera hone wala hai! Yantra ab nahi rok payega—andar aane do, warna sab barbaad ho jayenge!"

A shiver swept through the shop as his warning echoed. I watched the bride’s veil—waiting for it to rise, or for the night to swallow us all.