Chapter 9: Bali

"No, you come with me—hide at my place for a couple of days. That chudail will come for you. If you can’t explain yourself next time, you’ll die by her hand."

Uncle Mo was pacing anxiously. He never paced—he was the type to sit cross-legged, chewing paan and giving advice. Today, his steps were frantic, nervous.

I felt my pocket—luckily I still had two talismans. They were old, faded, blessed by a sadhu at Trimbakeshwar years ago. I gripped one tightly, saying a silent prayer to Hanuman ji.

I quietly took one out and slapped it onto Uncle Mo’s face. He was stunned, and before I could recite a mantra, he tore it off.

He snarled, eyes flashing, not human for a second. My heart nearly stopped.

He looked at the talisman, then at me, eyes wide, and then, like an ice cream, he gradually melted away before my eyes.

His face dissolved, his body sagged, and suddenly the room was empty except for a faint, cold mist.

When "Uncle Mo" melted, a note was left on the ground.

It fluttered to the floor, yellowed with strange symbols scrawled on it.

I picked it up and opened it. It read: "Welcome to being my bali."

My fingers shook so badly, I nearly dropped it. The word 'bali' jumped out, blood-red, as if written with a finger dipped in kumkum.

A chill ran through my fingertips and I jumped in fright. Instinctively, I threw away the note, bit my index finger, and quickly drew a talisman in the air, pushing it out with all my might.

I whispered my master’s mantra under my breath, blood mixing with saliva as I drew the symbol in the air. The lights flickered, and the air grew thick with static.

This was the only talisman my master had taught me when I started learning tattoos. She said every master in our line must teach their apprentice a life-saving move. This is the last resort—unless it’s absolutely necessary, never use it. Use it too often, and it won’t save you anymore.

Her words echoed: 'Use it once, and the spirits will notice. Use it twice, and they’ll come for you.' I closed my eyes and prayed it would work.

"Dhak dhak dhak"—something shattered.

It sounded like glass, but it was the air itself breaking. My ears rang.

All illusions vanished. I looked around—I was still in my studio’s main hall. I hadn’t gone anywhere at all.

My hands were still stained with ink, the clock on the wall hadn’t moved. The only sign of what had happened was the cold sweat trickling down my back.

Damn, I’d been cursed, and hadn’t even realised when it happened.

I cursed under my breath. In this city, curses are as real as the potholes after monsoon.

"Hehehe... xixixi..."

A series of eerie laughs echoed in my ears, as if several people were laughing at once. The laughter echoed, bouncing off the tin roof and the peeling Bollywood posters on my walls.

It sounded like children, old women, men with broken teeth—every laugh was a mockery.

A few pale faces flashed past the door and disappeared.

For a moment, I saw Meera, Arjun, and others—faces I didn’t recognize, all leering. Then they vanished into the morning mist.

At that moment, a sliver of dawn appeared on the horizon. The sun was about to rise.

I let out a long breath and collapsed to the floor.

I lay there for a few minutes, listening to the city wake up, letting the sunlight chase away the darkness in my mind.