Chapter 4: Meera Returns

Another thunderclap, and rain began to pour. The tin roof roared. Water splashed through the open window, drenching the ledge.

The man glanced outside, anxious. "Why hasn’t she come yet? If she’s any later, she won’t get in."

He tapped his fingers, eyes glued to the door. Dada and Dadi exchanged worried glances.

Dadi checked the clock: 10:50. "Old man, der ho gayi. Band karte hain."

Her hand hovered near the cash drawer. The storm echoed her urgency.

Dada hesitated. "It’s pouring, yaar. We can’t just throw people out."

Dadi whispered, "We’ll wait till eleven, bas. No matter the rain."

A cold wind swept in, making the diya flicker wildly. Dadi muttered a mantra under her breath, and for a moment, the shadows danced like ghosts on the wall.

Dada tried for normalcy: "Beta, it’s almost eleven. Shop band ho raha hai."

The man replied, teeth bared in a strained smile: "Don’t worry, uncle. My wife will come."

Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside, sharp over the rain. My heart leapt. Even Dadi gasped, clutching her forehead, whispering, "Ram Dutt ka aatma... Bhagwan bachaye."

A woman entered, face pale as chuna, saree soaked and clinging. She held the hand of a little girl in a red dress, whose eyes darted like a trapped mouse.

The girl’s face was waxen, her hands locked behind her back. The red dress was festival-bright, wrong for such a night.

The man scolded: "Why so late? The maggi is cold. Eat quickly."

He beckoned them, the maggi untouched. He picked up the girl, who made no sound, hands still behind her back. The woman sat, forcing a smile: "Rain on the hill—bahut mushkil hai. Got delayed."

Her saree dripped, forming a muddy puddle. Dadi hurried to spread a towel, lips moving in silent prayer.

Dadi peered at her. "Beta, who’s your father? Haven’t seen you before."

The woman met her gaze. "Aunty, it’s me, Meera."

Her voice trembled, the shop shrinking with the weight of old memories. Dadi’s eyes widened. "You’re Meera? Blind Ramesh’s daughter?"

She gasped, hand to forehead, as if warding off evil. Meera nodded, voice thick: "I came for my father’s samadhi."

Dadi sighed, remembering how Meera was the first to marry outside. Old rules had been strict, tongues wagging for weeks.

Dada and Dadi exchanged a guilty look, the weight of the past pressing down.

Dada tried to smile. "Meera, it’s been so long. We didn’t recognize you."

Meera’s smile froze. "It’s enough I recognized you, uncle."

She gestured to her husband. "This is Amit. He works at construction sites."

Dada nodded. "Strong ladka."

Meera stroked her daughter’s head. "Riya. Her eyes were normal before, but after a fever, she went blind."

She smoothed Riya’s hair, tears in her voice. The girl was silent, staring at nothing, unsettling in her stillness.

Dadi shivered, thinking of spirits in red, and touched her mangalsutra.

Dada forced hope. "Meera, you’re young. Save money, maybe she’ll recover."

Meera laughed bitterly. "Doctors said no. Uncle, I want to give Riya away. Is there anyone in the mohalla who’ll take her?"

The words hung like a curse. Dadi covered her mouth, stunned.

A thunderclap shook the house, lights flickering. Dadi hugged me close, panic rising.

Dada stared at the clock, confused. "How is it 11:30? Just now it was only eleven."

Meera’s eyes were unblinking. "Why keep staring at the time, uncle?"

Dada’s voice was barely a whisper: "A beggar warned us. At midnight, a vengeful spirit will come. Meera, we have to close."

Meera looked into Dada’s eyes. "If you haven’t done anything wrong, there’s nothing to fear."

Her words rang out, cold as the wind. Thunder echoed her challenge.

Dadi was indignant: "What do you mean? We’ve never done anything wrong."

Meera’s laugh was brittle. "Aunty, you’re overthinking."

Dadi fetched an umbrella and two sets of clothes, pressing the bundle into Meera’s hands, her fingers trembling so hard the umbrella almost slipped.

"Take these and go, Meera. Change on the way."

Meera’s eyes filled with tears. She bent to touch Dadi’s feet, voice breaking: "Bas ek raat, aunty. For my father’s sake."

Amit joined, voice papery with fear: "Aunty, please. The hill road is dangerous. Let us stay."

Dadi hesitated, torn. "Meera, we’re scared. The beggar’s words..."

Meera dropped to her knees, sobbing. "Please, aunty. If a spirit comes, more people means more safety."

Dadi’s resolve crumbled. She helped Meera up, her own eyes shining.

Ever since Blind Ramesh died, his land was divided. Our shop stood on his old plot. The knowledge hung between the adults, heavy as guilt.

Dada whispered, "Let them stay. If a spirit comes, they can help."

Dadi finally nodded. "Theek hai."

Dada forced a smile. "Stay tonight."

He locked the cash drawer, hands trembling, as the shop’s shadows shifted uneasily.

"You can sleep upstairs tonight," he said, jingling the keys. The staircase groaned in the silence.

Suddenly, a man’s voice cried out from outside: "Bhaiya, come out quickly! There are vengeful spirits in your shop—spirits who died terrible deaths! They’re here to find a substitute!"

A WhatsApp ping vibrated on the counter, ignored by everyone, drowned by the storm’s howl.