Chapter 10: The Fight for Survival

It seemed there was no way to escape.

I realized the city’s millions of people couldn’t save me. All the crowds, all the noise—none of it mattered when jab bhoot chadh jaaye, na dua lagti hai, na dawai.

The only plan now was to find Uncle Mo and get to the bottom of this.

If anyone knew how to break this, it was him. He owed me that much.

If it really was a dead end, I’d fight to the death rather than just wait for doom.

Mumbai is a city of fighters, and I wasn’t about to go down without a struggle.

Just then, my phone rang—it was Uncle Mo.

The screen flashed his name—'Uncle Mo Tattoo'—and for once, I was actually glad to see it.

"Aman, from now on, don’t go anywhere, don’t trust anyone. I’m telling you, we’re in trouble this time. The young prince is playing for keeps. Wait for me, I’m coming to find you now."

His voice was hoarse, desperate. I could hear horns honking in the background, the city already alive with chaos.

As soon as I hung up, my phone rang again—it was my master.

The display read 'Guru Didi.' Even the ringtone sounded like a temple bell.

"Aman, how are you now? Have you gone out yet? If you do, go to Siddhivinayak Mandir. It’s close by, and the Ganesh murti there is gold."

The mention of Siddhivinayak gave me hope. In Mumbai, when things go wrong, everyone—from filmstars to fishwives—runs to Bappa.

I was silent, hesitated, but finally couldn’t help but ask the question weighing on my mind.

I chewed my lip, thinking of all the stories my master had told me. I had to know the truth.

"Master, forgive me for asking, but are you... alive or dead?"

It felt stupid, asking it out loud, but something inside me needed to know.

In my memory, after my master recovered from her last illness, her health was never great, but she was still living in the ashram.

I remembered sitting by her bed, making jokes, listening to her cough. But now, the memory seemed blurred, as if someone had painted over it with whitewash.

But last night in the illusion, "Uncle Mo" told me my master had died long ago.

Although what that "Uncle Mo" said couldn’t be trusted, the strange thing was, when I tried to recall, I found my memory blank regarding whether my master was alive or dead.

I racked my brain—had anyone attended her funeral? Had I? It was all a blank, a hole where memories should be.

In other words, I couldn’t be sure if my master was alive or dead at this moment.

The more I thought, the more confused I got. It felt like someone had tied my thoughts in knots.

"So you’ve grown up, Aman, starting to curse your master? What kind of evil have you gotten into?" My master sounded a bit angry.

The old scolding tone, full of love and irritation, made me want to cry from relief. For a moment, I almost laughed at myself.

Suddenly my eyes stung, and my intuition told me my master was still alive. That thing in the illusion had erased part of my memory.

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes. I knew, deep down, that my master would never leave without saying goodbye.

I quickly packed my things, slung on my backpack, closed the shop, and was about to leave when Uncle Mo arrived.

He barged in, hair wild, eyes bloodshot, panting as if he’d run all the way from Dadar.

"Didn’t I tell you to wait for me?"

He grabbed my arm, his grip firm. I could feel his fear, and it scared me even more.

"That deity is too damn evil, all its eyes are open now. It’s going to eat people. Meera is almost dead—two of her souls have already scattered."

His voice broke. I’d never seen him so terrified. In Mumbai, when even the old hands are afraid, you know things are truly bad.

I looked at the anxious Uncle Mo. "Uncle-master, I don’t want to get involved in this mess. Let me go."

I wanted to run, to hide, to disappear into the crowds. But deep down, I knew it was too late.

Uncle Mo sneered. "You think if you leave, you’ll be fine? Aman, you’re too naive. Once you encounter it, even if you hide at the ends of the earth, it’s useless. Ever heard of the Bone-attached Deity?"

His eyes glinted with something between pity and fear. I remembered old stories about spirits that cling to your bones, never letting go—not even in death.

"Wasn’t it the Panch-Mukh Bhootnath?" I was stunned.

I stared at him, realization dawning. My master’s warnings echoed in my mind. I took a shaky breath, the city’s noise rising outside. Whatever happened, I wouldn’t let this story end with me as a nameless casualty.

In Mumbai, sometimes the only thing scarier than the living...is the dead that refuse to leave you alone.