Chapter 3: Shadows and Storms

Just as he finished, a thunderclap shook the almirah. Jars of toffees rattled. The monsoon, always fierce here, had arrived in anger.

Outside, the wind picked up, bringing the smell of wet mitti and distant barking. Street lamps flickered, casting restless shadows across the shop’s walls.

Dada said, "Beta, it’s going to pour. Your wife—she’ll be alright? Kachcha roads aren’t safe."

Even in fear, Dada’s heart was soft. The mud outside was already turning to slush.

The man smiled, brushing off concern. "She grew up here, uncle. She’ll find her way."

He didn’t look out the door, as if afraid to see what waited there. Suddenly, lightning split the sky, bathing the mohalla in blue-white light. For a second, even the gods on the calendar seemed to shimmer.

My eyes went to the floor—and I saw the man had no shadow.

My throat closed up, and the taste of masala from dinner turned to ash in my mouth. I wanted to shout, but my voice was lost somewhere behind my chattering teeth. The shop felt like a grave. I remembered Dadi’s stories: spirits don’t cast shadows.

A childhood chill crawled up my spine. The elders always said only spirits walk without shadows. My mouth went dry, heart beating like a tabla. I pressed my hands to my chest, desperate for comfort.

Could he be a ghost?

The thought struck me like a slap. The air seemed colder, the tube light flickering above. I tried to hide behind Dadi, clinging to her pallu like a scared langur, refusing to let go.

Dadi felt my grip and snapped, "Arjun, kya kar rahe ho? Itni zor se pakad raha hai!"

She tried to sound normal, but I felt her hands were cold as steel. I didn’t loosen my grip, praying silently, the words of Hanuman Chalisa stuck behind my teeth.

The man’s gaze turned on me, suddenly sharp and unfriendly. My skin crawled. His pupils, I noticed, were blacker than night, not like any living person. I looked away, fiddling with my shirt button.

He smiled at me. "Uncle, how old is your grandson?"

The smile didn’t reach his eyes. His voice floated, as if he already knew the answer.

"Six," Dada replied absently, eyes on the wall behind the stranger. Rain drummed harder outside.

"Same age as my daughter," the man said, his voice flat. In the corner, a mouse darted away.

Dada tried to laugh. "Wah, kya coincidence."

His laugh was brittle as glass. Sweat streaked his forehead, mingling with flour.