Chapter 4: Kamala’s True Power

I rushed to the window. Outside, the young woman was gone. Old Aunty Kamala now squatted by the fire, her eyes glinting in the shadows. "Why aren’t you burning anymore?" she asked, voice sweet but sending chills down my spine.

My knees buckled. She tottered to the window, steps echoing. It hit me: as the money burnt, I aged, she grew young. No mother-daughter—just Kamala, stealing my years.

I tried to protest, palms pressed in plea, but she only smiled wider. "Fine, bring the money back."

Relief flooded me, but as I moved, she blew a cold breath onto my shoulder. My body crumpled, teeth chattering. She squeezed through the bars, body twisting impossibly, then dragged me to the clay pot, forcing my hands to burn the last of the money.

As the flames devoured the notes, she transformed—wrinkles smoothing, hair darkening, youth returning. I was left ancient, my own hands like claws. I realised: as long as I burnt her money, I gave her my life.

Desperate, I chewed and swallowed a note, hoping to break the spell. Kamala grew frantic, searching for missing cash. I prayed to Ma Durga, hope flickering like the candle flame.

Then I noticed—the wind that had blown out the pot hadn’t touched the candle. Only one thing in my room broke her taboo: Bhishma Pitamah’s sticker. Maybe his blessing lingered. I pretended to confess, “Aunty, kuch paise cupboard mein chhupa diye the.”

Her eyes narrowed, knife glinting. She moved toward the cupboard, saree swishing, every step heavy. For the first time that night, I closed my eyes and prayed—if anyone could save me now, it was him.