Chapter 1: The Unusual Request

Last Shraadh, a stranger pressed a thick bundle of rupees into my hand and asked, "Bhaiya, mere pitaji ke liye yeh paise jala sakte ho?" For a second, I just stood there, like someone slapped me with a wet towel.

See, in India, Shraadh turns every family upside down. People who can’t make it home—working in Bangalore, Dubai, or God knows where—send their rituals to me by WhatsApp and Google Pay. My job? Burn offerings for ancestors they can’t visit. So when this man wanted me to torch real rupees instead of the usual paper notes, I stared at him like he’d asked me to dig my own grave.

“Pagal ho gaye ho kya? Normally, people pay me to burn kapoor and fake notes as offerings. Real rupees? That’s illegal! I’m not getting thrown in jail for this,” I snapped, shaking my head like a strict elder catching a kid with a slingshot.

My tone was as sharp as a paanwala’s warning—burning real notes? Arrey bhai, even the cops would run after you for less!

But this fellow wouldn’t stop. "Jitna tum jalaoge, utna main wapas dunga. You won’t lose anything," he said, stubborn as a mosquito buzzing in your ear.

He kept at it, nagging like an LIC agent who won’t leave until you threaten to call the watchman. "Don’t worry, whatever you burn, paisa for paisa, I’ll match it."

I just sat there, mouth open. My hands turned clammy, the way they do when police walk into the chai shop. Was this a trap? A sting operation?

Sweat started trickling down my back as I looked at the cracked calendar above the TV, Ganeshji smiling down. Deliberately burning currency—IPC Section 489 flashed in my mind. Arrey, one WhatsApp forward and my name would be viral for all the wrong reasons!

I pulled out my old Nokia—cracked screen and all—and typed with trembling fingers. The law was clear: burning money could land me in lockup, no excuses.

That’s when my PayTM chimed—the plastic cover heating up in my palm. Two lakh rupees, credited. I almost dropped the phone. It was like winning the Doodh Wala lottery, the blue notification glowing in the dark room.

I felt my conscience start haggling with itself. 'Yaar, just this once. Who’s watching?' My mind flashed to my mother’s face if I walked in with even a single lakh. My name on the family WhatsApp: 'Beta is a lakhpati now!'

Two lakh is the PayTM limit, but the transfers didn’t stop. The woman on the other end wanted my bank account, and soon, NEFT, IMPS, PayTM—notifications flooded my phone. Uff, what a rush!

I watched, mouth dry, as my balance climbed to ten lakh rupees. Ten lakh! It was like hitting fastest finger first on Kaun Banega Crorepati. I kept pinching myself, the cheap bedsheet rough under my fingers.

Never in my life had I seen that much money. The phone screen glowed with zeroes—my breath came short, like after running for the last local.

I messaged her, “Should I withdraw half and burn it?” If I kept some, burnt some, it made sense—right?

But she had her own style. "No need, beta. Someone will bring it. Just wait at home."

Her voice was pure high-society aunty—cool, controlled, like she ran the whole mohalla from her sofa. I splashed water on my face, half-thinking I’d wake up. But the taste of fear lingered in my mouth, metallic and sharp. The tube light flickered, the bathroom bucket still grimy with yesterday’s soap. Everything was normal—except my bank balance, and the strange feeling in my chest.

Half an hour crawled by. The wall clock ticked, distant auto horns echoed, neighbour’s TV blared 'Naagin'. Then, a solid knock rattled my door. My heart jumped.