Chapter 2: Melons and Meetings

Today was supposed to be a routine management day in the Underworld.

The morning began as always: a faint curl of agarbatti smoke drifted through the air, its scent mixing with the earthy aroma of monsoon rain seeping into the stone walls. I’d just finished flipping through the 'Amar Ujala Afterlife Edition'—the usual headlines: “Ghosts protest new registration rules,” “Traffic jam at Narak Gate.” Some things never change, yaar.

As usual, I, Dhruv, Yamraj, and the rest were holding one of our so-called high-level meetings. But honestly, these meetings are more nautanki than actual governance. We’re deep in the afterlife’s backwaters, far from the Heavenly Court—here, rules are more like suggestions.

The conference table was a battered wooden relic, probably older than half the souls we process, its surface pockmarked from years of bored fingers. The wall clock had given up long ago—stuck forever at 12:05, as if time itself refused to budge in this place. Dhruv had already slipped off his chappals, feet up on the table, lazily munching on muskmelon like it was his own verandah.

Besides, if we didn’t let a few evil spirits and fierce souls loose, where would our performance numbers come from? No numbers, no funding from above. And no funding? Kya khaayenge—fresh air?

Numbers rule our world. Pressure from above, targets to meet, reports to file, bonuses always hanging by a thread. A few notorious cases keep us afloat—otherwise it’s just stale samosas for chai breaks.

Dhruv, as usual, was busy gnawing on a golden muskmelon grown on the Ganga’s banks. He chomped and talked at the same time:

“Boss, this muskmelon is first class. I’ll send some to your place—super sweet!”

He spoke with such relish, juice dribbling down his chin, you’d think he was offering diamonds. Even Yamraj, strict as ever but a sucker for good food, kept sneaking glances at the melon, lips twitching as he tried not to stare. He scolded:

“Arre Dhruv, meeting mein bhi khana? Thoda toh izzat rakho!”

“All you care about is stuffing your face. What about your subordinates, haan? What about the lakhs of spirits under us?”

“If you’ve got something good, share it first!”

But even as he scolded, Yamraj’s eyes flickered to the muskmelon. He licked his lips, then quickly looked away, embarrassed. For a moment, his stern expression crumbled, the aroma of melon tempting even the flies hovering around. Old habits die hard—even gods have their cravings.

This hypocrisy was plain as day, like a neta caught with a suitcase of cash. Still, I had to admit, that muskmelon looked tempting. I mentally made a note to get some for myself later.

Putting on my best wise-man act, I nodded solemnly:

“Yamraj is right. Only when the masses are happy can there be real happiness. Water floats a boat, but it can also sink it. Dhruv, yaar, thoda awareness badhao.”

I even wagged my finger like those TV debate netas. The others nodded along, but Dhruv just smirked, and even Yamraj fought a smile.

Dhruv winked and teased:

“Arre, you’re drooling too! Fine, I’ll bring some for you also.”

He leaned back, acting like he owned the place. The air lightened for a moment, our ghostly burdens sweetened by the promise of fruit.

I just grinned and let it go. In our world, a shared laugh is better than a lecture.

That’s when Director Amit knocked and hurried over, whispering in my ear:

“Sir, Hanuman ji’s political secretary just came. She’s asking about a spirit called the Old Corpse of the Mountain Village. Mortal world and Heavenly Court both are watching. What do we do…?”

His voice trembled so much, I half-expected him to collapse. Behind his glasses, his eyes darted like he was searching for an exit. Suddenly, the room felt colder—like when someone spills water on the pooja thali.

Hearing ‘Hanuman ji,’ I broke into a cold sweat.

It was like someone had rung a temple bell at midnight—a jolt straight to the soul. My heart thudded louder than the 7:15 Virar local leaving Churchgate.

That’s one dangerous fellow.

No one wants to be on Hanuman ji’s bad side. Even the toughest wrestlers from Varanasi think twice before boasting in front of that name.

Before he joined the Heavenly Court, Hanuman ji had already created enough drama in the Underworld. Later, I heard he turned the Heavenly Court upside down too. He fought his way to the Hall of Clear Light, nearly stormed Indra’s own court. One more step and even the King of Gods would’ve got a tight slap.

These stories get retold at every paan shop and chai stall in the Underworld. They say he once uprooted a whole section of the Underworld gate and flung it over the ghats—straight into legend. The way people talk, he could show up anywhere, ask for chai, and you’d have to offer it with both hands.

Anyone else would be thrown into the Yamuna thrice, and even their samadhi would get spat on.

But Hanuman ji? Not a scratch! Even the Thirty-Six Thunder Commanders couldn’t touch him. He even went to the Himalayas, picked up a diploma, and still had time to help the priests arrange the offerings. Skills and connections—he’s one of the only ones in the Three Worlds who can swagger anywhere he wants.

Even gods with VIP passes stand aside for him. And that diploma—who else could finish all the rituals and still be free for lunch?

Meeting-wala tension gaya tel lene. This was bigger. I lowered my voice and snapped:

“How are you even doing your job?”

My words came out sharper than I meant, the kind of tone you use when someone breaks your favourite teacup. Amit flinched, hands trembling as he nervously adjusted his lanyard.

“Who exactly is this Old Corpse? How did he get mixed up with Hanuman ji?”

I leaned in, whispering as if someone might be listening behind the curtain. Even Yamraj sat up, sensing the mood shift.

“Do you even know what Hanuman ji is capable of? If he loses it, we’re all finished. If you can’t handle your work, write your resignation and don’t drag us down!”

A hush fell, broken only by the whirring fan and someone clearing their throat in the corner. The tension thickened like air before a thunderstorm.

Director Amit nearly fainted from fright.

His face went so pale, it matched his government-issue white kurta. I felt a little bad, but this was no time for sympathy.

Everyone here is a big name in the Underworld—pillars of the place. He’d heard Hanuman ji’s stories, but our reaction showed him the real thing was much scarier than any rumour.

He stammered, “Si…Sir, I’ll handle it right away!”

I stopped him as he turned to leave:

“First, write me a report. I want the whole story.”

He blinked, nodding furiously like a junior intern caught napping.

“Okay!”

Amit scurried off. Dhruv looked at me, puzzled:

“What’s up, boss? Why so tense?”

He tried to sound casual, but you could see the worry as he drummed his fingers on the melon rind, smile fading.

Yamraj shot me a questioning look too.

“Something big’s brewing. This Hanuman ji…”

But staring at them, I bit my tongue. Even in the Underworld, you never know who’s listening. Gossip here travels faster than any WhatsApp forward.

“Hanuman ji? What’s up with him?” Dhruv pressed.

Don’t be fooled by our usual banter. We share the good times, but when disaster hits, everyone saves themselves first. To run faster, they’ll even use you as a springboard.

I switched to a smile:

“Oh, Hanuman ji just passed by the Underworld. Thought he was here to stir up trouble again.”

I made my voice casual, but the edge hadn’t left. Yamraj noticed, raising an eyebrow, but let it go with a forced laugh.

Yamraj’s face twitched, then he forced a smile:

“Times have changed. Hanuman ji is in the Heavenly Court now, tied to the Himalayas. He’s got no quarrel with us—why would he make trouble?”

Dhruv joined in:

“Exactly! We’re all law-abiding now—who would dare make a scene? I’ll send some muskmelons to Kishkindha too. Poverty alleviation, you know. Good karma.”

He grinned, but the tension lingered. Even the ceiling fan seemed to spin slower, as if considering the wisdom of sending fruit to holy monkeys.

“Good idea,” Yamraj agreed. “Send more, send a whole cartload…”

Everyone just wanted to change the subject, hoping that a few sweet melons might sweeten even the worst fate.