Chapter 3: The Midnight Ritual

When midnight came, I waited. Dogs howled, a distant train rattled by. Suddenly, the lights went out—power cut. I muttered under my breath. Classic India. But this one felt planned.

I lit a candle. Its flicker threw long shadows, wax scent mixing with agarbatti. I placed the spirit plaque, knelt, offered three incense sticks. The smoke curled, forming faces in the half-dark.

Looking at the stacks of cash, my throat went dry. Enough to pay off loans, buy a bike, maybe even a flat. I hesitated, then forced myself—kaam hai, karna padega.

Heart pounding, I placed the cash over the candle. The crackle was sharp, the green flames unnatural. My eyes watered, not just from smoke.

Suddenly, the back of my neck prickled. Someone was watching. The flames burned a ghostly green—not orange or blue, but eerie, like a night bulb.

I remembered scenes from B-grade horror movies—burning the wrong thing, summoning a spirit. I laughed nervously.

Maybe it was just the chemicals in the notes. Still, my hairs stood on end.

Burning money takes skill—notes at an angle, feed them slow. My father taught me: don’t let the fire die, or luck will break.

Just as I got into the rhythm, a faint creak echoed—the cupboard door moving on its own. My fingers froze. I looked up. The room door slowly swung open, swollen wood groaning. My heart thudded. No breeze, but the chill in the air was real.

I remembered the Bhishma sticker—her rules. I rushed to shut the door, stuffing a towel at the bottom.

But the door opened again, sharper this time. My mind raced. No wind, window locked. I chained the notes together, twisting them like cracker strings, and shoved socks and sweaters under the door.

Then I saw a flicker of light outside. A woman in a saree squatted by a burning clay pot—pallu draped just so, gold earrings catching firelight. She moved with elegance, her hands graceful, almost like the girls who danced at Ganpati visarjan. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I stared.

She looked exactly like a younger, prettier Aunty Kamala—the same nose, same chin, but glowing with youth. I figured she must be Kamala aunty’s daughter, burning offering paper while I risked burning real cash.

Rich people, I thought, shaking my head. What rituals they invent.

I forced myself to focus, wedged the socks deeper, and kept burning cash. But as I worked, my mind wandered—what if I could buy a flat, get a car, win a girl like her?

But excitement fizzled, replaced by a strange emptiness. I tried to fantasize, even hummed a filmi song, but nothing. As if someone had done nazar on me, or maybe the ritual was draining all my energy.

Suddenly, a loud bang—the door flung open, slamming into the wall. A fierce gust made the clay pot’s flames dance wildly. My kurta stuck to my back, sweat pooling.

My body ached, back hunched. I felt like I’d aged twenty years in an hour. I staggered, pain stabbing my knees.

Then I saw my shadow—twisted, hunched, no longer mine. Above it, another shadow—at first hunched, then straightening, becoming a graceful woman. My horror grew as I realised: with every note I burnt, I grew older, and the woman’s shadow grew younger.