Chapter 8: The Curse Reveals Itself

My head buzzed, my mind blank, the train’s horn still echoing in my ears.

The city was waking up—vendors calling out, crows cawing, the world moving on as if nothing had happened. But I was stuck in that moment, sweat pooling at my back, legs trembling.

"What’s wrong with you? Did you run into something unclean last night, or did a rival set you up?" Uncle Mo turned to look at me.

His words jolted me back. In our trade, 'unclean' doesn’t just mean dirt—it means spirits, black magic, curses, all the stuff parents tell you not to talk about.

I really wanted to say—wasn’t it you who set me up?

But the words stuck in my throat. In Mumbai, you learn when to stay silent.

Although Uncle Mo was my uncle-master, he wasn’t much older than me. We’d grown up together, and I always felt he wouldn’t harm me.

We’d played gully cricket as kids, shared tiffin in school, and even gotten our first tattoos together. Whatever his faults, I couldn’t believe he’d sell me out.

"Last night, Meera came to see me."

I glanced at the sky, which was just starting to lighten, and spoke quietly.

My voice trembled, but I forced myself to look him in the eye. Uncle Mo listened, not interrupting.

"R-really?" Uncle Mo’s eyes widened like copper bells, his mouth open wide enough to fit an egg.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost—which, in a way, he had.

I nodded. "Really."

I shivered, hugging myself. I could still feel her cold hand on my arm.

Uncle Mo slapped his thigh. "That woman’s already dead—been dead for three days."

His words dropped like a stone in a well. Dead? But I’d spoken to her, seen her, heard her voice. My knees buckled.

A chill swept over me, every hair standing on end.

My grandmother used to say—when the dead come calling, trouble isn’t far behind.

No wonder—how could a living person look so dreadful?

It all made sense now—the blue lips, the hollow eyes, the strange voice.

"What did she come to you for?"

Uncle Mo patted his pockets, shakily pulled out two cigarettes, handed me one, and lit one for himself, taking a few deep drags.

His hands trembled as he held the cigarette—something I’d never seen before.

"Asked me about the tattoo. She suspects I harmed her."

I hadn’t smoked in a while, and after two puffs I started coughing. The smoke burned my throat, but I needed something to steady my nerves.

But then I realised something was wrong.

Uncle Mo doesn’t smoke.

Years ago in Kerala, he’d smoked a stranger’s cigarette, got drugged and set up, and his fiancée died tragically. Ever since, he had a psychological block and quit smoking for good.

I remembered the story—he’d sworn never to touch a cigarette again. My mind raced, pieces falling into place.

If this wasn’t Uncle Mo, then who was it?

My skin prickled all over again.

My hand moved towards the little amulet tied to my belt. I was in more danger than I realized.