Chapter 5: The Ghost Returns

About two months later, one evening, a fine drizzle was falling. The pitch-black sky was split by lightning now and then. The road was wet, nearly deserted. I was just about to close up shop.

Monsoon in Mumbai—when water seeps into every crack, power flickers, and the air smells of wet earth and anxiety. I was debating whether to eat vada pav or grab biryani for dinner.

Just as I was about to lock the shutter, a pale face pressed against the glass, startling me into a shout.

It wasn’t just pale—it was ghostly, eyes too large, mouth twisted in a smile that didn’t belong to the living. My heart nearly stopped.

That face looked at me and slowly stretched into a sinister smile.

You know the old saying—never smile at the dead? That’s exactly how it felt, her lips stretching impossibly wide.

Looking closer—wasn’t this Meera, the girl who’d gotten the five-headed deity tattooed here?

My mind raced. Wasn’t she supposed to be in Delhi with Arjun? Why was she here, alone, in the rain?

But her face was bluish, two huge dark circles under her eyes. She looked nothing like her former vibrant self.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks—hair uncombed, eyes hollow, lips trembling. The Meera I remembered was gone, replaced by someone who’d seen hell.

Though uneasy, considering she was Arjun’s woman, I had to show respect.

Old Mumbai rule—don’t make enemies of the powerful, especially not when they come to your door looking like this.

I quickly opened the door and let her in.

"Sorry, it’s dark, I didn’t see clearly. What brings you here? Did the tattoo fade, or are you feeling unwell?"

My voice was too bright, like when you try to calm a frightened animal. My hands shook as I fetched a steel glass of water.

As I made small talk, I turned to pour her water. The glass clattered a bit as I set it down. My stomach churned—this wasn’t normal, nothing about this was normal.

Meera didn’t take the cup. Instead, she slithered up to me like a water snake and whispered in my ear:

Her breath was cold against my cheek, and for a second, I could smell that same fishy sweetness from the tattoo ink.

"Aman bhaiya, what exactly did you tattoo on me?"

Her voice was low, trembling, but angry too. Something unhinged.

"The five-headed deity, the design Arjun gave me."

I tried to sound steady, but my voice cracked on 'deity.'

The next second, she shoved me away and screamed, "You’re lying! Arjun would never hurt me!"

Her scream echoed off the walls, making my ears ring. Neighbours would start gossiping if they heard.

With that, she ripped open her kurti with a loud tear, exposing her white belly.

The cloth tore like paper, her hands frantic. For a second, I averted my eyes, embarrassed, but curiosity got the better of me.

After two months, her abdomen was swollen, like she was four or five months pregnant.

Her belly looked unnatural, stretched tight and glistening, veins standing out beneath the skin. My heart pounded—this was no ordinary pregnancy.

"Tell me, what did you do to make me have strange dreams every night and get pregnant so fast? Tell me!"

Her face twisted into a ghostly mask, and the five-headed deity on her belly—whose eyes had been closed—now seemed to squint as her skin stretched. The deity’s limbs sprawled like banyan roots, its feet nearly reaching her private parts, exuding an unspeakable eeriness.

I had never seen anything like it—the tattoo almost moved, the skin writhing as if the god inside was waking up. I wanted to run, to scream, but I stood frozen, rooted by terror and guilt.

"Don’t panic, I’ll look into it and get back to you." I forced myself to stay calm, trying to soothe the crazed woman before me.

I wiped my palms on my jeans, wishing for the protection of a hundred Hanuman chalisas. In all my years of tattooing, I’d seen plenty of strange things, but never anything this bizarre.

Not even the time a gangster’s wife brought her dead husband’s ashes for me to mix into her ink. This was on another level.

"Fine, I’ll wait. I’ll come back in three days."

The way she said it—soft, lilting—reminded me of someone making a promise, not a threat. But I knew better.

After I agreed, her tone instantly softened, her voice turning seductive in a way I’d never heard before. There was something ancient in that voice, something that didn’t belong in modern Mumbai. My skin crawled.

I nodded and saw her out. Watching her fading figure, I quickly pulled down the shutter, locked the glass door, ran upstairs, rushed into my bedroom, and stuck what few Hanuman chalisas and lemon-chilli charms I had all around the room.

My mother always said—when in doubt, call on Hanuman ji and tie a nimbu-mirchi. That night, I did both, reciting chaupais until my throat was raw. The lights flickered, and the city’s usual noise seemed far away.

But as I bolted the door, the city’s shadows pressed in, whispering that my troubles were just beginning.