Chapter 1: The Whispered Name

My name is King Rajendra Gupta. In the Underworld, even the chaiwallah knows better than to meet my eyes.

Let me tell you, in our line of work, respect isn’t just demanded—it’s woven into every paan-stained corridor, clinging to the walls where old stains and faded notices compete for space. Even my mortal-world chaiwallah would bow his head if I walked by, his gaze flickering between reverence and fear. But here, power is measured not by your seat, but by how quietly your name gets whispered from one trembling lip to another—especially when the gossip isn’t about cricket scores, but about which spirit has gone missing from the files.

Today, right in the middle of a routine meeting, the director of the Ghost Office stormed in, all flustered. He stammered that Hanuman’s political secretary had just shown up, asking about some Old Corpse of the Mountain Village.

He barged in, sweat glistening on his forehead like a Mumbai afternoon. Instantly, the entire room fell silent—like the hush when a power cut stops the ceiling fan and everyone starts fanning themselves with yesterday’s newspaper. The words ‘Hanuman’s secretary’ hit us like a bucket of ice water. Even the usual musty smell of incense and the sticky residue of paan spat into corners seemed to tense up, as if the very office was holding its breath.

I panicked, no lie.

I gripped the edge of my chair, knuckles whitening, as if holding on could anchor me to this world. This wasn’t some small-timer from the municipal office you could bribe with a box of Bengali sweets. This was Hanuman ji’s inner circle. You don’t even joke about those people—unless you want your bones to rattle for the next seven births. My mouth went dry. For a fleeting second, I wished I could be just another wandering ghost—no responsibilities, no headaches, no files.

Who did this Old Corpse think he was, getting mixed up with Hanuman ji of all people?

Hanuman ji, you see, is a name you say with a hint of awe and a solid pinch of fear. He’s the one mothers invoke to scare kids into eating their bhindi, and the one pandits call upon when nothing else works. Even in the Underworld, his legend is enough to send a shiver through the thickest shawl from Amritsar.

If Hanuman ji loses his temper, even Yamraj-level folks like us would be finished. Forget about a minor director like me—he wouldn’t even leave a trace behind.

Here, Hanuman ji’s fury is myth and warning rolled into one. You could be sitting in your air-conditioned chamber, sipping masala chai, and still break out in sweat at the thought of his wrath. Even the walls of our Underworld office, hung with faded garlands and a ‘No Smoking’ sign everyone ignores, seem to tremble at his mention.

So, the next day, the Underworld Office did what it does best—issued a “Notice on Strengthening the Management of Wandering Spirits and Lost Souls.”

Trust our bureaucracy, yaar—smell a whiff of trouble, and the first response is always a fresh circular! Peons scampered about, slapping red stamps on every door. The office printer, which usually grumbles like a bored uncle at a wedding, was working overtime—churning out notices faster than you could say ‘chai break.’

Legal Affairs jumped in right after, rolling out the “Registration, Management, and Punishment Measures for Wandering Spirits and Lost Souls,” “Standardised Management Measures,” and even a “Regulations on Proper Naming.”

It was like GST all over again—everyone running helter-skelter, updating registers, and not a single soul (pun intended) sure about what the rules actually meant. A pile of papers thicker than the Mumbai phone directory landed on my desk—stamped, countersigned, but no one willing to take the blame.

And then, Inspector Kala Prasad from Law Enforcement tracked down the Old Corpse of the Mountain Village and started a massive brawl.

Arrey, that Kala Prasad—never the type to think before acting! He barged into Mountain Village with his team, blowing his whistle louder than the Dadar local guard. Villagers say you could hear the shouting all the way to the panchayat office. Dust rose with the chase, mixing with the aroma of frying pakoras from the village tea stall, while someone in the background shouted for more chai.

You dare call yourself the Old Corpse of the Mountain Village? Listen, your time is up. The oil cauldron’s already boiling—go jump in yourself, don’t make us do it for you.

Threats like these aren’t just words here—they’re an invitation to save yourself a world of pain. In the Underworld, the oil cauldron isn’t a myth; it’s the ultimate warning, whispered in corridors and scrawled on dusty ledgers. But bravado is just a mask for fear, and every official knows it.