Amit Ghosh's Blog

কলকাতার কলেজ স্ট্রিটের অলিগলি থেকে এই শহুরে কিংবদন্তির জন্ম। যে সমস্ত প্রকাশকরা লেখকদের সাথে প্রতারণা করে থাকেন তাদের তাড়া করে বেড়ায় এই আদিম আতঙ্ক। গল্পটা একটা অলৌকিক ওয়েবসাইটকে কেন্দ্র করে। শোনা যায় যে প্রতারক প্রকাশকেরা যখন তাদের মোবাইল বা ল্যাপটপ নিয়ে ঘাটাঘাটি করে তখন আচমকাই এই ওয়েবসাইট টা খুলে যায়।

গল্পের উৎস: কলকাতা, ভারত

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ঘটনাটা হয়েছিল ঠিক আগের বছরে।

অনির্বাণের ফোন ঘন ঘন বেজে চলেছে টেবিলের ওপর। টেবিলের পাশে হোম সেন্টার থেকে আনা দামি লোমশ চেয়ারের উপর গা এলিয়ে সিগারেট খেতে খেতে ফোনটার দিকেই দেখছিল সে। তার এই অভ্যাস বড় পুরনো। রিং হতে থাকা ফোন বন্ধ হয়ে যাওয়া আর তারপর আবার রিং হওয়া। জিনিসটা বেশ উপভোগ করে অনির্বাণ। যদিও বা ফোনটা কেটে দেওয়া যায়, কিন্তু তাহলে তো যে ফোন করছে সে জেনে যাবে যে অনির্বাণ ইচ্ছা করে কেটেছে। তখন আবার ঘুরিয়ে কল করতে হবে।

তুষারের স্ত্রী সন্তানসম্ভবা। সেই রাত্রে প্রচন্ড পরিমাণে মুষলধারে বৃষ্টি পড়ছিল। কলকাতার রাস্তায় তো সামান্য ব্যাঙের প্রস্রাবে জলে থৈ থৈ করে, সেখানে এরকম দুর্যোগে এক কোমর জল হয়ে গেছিল চারিদিকে।

হাসপাতালের রিসেপশন এর কাছে অস্থিরভাবে ফোন হাতে চলাফেরা করছিল তুষার। “অনির্বানদা, তুমি কোথায়?” সে আবার ফোন করল।

অনির্বাণ ফোনটা তুলল, “হ্যালো, তুষার?”

“দাদা, আমি খুবই বিপদে আছি। টাকাটা এখুনি দরকার। হাসপাতালের লোক অপারেশন করাবো না বলে দিয়েছে টাকা না দিলে।”

একটু ধমকের সুরেই শান্তভাবে অনির্বাণ বলল, “আমি বলেছি না, চিন্তা করো না। আমি ব্যবস্থা করছি। তুমি হাসপাতালে থাকো।”

“কিন্তু দাদা, কতক্ষণ লাগবে? আমার খুবই টেনশন হচ্ছে,” তুষার বলল।

“তুমি আমার উপর ভরসা রাখো। আমি কিছুক্ষণ পরেই আসছি,” অনির্বাণ আশ্বাস দিল।

ফোনটা কেটে অনির্বাণ ফোনটা সুইচ অফ করে দিল। এই দুর্যোগের রাতে গাড়ি নিয়েও বেরোনো যাবে না। আর বেরোনো গেলে ও সে বেরোত বলে মনে হয় না।

এই ঝড় বৃষ্টি হয়ে ভালোই হয়েছে। কিছু একটা অজুহাত দিয়ে দেবে সে। হালকা কেন হেসে উঠলো অনির্বাণ।

প্রায় কয়েক ঘন্টা হয়ে গেছে।

এই বৃষ্টির সময় কোন গাড়ি-ঘোড়া পাওয়া যায় না। একবার চেন্নাইতে ওলা কোম্পানি নৌকার ব্যবস্থা করেছিল। এইসব ভাবতে ভাবতে তুষার দ্রুত ছুটছিল জলের মধ্যে দিয়ে।

অনির্বাণদার প্রতি তার অগাধ আস্থা থাকলেও ফোনটা সুইচ অফ দেখে তার টেনশন দ্বিগুণ হয়ে গেল। একে তো রাস্তায় লোকজন নেই বললেই চলে। কোন অঘটন ঘটলো না তো?

হঠাৎ একটা দশাসই ট্রাক জোরালো হেডলাইট জ্বালিয়ে চোখ ধাধিয়ে ওর পাশ দিয়ে চলে গেল। রাস্তার জলে হালকা ঢেউ উঠল ট্রাকের চাকার ধাক্কায়। রাস্তার বাদামি কালারের নোংরা জল তুষারের মাথার উপর দিয়ে চলে গেল। তুষার বুঝতেই পারল না কখন কী ঘটল। সারা শরীর ভিজে একাকার, রাস্তার জল আর বৃষ্টির ধারা মিলে যেন কোনো পাথরের ওপর দিয়ে প্রবাহিত নদী হয়ে উঠেছে।

সুতরাং স্বভাবসিদ্ধভাবেই সে ট্রাকটার দিকে পিছন ফিরে কয়েকটা অভিশাপ দিল।

পিছন ফিরে সামনে পা রাখতেই টাল সামলাতে না পেরে সে জলের নিচে তলিয়ে গেল। তুষার দক্ষ সাঁতারু কিন্তু এক মিনিট ধরে হাত পা ঝাপটে দেখলো ওপরের দিকে একটা দেওয়াল। সর্বনাশ, এটা তো ম্যানহোল। চিৎকার করার কোন সুযোগই পায় নি সে।

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অনির্বানের একটা ছোট্ট প্রকাশনা আছে কলেজ স্ট্রিটে। এই কয়েকদিন আগেই সে ফেসবুক গ্রুপগুলোতে পোস্ট করেছিল যে শারদীয়া উপলক্ষে সে একটা ভূতের গল্পের ছোটখাটো সংকলন বানাতে চলেছে। লেখা জমা দিয়ে মনোনীত হলে তা সে ছাপবে।

আর এখান থেকেই সব ঝামেলা সুত্রপাত। সেই দিন বিকেল বেলায় এক সুন্দর দেখতে যুবতীর কাছ থেকে ফেসবুকে মেসেজ পেয়ে সে খুশি হয়ে উঠেছিল। শুধু একটা মাইক্রোসফট ওয়ার্ড এর ফাইল দিয়েছে। আর কোন হাই হ্যালো নেই। কোন কথাবার্তাও নেই। নামের উপর ক্লিক করে সে প্রোফাইলটা খুলে দেখলো ওটা লক করা আছে। ঘাটাঘাটি না করতে পেরে একটু নিরাশ হয়েই সে মেসেজ করে ফোন নাম্বারটা চাইলো।

সে তো বলেই রেখেছিল, গল্প যদি নির্বাচিত হয় তাহলে উপযুক্ত পারিশ্রমিক দেয়া হবে। আরো দু’একদিন কেটে গেল। কোন রিপ্লাই এলো না। এই দু সে আরো কয়েকবার প্রোফাইলটা খুলে ঘাটাঘাটি করার চেষ্টা করেছে। ফ্রেন্ড লিস্টে একটা বন্ধু পর্যন্ত নাই এই মেয়েটার। দেখে মনে হল পুরো নতুন তৈরি করা হয়েছে।

ভুয়ো অ্যাকাউন্ট নয় তো ?

এখন সেই মেয়ের ছবিটাও নেই। তার জায়গায় একটা ছোট্ট বাচ্চার ছবি। ছবি বদল করার সময় আছে, গল্প জমা দেবার সময় আছে, গল্প লেখার সময় আছে কিন্তু দু’লাইন জবাব দিতে এত কিসের অহংকার?

সে যাই হোক। তার যায় আসে না।

অনির্বাণের মুখের কোনে হালকা হাসি ফুটে উঠলো। বিগত কয়েক বছরে সে কোন লেখককে পয়সা দিয়েছে বলে তার মনে পড়ছে না। এসব ফেসবুকে লেখা তো এক ধরনের আজকালকার ভাষায় গিমিক। গল্পটা প্রকাশ করতে সে পয়সা নিচ্ছে না লেখকের কাছে এটাই অনেক বড় ব্যাপার!

আজ সাত দিন হতে চলল। খবরের চ্যানেলে সবাই সাইক্লোন সাইক্লোন বলে চেঁচামেচি করছে। ঝড়টা উঠেছে ও বেশ জোরে। আজ আর দোকান খুলে কোন লাভ নেই। এই ঝড়ের ভয়ে এমনি কোন লোকজন আসবে বলে মনে হয় না। একটা কফি বানিয়ে আরাম করে সোফার মধ্যে ল্যাপটপটা নিয়ে বসতে সে। অনেকগুলো গল্প জমা পড়েছে। সেগুলোকে পড়ে ফেললে কেমন হয়?

কাজটা একটু এগিয়ে থাকবে।

কি জানি মনে করে প্রথমেই সে সেই অজানা তরুণীর দেওয়া গল্পটা খুলে বসলো। বড় অদ্ভুত গল্প।

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কলকাতার কলেজ স্ট্রিটের অলিগলি থেকে এই শহুরে কিংবদন্তির জন্ম। যে সমস্ত প্রকাশকরা লেখকদের সাথে প্রতারণা করে থাকেন তাদের তাড়া করে বেড়ায় এই আদিম আতঙ্ক। গল্পটা একটা অলৌকিক ওয়েবসাইটকে কেন্দ্র করে। শোনা যায় যে প্রতারক প্রকাশকেরা যখন তাদের মোবাইল বা ল্যাপটপ নিয়ে ঘাটাঘাটি করে তখন আচমকাই এই ওয়েবসাইট টা খুলে যায়।

ওয়েবসাইটের লিংক হচ্ছে – dirtyminds.in

এটি কোনও অশ্লীল সাইট নয়! কিন্তু আপনি কি কখনও মানুষের মাথা কাটা হচ্ছে এমন ভিডিও দেখেছেন? আপনি কি কখনও সরাসরি দুর্ঘটনার ভিডিও বা আসল ভূতের ভিডিও দেখেছেন?

যদি আপনি সাইটটি অ্যাক্সেস করতে গিয়ে সার্ভার এরর দেখেন, তাহলে জানবেন যে ওয়েবসাইটটি অফলাইনে রয়েছে। প্রকৃতপক্ষে, বেশিরভাগ সময়ই সাইটটি অফলাইনে থাকে!

আজ থেকে কয়েক বছর আগে এখানকারই এক ছাত্র এই ওয়েবসাইট টা তৈরি করেছিল। তারপর কলেজের সেকেন্ড ইয়ারে পড়ার সময় গরমের ছুটিতে সে একদিন আসামে কোন একটা গ্রামে যায়। তারপর আর তার কোন খবর পাওয়া যায়নি

যাইহোক, ওয়েবসাইটে অ্যাক্সেস পেতে তিনটি নিয়ম মেনে চলতে হবে।

আপনাকে একা থাকতে হবে।আপনার বাড়ির সব লাইট বন্ধ করতে হবে।আকাশে চাঁদ দেখা যাবে না ঠিক এমন রাতে ঠিক রাত বারোটার সময় ওয়েবসাইট টা খুলতে হবে।

যদি আপনি সবকিছু সঠিকভাবে করেন, তবে আপনি ওয়েবসাইট টা দেখতে পাবেন।

ভিতরে প্রবেশ করার পরে, আপনি একের পর ছোট ছোট বাচ্চা ছেলে মেয়েদের চিৎকাররত মুখের অন্তহীন দৃশ্য দেখতে পাবেন। তাদের মুখ ভয়ে বিকৃত, নিঃশব্দ চিৎকারে জমে আছে। তাদের চোখ নেই, পরিবর্তে দুটি ফাঁকা গর্ত।

এরপর কিংবদন্তীর নিয়ম অনুযায়ী, কিছু বাংলা লাইন স্ক্রিনে ফুটে উঠবে : “ভয়ের এক নতুন ধরনের রূপ দেখতে এই ওয়েবসাইটটা ব্যবহার করুন। এএই ভয় আপনার সমস্ত পাঁচটি ইন্দ্রিয় ব্যবহার করবে। ভুল করে কিছু ক্লিক করবেন না। আপনি একটি বাস্তব ভয়ের অভিজ্ঞতার সম্মুখীন হতে চলেছেন। অভিজ্ঞতায় সক্রিয়ভাবে অংশ নিতে ‘গ্রহণ করুন’ বোতামটি ক্লিক করুন।” লেখার নিচে দুটি বোতাম থাকবে, “গ্রহণ করুন” এবং “প্রত্যাখ্যান করুন”।

এই মুহূর্তে, আপনি হয়তো খুবই কৌতূহলী হবেন। ‘গ্রহণ করুন’ বোতামে ক্লিক করার লোভ হতে পারে। কিন্তু তা করবেন না। যদি আপনি এই চ্যালেঞ্জটি গ্রহণ করেন, তবে আপনি আপনার জীবনকে ঝুঁকিতে ফেলছেন। ‘প্রত্যাখ্যান করুন’ বোতামে ক্লিক করা নিরাপদ।

3

অনির্বাণ অবশ্য নিজেও একজন ওয়েবসাইট ডেভেলপার। ইনস্টাগ্রাম এর রিলে এই ধরনের আজগুবি গল্প সবসময় শুনে থাকলেও, আজ তার বড়ই অস্বাভাবিক মনে হচ্ছিল। এমনিতেই সে খুব তাড়াতাড়ি ভয় পেয়ে যায়। ল্যাপটপটা বন্ধ করে দিল সে। একটা সিগারেট জ্বালিয়ে ভয়টা কাটানোর জন্যই হয়তো ইউটিউবে কিছু ভক্তিমূলক গান চালিয়ে দিল টিভিতে।

Dirtyminds.in । কি জানি মনে করে ওয়েবসাইটটা খুলে বসলো সে। অন্যান্য চারপাশটা ওয়েবসাইটের মতই দেখতে। বেশ সুন্দর ডিজাইনের জামা কাপড় বিক্রি করা হচ্ছে এতে। আচমকাই কারেন্ট চলে গেল। ল্যাপটপটাও গেল বন্ধ হয়ে। অনেকদিন ধরে ল্যাপটপটার ব্যাটারি খারাপ হয়ে গেছে। তাই কারেন্ট অফ ফট করে শব্দ করে বন্ধ হয়ে যায় তার ল্যাপটপ। বাইরে এখনো সো সো করে হাওয়া দিচ্ছে। বৃষ্টি আসবে হয়তো এবার জোরে। বৃষ্টি আসার ঠিক আগেই এইভাবে কারেন্ট কেটে যায় ।

যদিও বা এটা স্বাভাবিক। তাও হঠাৎ ভয়ে আচ্ছন্ন হয়ে গেল সে। ল্যাপটপটা আবার জ্বলে উঠেছে। ল্যাপটপটা এখনো চলছে কি করে। ব্যাটারি কি আবার নিজে নিজে ঠিক হয়ে গেল।

ওয়েবসাইটটা এখনো খোলা।

তাড়াতাড়ি ওয়েবসাইটটা বন্ধ করতে গেলে বিচ্ছিরি শব্দ করে একটা পপআপ দেখা দিল। আজকালকার যুগের এই নতুন টেকনিক। হয়তো কুপন কোড অফার করবে।

না, তার কুপন কোড চাই না। সবুজ বোতাম তার পাশাপাশি একটা বড় আকারের লাল রঙের বোতামও দেখা যাচ্ছে। বেশি কিছু না পড়েই সেটা টিপে দিল অনির্বাণ।

“যত্তসব জ্বালা। আজকালকার ছোকরাগুলো যা পারে তাই লেখে। সাইট টা বন্ধ করতেও কত ঝামেলা।” মনের মধ্যেই কচ কচ করছিল অনির্বাণ। 

কিন্তু হঠাৎ তার নজর পড়লো সেই লাল বোতামে। ততক্ষণে টেপা হয়ে গেছে। কিন্তু ওয়েবসাইট টা হ্যাং করে গেছে মনে হয়।

লাল বোতামে আবার গ্রহণ করুন লেখা আছে কেন? আতঙ্কে সে গুগল ক্রোম টাই আনইন্সটল করে দিল ল্যাপটপ থেকে।

হট করে ফোনটা বেজে উঠলো। কই কেউ কল করছে না তো। ফোনে স্ক্রিনটা দপ করে জ্বলে উঠেছে। এখানেও একই ওয়েবসাইট খোলা। বেশি কিছু না ভেবে ফোনের সাইডে বোতামটা ৩ সেকেন্ড টিপে রেখে একদম সুইচ অফ করে দিল।

এই গল্পটা সত্যিই তাকে ভয় খাইয়ে দিয়েছে। হয়তো সেই কখনো এই ওয়েবসাইটটা ফোনে খোলার চেষ্টা করছিল।

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এইসব সাত পাঁচ ভাবতে ভাবতে আচমকাই তার নজর পড়লো, সামনে রাখা ৬৫ ইঞ্চি বড় টিভির দিকে। এইতো গতবার কালীপূজায় পুরো ক্যাশ টাকায় সে কিনেছে। শারদীয়া ম্যাগাজিন গুলো দারুন বিক্রি হয়। প্রচুর মুনাফা হয়েছিল এ বছর।

একগাদা ছবি চোখের সামনে দিয়ে ভেসে যাচ্ছে টিভির মধ্যে দিয়ে। ছোট ছোট বাচ্চা ছেলে মেয়ে। ভয়ে আতঙ্কে এরকম বিকৃত মুখ সে কখনো দেখেনি। অবাক করার বিষয় হলো এদের কারোরই কোন চোখ নেই।

হঠাৎই অনির্বানের মনে হলো সে স্বপ্ন দেখছে। একগাদা ভূতের গল্প পড়ে এরকম অনেক বার হয়েছে।

ভালো করে নিজেকে একবার চিমটি কেটে দিল সে। না সে জেগেই রয়েছে। তার ওপর কারেন্ট নেই। কিন্তু তাও টিভিটা চলছে কি করে?

সেই ছোট ছোট বাচ্চাদের ছবিগুলো আর নেই। তার বদলে কুয়াশার মতো ঝাপসা ভাবে ফুটে উঠেছে একটা পুরনো দোকান। ঠিক এক বছর আগে প্যারামাউন্ট শরবতের দোকানের ঠিক উল্টোদিকে অনির্বাণের দোকানের মতো দেখতে লাগছে।

না এটা তো অনির্বাণের দোকান ই বটে।

অনির্বাণ তো নিজেকেও দেখতে পাচ্ছি টিভিতে। তুষারের পাশে দাঁড়িয়ে আছে সে। কিন্তু মুখের জায়গাটা ঝাপসা দেখাচ্ছে দুজনেরই ।

! হঠাৎ, তার শিরদাঁড়া দিয়ে একটা ঠান্ডা শিহরণ বয়ে গেল।

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“তুষার!”

অস্ফুটো স্বরে ছাড়ে মুখ থেকে বেরিয়ে এলো নামটা। তুষার তার কলেজে জুনিয়র ছিল। পড়াশোনায় প্রচন্ডভাবে মেধাবী , কলেজের শেষে জেট এয়ারওয়েজ কোম্পানিতে ভালো মাইনেতে চাকরি পেয়েছিল। বিয়ে করেছিল শ্যামলীকে। ওর ই ক্লাসমেট। শ্বেতবর্না আসামি মেয়েটাকে অনির্বাণের ভালোভাবেই মনে আছে।

শুধু তাই নয়। কলেজের সবারই মনে থাকবে। কলেজের যে কোন উৎসবে অসাধারণ নাচতে পারতো মেয়েটা। কলেজ পাস করতে না করতেই বিয়ে। সবই ঠিকঠাক চলছিল কিন্তু করোনার সময়তে কোম্পানিটাই উঠে গেল। মাইনে দেবার প্রতিশ্রুতি দিয়ে প্রায় ছয় মাস কাজ করার পর অনির্বাণকে এক টাকাও দেয়নি কোম্পানি থেকে।

অনির্বাণ তখন দোকানের জন্য একটা কর্মচারী খুঁজছে। কলেজের হোয়াটসঅ্যাপের গ্রুপে “তোদের চেনা সোনার মধ্যে কেউ আছে তো বলিস” লিখে পোস্ট করতেই তুষারের কল এসেছিল। অনির্বাণ তো এক কথাতেই রাজি হয়ে গেছিল। খুশিমনে তুষারকে কাজটা দিয়েছিল সে। সাধারণের যা বেতন তার অর্ধেক বেতনেই তুষার রাজি হয়ে গেছিল। অনির্বাণও খুশি!

পয়সা বাঁচাবার জন্য একদিন অনির্বাণ তার দোকানের ম্যানেজারকে তাড়িয়ে দিল। তুষার হয়ে গেল তার নতুন ম্যানেজার। শুধু তাই নয়, মাত্র এই চার বছরেই প্রায় কুড়িটা উপন্যাস লিখে ফেলেছে তুষার। কলেজস্ট্রিটের প্রত্যেকটা ম্যাগাজিন তার কাছে অনুরোধ করতে লাগলো লেখা দিতে।

তুষারের আশীর্বাদে অনির্বাণে বিক্রি এখন আকাশছোঁয়া। এতটাই বেশি বিক্রি যে সে দোকানটা বদলে ফেলল। শ্যামাচরণ দে স্ট্রিটের বড় বড় প্রকাশকদের পাশে বিশাল ভাড়া দিয়ে তার দোকান খুললো। তবে লেখকদের টাকা বা রয়্যালটি দেওয়া একদমই পছন্দ ছিল না তার।

“রিক্স নেবো আমি? বই ছাপাবো আমি! লেখক দেখতে কোন ব্যবসায়িক ঝুঁকি নেই। তাদের উচিত আমাকে ওদের লেখা ছাপাবার জন্য টাকা দেওয়া। লেখক তো সব জায়গাতেই পাওয়া যায় আজকাল।” অনির্বানের ঠিক এরাম টাই দাবি ছিল। তুষারের মতো লেখক যখন সে তৈরি করতে পেরেছে, লেখক তৈরি করা তার বাঁ হাতের মোয়ার মত। এর জন্য তাকে কারো ধার ধারতে হবে না। কিন্তু তুষারকে পই পই করে বলে দিয়েছিল সে যখন টাকার দরকার হবে সে চাইলেই পেয়ে যাবে।

তুষারে কৃতজ্ঞতার শেষ ছিল না। মাইনে কম হলেও চাকরিহীন মন্দার বাজারে তাকে দু পয়সায় উপার্জনের সুযোগ করে দিয়েছিল অনির্বাণ। তার কৃতজ্ঞতা সে কখনোই ভুলবে না। সে কখনো তার সামান্য বেতনের বাইরে এক পয়সাও চাইত না। শ্যামলীকে নিয়ে এক কামরার মেসঘরে কলেজ স্ট্রিটের পাশেই বেশ সুখে শান্তিতে থাকত সে।

একবার, সন্তানের জন্মের সময়, তুষার অনির্বাণের কাছে ১ লাখ টাকা চেয়েছিল কিন্তু হঠাৎই সেই দিন থেকে সে নিখোঁজ হয়ে যায়। পরের দিন আরও একটা খবর আছে, তুষারের স্ত্রী শ্যামলি নাকি সন্তানের জন্ম দিতে গিয়ে হাসপাতালে মারা গেছে।

6

টিভিতে এখন কলেজ স্ট্রিটের দৃশ্য মুছে গেছে।

খানিকটা বিস্ময় আর আতঙ্কের সাথে সে একটা ভয়ংকর ছায়া হাঁটছে… তার নিজের ফ্ল্যাটের দিকে! এইতো নিচে সিকিউরিটি গার্ড ডেকেও সে চিনতে পারছে। কই সিকিউরিটি গার্ডটা এই ছায়াটাকে দেখতে পেল না তো। লিফট চলছে না কারেন্ট নেই বলে। ছায়াটা সিঁড়ি ধরে উঠতে লাগলো। এ সিঁড়িগুলো চিনতে তার একদমই অসুবিধা হচ্ছিল না। পানির পিক ফেলে ফেলে সে লাল রং করে দিয়েছে চারপাশে। তা মনে হল সেই জন্য একটা দুঃস্বপ্নের মধ্যে বসে আছে। এই তো তার ফ্ল্যাটের দরজাটা দেখা যাচ্ছে। সেই কুচকুচে কালো লম্বা শরীরটা ফ্ল্যাটের ভেতর ঢুকে পড়লো। এখন সে নিজেকেই দেখতে পাচ্ছে। তার টিভির দিকে মুখ ঘুরিয়ে বসে থাকা ছবি নিজেরই টিভির মধ্যে দেখে বড্ড অস্বস্তি হচ্ছে।

সে জেগে উঠতে চেয়েছিল। নিজের মনে বারবার প্রার্থনা করছিল অনির্বাণ যেন এটা কোন এক দুঃস্বপ্ন হয়। এইমাত্র সে উঠে বসবে।

কিন্তু … ফ্ল্যাটের দরজা তো বন্ধ ছিল। তাহলে ঢুকলো কিভাবে?

প্রচন্ডভাবে শীত করছে তার। পিছনে ঘোরা শক্তিটাও হারিয়ে গেছিল তার। হঠাৎ মনে হল টিভির উপরই যেন ক্যামেরাটা রাখা। টিভির মধ্যে তার ছবিটা এখন সামনাসামনি থেকে দেখা যাচ্ছে। তার পিছনে সেই ছায়াটা দাঁড়িয়ে। শরীর স্পষ্ট ভাবে বোঝা গেলও ছায়ার কোন মুখ ছিল না। হঠাৎ যেন ছায়াটা হেসে উঠলো। মুখটা যেন ঠিক মাঝখান থেকে ফেটে গেল। দুই সেট করাতের মত দাঁত উল্লম্বভাবে সারিবদ্ধ, একটা অন্যটার উপরে। ভয়ঙ্কর একটা চেন খোলা হয়েছে যেন!

7

পরের দিন সকালে কাজ করতে এসে অনির্বাণের মৃতদেহ দেখে কাজের মাসি অজ্ঞান হয়ে যায়।

অনির্বাণের চোখ গুলো কেউ যেন নির্মমভাবে উপড়ে ফেলেছিল।

এখন যদি আপনার ওই ওয়েবসাইটে যান তখন ওই চক্ষুহীন সারিবদ্ধ বাচ্চাদের গ্যালারিতে অনির্বাণের স্কুল জীবনের একটা ছবি দেখতে পাবেন। কিন্তু সেই ছবিতে কোন চোখ নেই।

কিন্তু আপনি যদি কোন প্রকাশক হন আর যদি দেখেন যে ওয়েবসাইট টা খুলছে না, তবে তাড়াতাড়ি সাত দিনের মধ্যে লেখকদের পেমেন্ট বা রোয়ালটি দিয়ে দেবেন। না হলে আপনারও ঠাঁই হবে সেই গ্যালারিতে।

The post Dirty Minds Bengali Version appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

This urban legend comes from the dark alleys of College Streets. Its a secret site that replaces any site and hunts cheating publishers!

Origin: Kolkata, India

0

It all happened during the last year.

Anirban was looking at his phone, which was ringing constantly, but he was slowly smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t going to pick it up. He couldn’t cut it off either, as that would let the other party know he was there!

Tushar’s wife was due for delivery. Yes, it was a night of terrible rain. The streets were flooded at that time. Anirban received a call from Tushar, who urgently needed 1 lakh rupees because of some complications at the hospital.

“Don’t worry,” Anirban had told him, “I’m arranging it. Just give me 5 minutes!”

It had been hours since then. Tushar was rushing to Anirban’s home, calling him continuously. He had full trust in Anirban but was very tense.

Suddenly, a truck’s headlights flashed in front of him, sailing through the water. The water splashed over his head!

He turned back to the truck and cursed, but suddenly, he slipped.

He slipped into a manhole! He didn’t even manage to scream!

1

Anirban owns a tiny publication house in College Street. Recently he posted in the facebook groups that he wanted to make a collection of short horror stories so he asked people to give stories.

Thats where everything started. A beautiful lady sent a word file in the DM. Her profile was locked. So he can not snoop around much. He asked her to submit contact details in the messenger.

He told that he would give a remuneration if the story is selected. But there was no reply from the profile. Strangely there was not a single friend in that account. Its like its a total new account!

Or fake account?

It has a photo of a toddler! Wtf!

Who cares?

He does not recall when he had given any money to any writer in this last few years. It is good that he did not asked money to publish it!

It was raining hard. Everyone is telling there is a cyclone coming. Anirban did not go to college street today. He thought to read up all the submissions today. Anyways the story from that lady is very strange.

2

This urban legend comes from the dark alleys of College Street. It’s a secret site that replaces any site and hunts cheating publishers!

But it all started with dirtyminds.in.

This is not a porn site! But have you ever seen videos of people getting beheaded? Have you ever seen videos of live accidents? Have you ever seen videos of ghosts?

If you’ve opened the site and get a server error, it means the website is offline. Actually, most of the time, the website is offline!

The site was created by a college student who went missing during a solo trip to a village in Assam in his second year.

However, there are three rules you must follow in order to access the website.

You must be alone.You must turn off all the lights in your house.You must go to the website at exactly midnight on a moonless night.

If you do everything correctly, you will be granted access to the website.

Once inside, you will be shown a never-ending montage of screaming faces, one after another, boys and girls. Their faces twisted in tremendous fear, their mouths frozen in silent screams. Their eyes missing, replaced by two hollow holes.

According to the legend, some lines in Bengali will be displayed on the screen, roughly translated to:

“This website will take you to a whole new level of horror. A horror that will use all five of your senses. You must be very careful not to click on anything by accident. You will be faced with a real experience of absolute horror. Click the ‘accept’ button to engage actively in the experience.”

Below the text are two buttons, “Accept” and “Decline”.

At this point, you’ll probably be really curious. You’ll probably feel tempted to click the ‘accept’ button. But you should not do that. If you accept the challenge, you will be taking your life into your own hands. It is better to click ‘decline’ and be on the safe side.

3

Anirban was also a website developer. He had heard these kinds of stories on Instagram reels, but something about this felt unnatural. Easily spooked, he closed the laptop, lit up a cigarette, and started some devotional songs on YouTube to ward off any haunting souls, if there were any.

He opened the site dirtyminds.in on his mobile. It seemed like just another e-commerce store. Suddenly, the lights went out. It was normal as the rain picked up outside.

But fear struck him. He quickly tried to close the site, and a popup appeared. He thought it was offering some coupon code gimmick to keep him on the site. He clicked on the red button quickly.

“Yes, just close the stupid site. Just close it!” Wait. The red button had “Accept” written on it, and the “Decline” button was green?

In a panic, he uninstalled Chrome altogether and switched off his phone. “Fucking stories!” he muttered.

4

Suddenly, the big 65-inch OLED TV lit up in front of him. He had bought this TV last Diwali in cash! Business always picked up during this time, thanks to the magazines.

Images of terrified, eyeless children flashed rapidly on the screen.

Then he saw it!

He quickly rubbed his eyes. His entire house had no electricity, so how was the TV on?

The images of the children were gone. Now, the screen showed a picture of his old shop on College Street, just opposite Paramount’s juice shop. It was from a year ago!

He was standing with Tushar, but there were no faces in the image!

Suddenly, a cold shiver ran down his spine.

5

“Tushar!”

Slowly, he became the manager in Anirban’s business and also wrote more than 20 novels in the span of just four years. Every magazine wanted him to write for them, but he never wrote for anyone else.

Thanks to Tushar, Anirban’s sales skyrocketed, and one thing led to another. He slowly propelled from a mediocre to the best publisher in the entire area. However, he never liked giving money to writers.

“They’re not taking any business risk. They should pay me for printing their nonsense,” Anirban would often say. But he always told Tushar to ask for money whenever he needed it.

Tushar was grateful. He never asked for more than his meager salary and lived happily with his wife.

Once, during childbirth, Tushar had asked Anirban for 1 lakh rupees but then disappeared suddenly. The next day, Anirban received terrifying news: Tushar’s wife had died in the hospital during childbirth.

6

Now the TV turned on again.

To his surprise and horror, Anirban observed on the screen a sinister silhouette walking… towards his own flat! Yes, it was coming up the stairs. He recognized those stairs!

He wanted to wake up. He wanted this to be just a nightmare.

He watched as the silhouette approached and entered the very flat he was sitting in…

Wait, the door was locked. How could it enter? It felt so cold now! He couldn’t even turn back. He saw himself facing the TV, watching the TV.

The silhouette had no face. Suddenly, it smiled. The face split apart from the middle, revealing two sets of teeth vertically aligned, one above the other, like a terrifying zipper opening up.

7

The next morning, Anirban’s maid discovered his dead body.

Someone had mercilessly ripped his eyes out.

Nowadays, if you visit that website, you can see a photo of Anirban from his school days, but there are no eyes in that picture.

If you are a publisher and Your site is not opening. It is your time to pay the writers, or You will end up in the gallery!

The post Dirty Minds appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

Originally Published in Quora on March 24, 2022, at 2:42:05 AM

Short Version: The current officer in charge of Memari Police Station Mr. Sudipto Banerjee hijacked my dad’s truck and asked my father to give 1.5L. Otherwise, He threatened to put 1 bag of Marijuana in the truck.

Long Version:

I approached all local respected people who all suggested complying with the police. I had huge trouble processing this new level of criminal demand. What happened next is a thriller movie but I will just paste the formal complaint I sent to sort of every official I found on the Internet from where you will get the gist.

In short – After I denied giving him money, the officer made up a false FIR (Link is in below) and asked for a remand for my driver for the purpose of physical torture. Today Judge granted interim bail to my driver on the grounds that when there are already invoices present; he can not be put into remand.

 

Sub: False FIR lodged by police, Demand of bribe and Harassment by Police

Respected Sir/Madam,

I am a resident of Katwa, Purba Burdwan, and own a transport business registered in Katwa.

My name is Apurba Kumar Ghosh, son of Late Dinanath Ghosh and my address is Station Road, Katwa, Burdwan, 713130.My driver’s name is Chandan Das, son of Shyamal Das, Kandi, Murshidabad.

On the date 21 March 2022 night, our truck was coming through the crossing of Satgachia when some police officers ceased our vehicle and arrested our driver.

The Officer in Charge of Memari Police Station and the officer in charge of Satgachia Police Fari initially demanded a sum of 1.5 Lakh. We were also told that unless we give the money he will put 1 bag of Marijuana and put a drug-related case.

We are doing this business for more than 6 years and We have proper GST bills for all the materials.

Firstly We arranged the money in fear but then my son contacted a lawyer and he contacted the Officer in Charge of Memari Mr.Sudipta and asked about the same. The Officer got enraged and instructed the other officers in front of me to file a case against us instead of taking money as a lawyer was involved.

Now, what kind of anarchy we are living in?

Violation of Basic Fundamental Rights of Arrested Person

All fundamental rights have been violated.

Right To Know The Grounds of ArrestRight To Be Taken Before A Magistrate Without DelayRight To Consult A Legal Practitioner

Right To Know The Grounds of Arrest

Communication towards Vehicle Owner – It was more than 24 hours since my driver is arrested. The officer denied giving me a copy of the FIR telling me that I am not “knowledgeable enough” to understand what is written there and told me mockingly that he will give a case of theft although I have a fair education to undergo what’s written in an FIR.Communication towards Accused- My driver not only was denied reasoning about his ground of arrest, but He also did not even know his crime even at the time he was produced in the court which covers more than 48 hours.

Right To Be Taken Before A Magistrate Without Delay

Falsification of Time in the Arrest in FIR

As I saw the FIR registered by the Police, I noticed that it was totally falsified as the police claimed that He was taken into custody on 22nd March.

But it is not true. As said earlier, On the date 21 March 2022 night, our truck was coming through the crossing of Satgachia when some police officers ceased our vehicle and arrested our driver.Then, He and our confiscated truck were kept as a bargaining chip. It’s modern-day kidnapping where the lawkeeper public servant demands ransom from law-abiding citizens.

I hereby seek an internal investigation. It can be easily checked through CCTV footage from Satgachia Police Phari as well as Memari Police Station that my driver is arrested on 21 March. The movement of my employees in the aforesaid police stations, as well as my driver’s location from his mobile, can be easily traced from our advanced mobile GPS or cell tower information.

Right To Consult A Legal Practitioner

As my driver and truck were kidnapped by Police on 21st March. My driver was not allowed to right to consult a legal practitioner although We have retained a lawyer.

Fear of Loss of Material of Seized Truck

Please also take necessary steps so that the items do not go missing from the inside of the truck as the police station has a fair reputation for stealing parts and items from confiscated items. All the items inside the truck are accounted for and there are over 20 witnesses who saw the loading of the materials as well as we have the bills of such items.

Withholding Documents and Fabricating False Case

As a transport business, to survive this anarchy of Police, We always kept a copy of the challans in the truck. When it was asked my driver produced it and it is also held in the police station.

Also, despite multiple contacts with them from my side while they were discussing the bribe and threatening us about putting drugs, they did not ask about challans. They are proper GST bills.

Not Following NHRC Guidelines

The truck was literally kidnapped in between from the road. As my driver communicated with me and can tell in the court, He was dragged from the seat and they drove the truck to their custody.My driver was wearing upper innerwear with no T-shirt as it is a common norm to combat the hot temperature outside. Despite multiple asking, He was denied his T-shirt for two nights.

At the time of summoning in the court, he was forcibly made to wear someone else’s T-shirt. In the desperate times of Corona, The Officer in charge of Memari not only has proven his greed by asking for bribes by threatening but also proved his inhuman nature towards another human being.

Falsification of Interrogation Statement

They have also fabricated a story on my driver’s interrogation about procurement because he was not even arrested in the time mentioned and it is provable.

My driver has not been asked anything at all. He was never interrogated. If so, I demand proof of such. These police are the real culprits of Indian corruption and should be punished in an exemplary way.

To be Noted –

I also contacted the Officer in Charge in Katwa who is an extremely helpful person around 5:44 PM on 21st March regarding this matter. He said he could not help as it is not under his jurisdiction. Either it proves the fact that I knew about the arrest happened and hence I have a time machine or the police falsified their report.I have petitioned various government bodies with this letter before I became aware of the minute details of FIR. In that document, I have misspelled “Satgachia” as “Santragachi”. I apologize for the same. I made that mistake in a moment of the spur.On 22/3/22, at the mentioned time of arrest, I along with my son were present in the Satgachia Police Phari and Memari PS. The same can be confirmed by our mobile GPS as well as CCTV footage of both Memari PS and Satgachia Phari.

I hereby petition to quash this falsified FIR and demand a criminal investigation for corruption and extortion of money against the officer in charge of Satgachia Phari and Memari. I will be glad if I can be informed on how to bring these officers to justice.

I also demand the release of my truck because Police because GST bills are easily verified over the internet in 5 minutes rather than 5 days which will allow them another bargaining chip to torture us.

Yours faithfully,

Apurba Kumar Ghosh

Vehicle Number – WB41H5408

Attachments –

The following attachments can be seen through the following link –

The FIR in question is attached to the email. FIR No 152/22. It is filed in Memari PS.The invoices in question. We have also submitted the same copies in court. 

The next court date is on the 28th. Unless they make up something false and put me also inside jail, I will update the next entertaining sequel of this saga.

Update –

I thought it was obvious the court dismissed the entire case immediately in the first hearing.I have discussed this matter with great length with the Anti Corruption Bureau in West Bengal. Unless You can shoot straight in between my head there is no other way to stop me if I fixate on something.I had also found out that the officer Sudipto Banerjee was an English teacher of Behala. Two of my friends live in Behala. I thought to visit him home and ask his father how his son turned out as a criminal infecting the very pillars of democracy. But my dad said to leave and forget.

The post Bribery on Wheels: The Memari Police Station Incident appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

My sister says that mommy killed her. Mommy says that I don’t have a sister.

 Revelation

Seven days ago…
The Day of Makar Sankranti. Early Morning.

Early morning sunbeams peered through the thick canopy of trees, heralding the day of Makar Sankranti. On this special day, the pathshala, or school, remained closed, leaving the air filled with excitement and freedom. Bharati, her eyes sparkling with mischief, woke up earlier than usual. Today was not just any day; it was a day without lessons, a day for adventure.

Usha, Bhargav, and Jatayu, Bharati’s closest friends, were already waiting for her at the edge of the pond that nestled like a hidden gem within the grounds of Bharati’s ancestral home. The pond, surrounded by lush greenery and blooming flowers, was their secret meeting spot, a place of countless games and whispered secrets.

Bharati rushed to join them, her feet barely touching the grassy path that led to the pond. The morning air was cool and filled with the sweet scent of jasmine. “Today is special,” she declared, her voice bubbling with excitement. “We have the whole day to ourselves, no pathshala, no lessons, just us and endless possibilities.”

Usha, with her bright, curious eyes, nodded eagerly. Bhargav, always the thinker, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “We should make this day memorable,” he suggested. Jatayu, the smallest of the group but with a heart brimming with bravery, flapped his arms like wings, agreeing wholeheartedly.

The pond, their witness, rippled as if in agreement. They decided to build a tiny boat out of leaves and twigs, a symbol of their friendship, and set it afloat on the water’s surface. The task was not easy; it required teamwork and patience. But their laughter and chatter filled the air, blending harmoniously with the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves.

As the sun climbed higher, their leaf boat finally took shape. It was a masterpiece of their combined effort, fragile yet strong in its symbolism. They named their boat ‘Sankranti’, in honor of the day that brought them together for this adventure.

With a gentle push, they sent Sankranti gliding across the pond’s surface. The boat, albeit small, sailed proudly, carrying their hopes and dreams. It was a moment of triumph, of friendship, and of joy. They watched in silence, a bond forming that no distance or time could ever break.

As the day waned and the sky turned golden, Bharati, Usha, Bhargav, and Jatayu knew that this Makar Sankranti was one they would never forget. It was a day of simple pleasures, of laughter and friendship, a day where the magic of their childhood shone the brightest.

Within the lush embrace of Bharati’s family estate, where nature unfurled in its most extravagant display, lay a pond, a shimmering canvas painted with the strokes of countless fishes. Small and large, they darted beneath the water’s surface, their scales catching the sunlight in bursts of iridescent color. Reds mingled with blues, oranges danced with greens, creating a living mosaic that mesmerized all who looked upon it.

“Look at them, all the fishes are here! Small, big, colorful ones!” Usha exclaimed, her voice tinged with wonder.

Bhargav, peering over her shoulder, couldn’t hide his amazement. “It’s like they know you’re going to feed them. This is amazing, Usha!”

Usha, with a twinkle in her eye, reminded Bhargav of a small but significant mission. “Bhargav, I asked you to get some flour from your mum. Have you got it?” she inquired, hope coloring her tone.

Bhargav, with a grin that spoke of mischief and triumph, nodded. “Yeah, Usha. I asked my mother, but she wasn’t too happy about it. Still, I managed to sneak some from the kitchen,” he confessed, his smile unwavering in the face of his small rebellion.

As Usha prepared to drop the flour ball into the water, a sharp movement caught her eye. Bharati, with a stone in hand, aimed at a particularly bright fish that had ventured closer. “Bharati, don’t do that!” she cried out, the joy in her voice replaced by shock and anger.

Bharati paused, the stone still in her grip. “Why not? It’s just a fish,” she said, her voice cold, betraying no sign of remorse for the dark thrill that sparked within her at the thought of causing harm.

“It’s not ‘just a fish,’ Bharati. They feel pain, just like us. Just like that cat you…” Usha’s voice trailed off, the memory of Bharati’s cruelty towards a helpless cat and its kittens casting a shadow over the moment.

Bharati’s expression hardened. “That cat deserved it,” she muttered, but the certainty in her voice wavered, faced with Usha’s unwavering gaze.

“Bharati, you always do this. You know how much Usha loves these animals, these fishes. Why would you want to hurt them?” Bhargav interjected, his usual reticence giving way to concern for both his friends and the creatures that brought them so much joy.

The standoff at the pond’s edge, under the watchful eyes of countless fishes, became a turning point. The stone, once a symbol of Bharati’s intent to harm, slipped from her fingers, landing harmlessly on the soft grass.

“Fine,” Bharati grumbled, her gaze dropping to the ground, a storm of emotions playing across her face.

The flour ball finally made its way into the pond, dissolving into a cloud of white that sent the fishes into a frenzy of delight. Laughter and chatter resumed, as the shadow of earlier tensions melted away into the warm embrace of the afternoon sun.

 Confrontation

In a moment of haste and clouded by the tension at the pond, Bhargav’s concern for his own safety briefly overshadowed his better judgment. It was Jatayu’s sudden pinch, a gesture small but significant, that snapped him back to reality. Jatayu, ever the quiet observer, rarely spoke.

Gratitude washed over Bhargav as he glanced towards Usha, her figure framed against the backdrop of the serene pond, a stark contrast to Bharati’s looming figure. “Thank goodness Usha is here,” he thought to himself, a sigh of relief escaping him. In his mind, the threat of being pushed into the water by Bharati, in one of her unpredictable moods, receded. With Usha there, a gentle yet unwavering force, the balance shifted. Her presence alone seemed to diffuse the tension, serving as a silent reminder that kindness could bridge even the widest gaps between friends.

Well he and Jatayu would not have come here anyways unless Usha had asked them to come. He fears his mother but he is terrified of Bharati. 

Bharati’s tale about the cat was a story shared in hushed tones among her friends, a memory that lingered like a shadow. One day, driven by a mix of curiosity and the thrill of the chase, Bharati stumbled upon a stray cat that had made a temporary home in the dense foliage near the pond. Intent on catching it for no reason other than to claim victory over a creature more elusive than herself, Bharati lunged. The cat, spurred by instinct and fear, lashed out in defense, leaving a set of sharp, stinging marks on Bharati’s arm.

Fueled by a mix of pain and wounded pride, Bharati’s determination turned to vengeance. Weeks later, when the cat had given birth to a litter of kittens, Bharati’s heart, instead of softening at the sight of the newborns, hardened. In an act that she later recounted with a chilling detachment, Bharati took one of the kittens, a tiny, mewling creature barely able to open its eyes, and buried it alive. She told her friends, expecting perhaps a shared sense of victory or understanding, only to be met with horrified silence and averted gazes.

She perceived her actions not as cruelty but as a victory, a way to assert her dominance in a world where she often felt sidelined. The consequences of Bharati’s behavior rippled far beyond the initial shock of her friends. The children in the neighborhood, already wary of Bharati’s unpredictable moods and imposing presence, now viewed her with a mix of fear and caution. Bharati, the girl who sought to command respect through intimidation, found herself more isolated than before.

The natural inhabitants of the area, the stray cats and dogs that roamed the streets and fields, seemed to sense this shift as well. Animals, intuitive and sensitive to the energies of those around them, began to steer clear of Bharati’s path. Where once they might have approached in curiosity or for a chance scrap of food, now they gave her a wide berth. It was as if her actions had sent a silent alarm through the web of life that connected every living creature in the neighborhood.

Bharati, with her imposing height and chubby physique, wielded her reputation as a bully like a weapon, striking fear into the hearts of the paathshala children with just a glance.

Although Bharati rarely showed affection, she held a soft spot for Usha, a girl known for her kindness and the peculiar habit of keeping a tiny piece of datura tucked behind her ear—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to find beauty in the most unexpected places.

 Alliance

Thirteen days ago…
An unexpected drama unfolded at the paathshala.

Bharati’s size often made her the target of mockery among her peers. One day, as she passed near the steps of the paathshala, a shove from behind sent her tumbling to the ground, her dignity bruised more than her knees. The fall was met with laughter, a cruel chorus that echoed off the school walls. But Usha, ever the defender of the downtrodden, sprang into action. Her voice, usually gentle, turned sharp as she scolded the crowd. “Are you people even human? This isn’t fair!” she exclaimed, her words cutting through the laughter like a knife.

Taking matters into her own hands, Usha confronted the boy responsible for Bharati’s fall, her anger manifesting in a swift retribution that left the instigator with more than just a bruised ego. The commotion attracted the teachers, and soon the entire affair was laid bare. The parents were called, and those who had mocked Bharati faced a scolding that would be remembered for many sunsets to come.

Bharati’s gaze was fixed on the new girl, an intriguing figure amidst the familiar backdrop. 

There was something about her—a radiance, perhaps, or the quiet confidence with which she carried herself—that Bharati found captivating. Never before had she encountered someone like Usha, whose beauty seemed to draw the very light towards her, making the surroundings appear dull in comparison.

“Hi, I am Usha. My parents came from Nepal to settle and trade here,” Usha introduced herself, extending her hand with a gesture that bridged worlds and stories. Bharati, unsure yet compelled, took the offered hand, feeling a surprising strength emanate from Usha’s smaller frame. It was a strength that belied her delicate appearance, a contradiction that intrigued Bharati even further.

Since then, She declared Usha her best friend, a title she had never bestowed upon anyone else.

A noticeable change swept through the corridors of the Paathshala. It was as if a silent decree had been passed, a new rule that everyone quickly learned: Bharati, the girl whose name once echoed like a storm warning among the students, had transformed, but only under the watchful eyes of Usha.

When Usha was by her side, Bharati seemed to wear a different cloak.

This change was both visible and invisible. Visible, because everyone could see Bharati holding back the tide of her usual ways when Usha was near. Invisible, because the shadow of her old self lingered just out of sight, waiting for the moment Usha’s back was turned. It was in these hidden moments that the old Bharati reemerged, like a moon obscured by clouds, revealing itself only in the absence of the sun.

The students of the Paathshala quickly learned to navigate this new landscape.

 Mystery

Seven days ago…
The Day of Makar Sankranti. Morning.

Usha looked up in the sky, her eyes wide with the anticipation of the coming rain. “It looks like it’s going to pour. Let’s stay indoors and find something fun to do,” Bharati suggested, her voice tinged with excitement.

As they stood up, their attention was abruptly drawn to the far side of the pond. 

There, a mysterious cat with an intense gaze held their attention. It was an unusual sight – the cat seemed to have only one eye, the other possibly lost in some forgotten mishap. Bharati, moved by a sudden impulse, picked up a stone and, with a flick of her wrist, sent it skimming across the water toward the feline observer.

Bhargav and Jatayu call Ballavpara their home, a quaint village nestled on the far side of the Ganga. To reach their home, they must ferried across the river by Khedi.

“We really should get going,” Bhargav interrupted a sense of urgency in his voice. 

Jatayu, who was known for his reserved nature, nodded in agreement. Without further ado, Bhargav and Jatayu started running to the banks of the Ganga, aware that the ferry would cease its runs at the first hint of rain, potentially stranding them for hours.

Their goal was clear: reach Khedi before the skies opened up. Time was of the essence.

Meanwhile, Bharati’s home buzzed with activity, a stark contrast to the looming quiet before the storm. The occasion of Makar Sankranti had brought guests aplenty, filling the house with laughter and conversation.

Bharati led Usha to the attic, a place teeming with memories and wisdom from the past. 

“My grandfather used to retreat here, immersing himself in his studies,” Bharati shared as he opened the creaky windows, letting in a sliver of light that danced across the room filled with manuscripts and the lingering scent of ink – a smell that spoke of countless hours of scholarly pursuit.

The attic, once a sanctuary of knowledge, had seen little use since the grandfather’s passing. Bharati’s voice carried a hint of nostalgia as Usha’s eyes roamed over the manuscripts scattered around. Her love for reading ignited, and Usha was drawn to the manuscripts, eager to uncover the secrets they held.

However, their exploration was cut short. “Bharati, how much longer will you play? You need to practice your multiplication tables,” Bharati’s dad called out, her voice echoing up the stairwell.

“But Dad, it’s Makar Sankranti! Can’t I just play for today?” Bharati pleaded, her voice rich with the hope of a temporary reprieve.

Downstairs, Bharati’s father sighed. To him, discipline was paramount, even if it meant curtailing the festivities for Bharati. He couldn’t understand Bharati’s disregard for knowledge, nor did she share her disdain for the mundane tasks of daily life. In his frustration, he muttered, “This girl is a curse. How can she aspire to be a kabiraj?” His words, though whispered, carried the weight of his disappointment.

In a house divided by tradition and the pursuit of knowledge, Usha and Bharati found themselves at the crossroads of expectation and aspiration. 

The rain began to whisper against the roof.

Usha’s world was one of endless stories and adventures, all held within the pages of her treasured books. Her friend Bharati often marveled at Usha’s passion for reading. Whether it was under the shade of an old banyan tree during their Paathshala breaks or nestled in a quiet corner of their home, Usha was always found with a book in her hands, her eyes dancing across the lines, and her mind exploring distant lands and times.

Bharati had noticed something else about Usha, too. Usha had a special notebook, its pages filled with her neat handwriting, where she scribbled down.

With a heavy sigh, Bharati whispered, “Yeah, we must have been born into the wrong family.

In a forgotten corner of the attic, shrouded in the mysteries of time, there sat an ancient box. Its surface was veiled in a tapestry of spider webs, a testament to its long neglect. Usha, her curiosity piqued by this relic of the past, approached it with a mix of reverence and excitement. With gentle hands, she lifted the lid, revealing the treasure within a collection of very old manuscripts, their pages yellowed by time but alive with the promise of untold stories.

A strong beam of sunlight, as if defying the rain’s command, found its way through the clouds, bathing the room in a surreal, warm light. This rare moment, when rain and sun graced the earth at the same time, was often said to be the time when foxes held their weddings.

“Bharati, come quick!” Usha called out, her voice echoing with urgency and excitement. Bharati, always ready for an adventure, rushed to Usha’s side. Together, they stood in the sunlit corner of the room, their eyes wide with wonder as they beheld the manuscripts. The pages, though delicate and worn, were beautifully inscribed in Devnagri Script. 

“Wow, Sanskrit,” Usha whispered, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Yep. Grandpa was always buried in those old books, scribbling away. He loved Sanskrit. That’s the language all these ancient manuscripts are written in,” Bharati explained, spreading her hands wide as if to show the vast collection her grandfather left behind. She shrugged, a little sheepishly. “But, to be honest, it’s all Greek to me.”

“I understand it,” Usha said, her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink. She couldn’t help the smile that danced on her lips as she said those words. There was something magical about being able to connect with the past in such a direct way. She leaned closer to the manuscript on the table, her gaze fixed on the delicate, ancient script as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Bharati couldn’t hide his amazement. “You do? That’s incredible, Usha!” She looked at the manuscript with new eyes, wondering what secrets it held that only Usha could unlock.

 Discovery

Three years ago…

It was a sunny afternoon, and Bharati was playing with her toys in the yard when she heard a noise that made her freeze. It was a sound filled with fear and pain, a sound that no one, especially not a young girl, should ever have to hear. She turned to see their family dog, Buno, a creature she had always seen as a gentle giant, attacking a stray cat. The scene was like something out of a nightmare, with the dog’s powerful jaws clamped down on the helpless cat, and the air filled with the cat’s desperate screeches.

The struggle was fierce and brutal, and it didn’t stop until all that was left of the cat was a lifeless, ragged lump of fur and meat. Bharati stood there, shocked and scared, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t understand why this had happened, why her beloved pet had turned into a monster right before her eyes.

Her dad, seeing the horror on her face, quickly came to her side.

Together, they decided to give the cat a proper burial in their backyard. They grabbed shovels and chose a spot under the old oak tree, a place that seemed fitting for a final resting place. As they dug the hole, Bharati, still trying to make sense of what she had seen, turned to her father and asked, “Dad, what did the cat do to deserve this?”

Her dad stopped digging for a moment, leaning on his shovel as he looked down at Bharati. The look in his eyes was sad but also filled with a kind of wisdom that comes from experiencing the world. “Well, Bharati,” he began, his voice gentle, “sometimes, no matter how well you think you’ve trained your pet, you can’t forget that at the end of the day, they are animals. 

And animals can be brutal and cruel. It’s part of nature, a side of life that’s hard to understand sometimes.”

Bharati paused, letting her dad’s words sink in. She thought about the cat, the dog, and all the other animals she knew. They all seemed so different now like there was a hidden side to them she had never seen before.

Her gaze then drifted to the plot of land next to the hole they were digging for the cat. She noticed how the grass was already starting to grow over it, how soon it would look just like the rest of the yard as if nothing had ever happened there. It made her wonder about the stories hidden beneath the surface, stories of life and death, of love and loss.

“What happened to Mother?” she asked, her voice small. The question had been burning in her heart, a mystery she hadn’t been able to solve.

Her dad looked at her, a mix of surprise and sadness in his eyes. Then, with a sigh, he said, “Well, humans are animals too.” 

He patted Bharati on the head, his hand lingering for a moment longer than usual.

 Transformation

Seven days ago…
The Day of Makar Sankranti. Noon.

“It looks like your grandfather’s diary.”, Usha whispered.

Bharati had seen his grandfather’s handwriting! A series of inscrutable scribbles, more akin to ancient runes than any readable text. But this—this was different. It was as if the diary had been penned by a completely different person, or perhaps, in a moment of unparalleled clarity and skill.

“I always knew Grandpa had secrets,” Bharati said, a hint of awe in his voice. “But this… this is something else. It is not written by him at all. He wrote like ants. What do you think it’s about?”

Usha glanced up from the manuscript, her eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. “I think,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper, “it’s about a world we’ve never seen before. A world of ancient rituals and powerful magic. And look here,” she pointed to a passage on the page, “these instructions. They talk about rituals I’ve never even heard of.”

The pages were yellow and fragile, filled with secrets of the past, detailing rituals that seemed too magical to be real.

Bharati’s curiosity was piqued. “Can you understand all of it?” he asked, his voice tinged with both excitement and a slight envy of Usha’s ability to unravel the mysteries of the manuscript.

Usha nodded, her gaze returning to the diary. “Most of it, yes. It’s fascinating. There’s a ritual here,” she traced the lines of text with her finger, “that talks about swapping souls. Can you imagine? Actually stepping into someone else’s life?”

Bharati laughed, but the sound was hollow, betraying her nervousness at the idea. “Swap souls? That sounds… terrifying. And incredible. But mostly terrifying.”

Usha looked up, her expression serious. “It’s probably just a myth, right? Something from folklore or a fanciful story Grandpa wanted to remember.”

“Maybe,” Bharati replied, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling of wonder and a bit of fear. “But with Grandpa, you never know. He always had a way of making the impossible seem possible.”

As they pored over the diary, the room around them seemed to grow quieter, the air charged with the potential of uncovering ancient secrets. The possibility of adventure lay before them, nestled within the pages of a diary that bridged the gap between the past and their present. 

 Substitution

“Can you imagine swapping lives?” Bharati whispered, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. “Just for a week?”

Usha, always the more adventurous of the two, grinned. “Why not? It sounds like an adventure. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be you, Bharati. To be fearless and carefree.”

“And I’ve always wondered what it’s like to be you, Usha. To be the star of the school,” Bharati replied, her voice tinged with a longing she couldn’t hide.

Usha and Bharati found themselves standing on the threshold of an experience that would forever change their lives. In the dimly lit attic of Bharati’s ancestral home, amidst relics and remnants of a bygone era, they prepared to undertake a ritual that seemed like something out of an ancient legend.

Usha, with a determination that belied her years, took charge of the preparations. Her hands moved with an uncanny precision as she retrieved an ink bottle. The glass shattered with a crisp sound, spilling dark ink onto the aged floorboards. With a piece of broken glass as her tool, Usha began to draw. The pattern emerged as if guided by an unseen force, intricate and geometric—a square bordered by circles, triangles, and more squares within, a design that seemed both complex and eerily familiar.

Bharati watched in silent awe, mesmerized by the transformation of the attic floor into a canvas of mystical symbols. “Have you done this before?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the spell.

Usha paused, a blush creeping over her cheeks. “No, not like this. But my grandmother taught me the art of alpana, to create patterns on the ground during festivals. We would go from house to house, creating beauty in exchange for alms. It’s how we made a living,” she explained, her voice tinged with a mix of pride and nostalgia.

“Wow,” was all Bharati could manage, the simple word laden with admiration and wonder.

Usha, caught in the urgency of the moment, directed Bharati to fetch eight candles and a pouch of sesame seeds. Without a word, Bharati hurried downstairs, returning moments later with the requested items. Together, they set the candles at the cardinal points around the square and placed the sesame seeds within the central triangle, ensuring that each seed fell precisely where it was meant to.

“We must chant the mantra eight times with our eyes closed. And whatever happens, do not let go of my hand,” Usha instructed, her grip on Bharati’s hand firm and reassuring.

Bharati nodded, her heart pounding with anticipation and a hint of fear. They sat cross-legged, facing each other, their joined hands a symbol of their unity and shared courage. 

As they chanted the ancient Sanskrit mantras, a gust of wind swirled around them, the candles flickering in the unseen breeze. The words felt strange, yet powerful, resonating in the attic space and within their very beings.

And then, silence.

 Absence

Present Day…
Morning:

Where could she be? Bharati thought, worry gnawing at her. The plan was simple: meet before school, swap back, and return to their own lives. But Bharati, now living as Usha, had never been late. Not once. Bharati tried to calm her racing heart, telling herself there must be a reasonable explanation.

But as the clock ticked on, Bharati couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. Had Usha changed her mind? Or, worse, had something happened to her?

In the quiet that surrounded her, Bharati realized how much she had learned about Usha’s life—and her own. The adventure had started as a game, a chance to live out a fantasy. But now, faced with the possibility of being stuck in Usha’s life forever.

“Well, that will be amazing”, Bharati thought. 

Bharati found herself enveloped in the warmth of Usha’s simple life. Each day unfolded like the petals of a morning bloom, revealing stories and wisdom passed down from Usha’s grandmother. This remarkable woman, whose heart and knowledge were as vast as the skies above, became a beacon of light in Bharati’s life.

Bharati had always felt like a shadow in her own home, invisible and unwanted. Her parents had longed for a son, a desire so consuming that it had led them down a dark path. Whispered conversations and hushed secrets revealed a chilling truth to Bharati — she was not the first daughter born to them, but rather, the survivor among her four sisters, whose lives were extinguished as swiftly as they began.

It was pure luck that Devadatta, the village head, and his companions, intervened at a pivotal moment, altering the course of Bharati’s fate. 

A sigh of relief escaped her lips, a sound mingled with sorrow and gratitude. 

“But where could Usha be?” Bharati wondered aloud, her concern deepening with each passing moment. Just yesterday, the two of them had shared a serene evening by the pond, their laughter echoing off the water’s surface. But today, Usha’s absence felt like a gaping hole in Bharati’s day. Unable to shake off her worry, Bharati made a decision.

With her heart pounding against her chest, she swiftly exited the classroom, the questions from her teacher fading into the background. The Paathsala suddenly felt suffocating. Determined, Bharati made her way through the bustling streets, her feet carrying her faster than they ever had before.

Her destination was the old house, the place that had once been her home. It now served as Usha’s home. As Bharati neared the familiar structure, a mix of anticipation and dread filled her. She hoped with all her heart to find Usha there. Yet, the fear of the unknown gnawed at her.

Look to your left, to your right, under your bed, behind your dresser, in your closet but never look up…She hates being seen.

 Recurrence

Six Days ago…
One day after the Day of Makar Sankranti. Morning.

A performer, daring and bold, had fallen from an elephant while showing off his stunts at the village festival. The rain poured down like sheets of silver, soaking everything and making the night even more dramatic. Few villagers from there came in the midnight. 

Bharati’s father, known for his healing skills, was called away. 

When dawn broke, Bharati’s father returned, his clothes heavy with rainwater and his bag full of herbs and remedies. He went straight to the basement, his secret place filled with jars of herbs, roots, and mysterious powders. But today, something was different. Right in the middle of the basement stood a lone chair, as if waiting for someone to sit.

No matter how many times he moved it back to the corner, the chair seemed to have a mind of its own, always returning to the center of the room. It was as if the chair was playing a game, a mysterious and silent dance with him.

“Strange,” he muttered to himself, his brow furrowed in confusion.

Hearing the commotion, Bharati came running, her curiosity piqued. “Bharati, did you move this chair?” her father asked, his voice echoing with frustration through the basement.

“Chair?” Bharati replied, her voice a mix of innocence and confusion. She had no idea what her father was talking about.

Noon:

“No, this can’t be,” Bharati’s father exclaimed, trying to shake off the eerie feeling. “It must have been someone from the festival yesterday. Someone must have gone down there to rest maybe and left the chair behind,” he reasoned, hoping to find a logical explanation for the strange occurrence.

The house had been bustling with visitors during the Makar Sankranti festival, with people coming in and out.

Three Days ago…
Four days after the Day of Makar Sankranti. Night.

In the deep, silent hours of the night, Bharati’s father found himself restless, tossing and turning in his bed. The air was heavy and warm, a thick blanket of heat that made sleep a distant dream. The first hints of dawn were already painting the sky, a gentle glow that slipped through the window and into his room.

Trying to find a more comfortable position, he turned to his right. That’s when he saw it. A figure stood silently in front of him. His heart leapt to his throat, and a silent scream built up inside him, only to be stifled at the last moment. 

“It can’t be. You are dead. It can’t be.” The words came like a whisper from his throat. His body instinctively prepared for a split-second decision—fight or flee—as adrenaline surged through his veins.

But then, a laugh, shaky and uncertain, escaped him. 

It was just his chair, an innocent piece of furniture, draped in the clothes he had carelessly thrown on it earlier. But wait—wasn’t this very chair supposed to be in the basement? 

The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through him, his heart racing, his chest tightening with the intensity of the shock.

Gradually, the grip of fear loosened, allowing him to catch his breath and settle his racing heart. As the adrenaline faded, exhaustion took over, lulling him into a fitful sleep despite the unease that lingered in the back of his mind.

But just as sleep claimed him, a cold, unmistakable touch grasped his foot. This time, there was no stopping the scream that tore from his throat, raw and filled with terror.

The night was no longer silent, and the darkness seemed alive with unseen threats. Bharati’s father lay wide awake, his mind racing with questions and fear. What was happening in their home? Was it simply his imagination, strained by the day’s events and the eerie incident with the chair, or was there something more, something darker at play?

Where is the chair? There is no chair!

The answers seemed to hide in the shadows, just out of reach, as the night stretched on.

“Father, what happened?” Bharati’s voice was urgent, filled with worry. “I heard you scream. Is everything alright?”

Bharati’s father sat up in bed, his heart still pounding from the shock. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight streaming through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. He blinked, trying to clear the fear from his mind as Bharati rushed in, her eyes wide with concern.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. “It’s… I thought something grabbed my foot,” he finally managed to say, his voice still shaky from the scare.

Bharati quickly scanned the room, her gaze landing on the empty space beside his bed. “But there’s nothing here, Father. Are you sure you weren’t dreaming?”

He shook his head, the image of the vanished chair flashing in his mind. “I was awake, Bharati. But it felt so real, and… the chair from the basement, it was here, in my room. Now it’s gone again.”

Bharati approached her father, sitting beside him on the bed. She reached out, taking his hand in hers, offering a comforting squeeze. “Let’s try to get some sleep now. We can figure this out in the morning. Maybe there’s a logical explanation for all of this.”

He nodded, though the unease still lingered. “You’re right. Let’s try to get some rest.”

A familiar, pungent smell filled the air, and Bharati’s father’s senses sharpened. The night, already heavy with mystery and fear, now took on a more sinister tone. He reached up, his fingers brushing against something unexpected on his pillow. Akanda flowers, with their pink and white hues, were scattered across it, their presence inexplicable and eerie.

As the itching on his scalp intensified, Bharati’s father soon realized with a sinking heart that the sensation was spreading. Now, his hands began to itch as well, the skin reacting swiftly to the contact with the milky sap of the Akanda flowers. This physical response confirmed his worst fears: these were indeed the rare, dangerous species of Akanda known only to his tribe.

They are commonly known as milkweeds because of the white latex they produce. The white latex of Akanda Flowers has been used for wound healing, a fact well-known and cherished within his tribe for generations. However, hidden within this knowledge was a darker truth: a few of the rare species could cause severe, life-threatening fever and white blisters upon contact. This was a secret kept within the confines of his tribe, a guarded piece of wisdom that had been passed down through the ages, its dangers known only to those who shared his heritage.

But there was no one from his tribe in this village. They were all back in Nepal, living amidst the mountains and valleys that had cradled their ancestors for centuries. 

Who put flowers in the middle of the night? 

He did not see any flowers when he lay down in the bed! 

“It can’t be,” he whispered in horror. 

The touch of the flowers’ milky sap on his skin sent a shiver down his spine, not just from the physical sensation but from the flood of memories they unleashed. 

Years ago, He had used these very flowers!

The details of that night came rushing back. Standing up in bed, sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickling down his face. The room felt colder now, the shadows darker. The air was thick with the scent of the Akanda flowers, enveloping him in a cloud of spine-chilling memories. He felt trapped, caught in the grip of his past actions and the horrible events of that night.

 Remembrance

One Day ago…
Six days after the Day of Makar Sankranti. Morning.

In the warm, sunlit classroom of the paathsala, where the dust danced in the rays of light streaming through the windows, Prahlada Ranta, a master of the stars and numbers, was guiding his eager students through the mysteries of astronomy and mathematics. His voice, rich with knowledge, filled the room, weaving tales of distant planets and celestial bodies.

But not all were captivated by the cosmic ballet. Usha, with her head resting on the wooden desk, was drifting away into a world of dreams. Prahladji, noticing Usha’s slumber amidst his lecture, picked up a small chalk. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it arcing through the classroom, landing it gently on Usha’s desk with a soft tap. The sudden jolt startled Usha. 

She sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, her voice echoing through the classroom, “I am present sir!” as if her name had just been called from a list of attendance register.

The room burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up like a fountain. 

“In the ancient tales of the Brahma Vaivarta Purana, Sahasika, known as Bali’s grandson, interrupted sage Durvasa during a private moment with Tilottama. Angered, Durvasa transformed Sahasika into a donkey and cursed Tilottama to be reborn as Usha, the daughter of the demon king Banasura.” Prahladaji told with a smile. “Fatefully, Usha was destined to marry Aniruddha, Krishna’s grandson, intertwining their lives in a saga of divine retribution and destined love. But, our Usha sleeps!”

Usha’s face turned the color of ripe strawberries, a blush spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on Bharati. Bharati was also smiling. Across the distance, their eyes met, bridging the space between them. They nodded at each other like it was the seal on their silent and wordless conversation.

The post Bharati appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

9th April, 1719 …

The air in Delhi was thick with tension, the kind that precedes storms of change. A woman, draped in a burkha hidden in the shadows of an alleyway near the imperial palace, felt the weight of his rapid breaths. The dusk cloaked the city in a deceptive calm, but the night was anything but peaceful. 

She knocked firmly on the hefty iron door. A silhouette appeared, a woman holding an oil lamp with a bright flame encased in glass. heir nods bridged words unspoken, and then they quietly slip through the door.

 Conspiracy

Six years ago …

Whispers of conspiracy had wound their way through the city like a serpent, speaking of Farrukhsiyar’s ambitions and his ruthless resolve to claim the Mughal throne. Shah Alam had heard rumors, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight he was about to witness.

As the first light of dawn broke, a contingent of Farrukhsiyar’s soldiers stormed into his brother Zulfiqar’s residence. Zulfiqar, a man of intellect and military prowess, had sensed the looming threat but chose to face it head-on, surrounded by his family and a few loyal guards.

Sheltered by the haystacks adjacent to the cowshed, Shah Alam observed as the doors succumbed to the invaders’ force. The clash of iron rang out, a harrowing overture to the tragedy unfolding within. He saw through the open windows as if in slow motion, the valiant but futile resistance offered by Zulfiqar’s guards.

Farrukhsiyar’s men were ruthless, their blades not discriminating between the warrior and the innocent. Zulfiqar Khan fought with the ferocity of a cornered tiger, but even tigers fall when outnumbered. Shah Alam’s heart raced as he saw his brother momentarily lock eyes with him, an unspeakable farewell passing between them.

Then, chaos. The soldiers descended upon Zulfiqar Khan, their blades a blur. Beside him, his wife tried to shield their children, her eyes wide with terror. The scene was a maelstrom of desperation and defiance, the air rent with the sounds of combat and the cries of the fallen.

In the middle of turmoil, as the battle cries echoed through the dawn, a chilling silence descended when Farrukhsiyar himself, with a demeanor as cold as the steel of his sword, stepped into the fray. He turned his cold gaze upon Asad Khan, the venerable patriarch of the fallen. The conqueror’s eyes, devoid of mercy, fixed upon the defeated nobleman.

Despite the chains of age, Asad Khan stood with an indomitable spirit, his once robust frame now withered to frailty, yet his eyes blazed with an undiminished fire. Even in captivity, he had dispatched several of Farrukhsiyar’s soldiers, a testament to the enduring might of his lineage. Nearby, Zulfiqar Khan lay defeated, his body a canvas of wounds from which his life’s essence ebbed away. 

With a calculated calm that belied the brutality of his actions, Farrukhsiyar addressed the aged warrior. “Asad Khan,” he said, voice steady, “you have one final choice. End your son’s suffering with your own hands, and I shall grant you mercy in your final days. Choose defiance, and you shall watch as your name and blood are dragged through the dirt of Delhi.”

The air trembled with the weight of his words, a cruel bargain laid at the feet of a father already burdened with loss. Asad Khan, embodying the dignity of his ancestors, met Farrukhsiyar’s demand with the fierce resolve that had defined his life. With a defiant smile, Asad Khan gathered his spit and launched it at Farrukhsiyar, the spit, mingled with blood, striking Farrukhsiyar’s face and leaving a stark, crimson mark—a bold symbol of defiance against tyranny.

Farrukhsiyar signaled to his men. One soldier, with grim resolve, dragged Zulfiqar upright in front of his father. Farrukhsiyar then unsheathed his sword, its blade gleaming with a sinister light. “Witness the consequence” he announced, as he approached Zulfiqar. The air hung heavy with dread as Farrukhsiyar, with swift and cruel precision, blinded Zulfiqar with two strokes of his blade. Asad’s anguished cries pierced the solemn air, a dire echo of the darkness that had now seized him.

As the echoes of Asad’s cries faded, a sinister smile crept across Farrukhsiyar’s face, his cold amusement chilling the air as Asad Khan’s defiant voice rose in response, a testament to a spirit unbroken even in the face of unspeakable cruelty.

Farrukhsiyar, his face twisted in a sneer of contempt, signaled his soldiers with a flick of his wrist. “Let the streets of Delhi bear witness to the cost of defiance,” he decreed.

Farrukhsiyar, his face twisted in disdain, signaled his soldiers. “Parade them through the city on elephants, all the way to the Delhi Gate,” he commanded with a stern voice that brooked no argument. “Make a spectacle of them for all to see. Let it be known this is the fate of those who oppose me.”

The soldiers, understanding their orders, moved quickly to execute the command. They dragged the battered bodies of Asad Khan and Zulfiqar Khan, preparing them for the grim parade through the city, towards the elephants that awaited to carry them through the streets to the Delhi Gate.

When silence finally reclaimed the space, it was a silence of absence. The floor was painted in the grim palette of loss. Zulfiqar’s wife and his children lay motionless, their blood seeping into the fabric of history. Farrukhsiyar’s soldiers looted what they could, leaving behind a scene of stark finality.

Shah Alam, heart shattered, retreated into the shadows. The dawn had witnessed a massacre, a brutal punctuation to the sentence of his brother’s life and reign. This was not just the death of his family but the death of an era. Shah Alam fled Delhi, the images of that dawn seared into his memory, a haunting reminder of the cost of power and the fragility of life in the Mughal Empire’s twilight years.

 Ascension

Zulfiqar Khan’s lineage was noble, descending from a family with deep roots in the Mughal Empire’s military and political spheres. His father, Asad Khan, was the esteemed wazir to Emperor Aurangzeb, marking Zulfiqar as a man destined for greatness, a bearer of his family’s legacy. Zulfiqar’s reputation as a military strategist and a statesman of unparalleled acumen preceded him, his life a testament to the empire’s glory days.

In 1707, as the mighty Emperor Aurangzeb passed away, his empire, a vast realm of wealth and power, was thrown into chaos. His sons, driven by a thirst for power, plunged into a fierce battle to take his place. Zulfiqar Khan and his father Asad Khan, found themselves amid this storm. They aligned with Prince Azam Shah, one of the contenders for the throne.

The battlefield was set at Jajau, where Azam Shah’s forces met with those of his brother, Prince Bahadur Shah. Seeing the tide of battle turn against them, Zulfiqar advised Azam to retreat, to save their strength for another day. But Azam, burning with the desire to win, pushed forward. The battle was brutal, and in the chaos, Zulfiqar, with a heavy heart, chose to flee to Gwalior, narrowly escaping with only minor injuries. Azam wasn’t so fortunate and met his end on the battlefield. 

Despite his initial choice to side with Azam, Zulfiqar was summoned back to the heart of the empire by the new ruler, Bahadur Shah. In a surprising turn of events, he was not only forgiven but elevated in rank. There was a rumor that He secretly supported Bahadur Shah and intentionally fled with most of the force during the battle.

He was reappointed as the empire’s chief military officer and later, was given the prestigious role of governing the Deccan region.

As Bahadur Shah’s health waned and he lay on his deathbed, the Mughal Empire stood on the verge of a crisis, the air heavy with the anticipation of a looming battle for succession. The stage was set for a clash of wills among his sons, each vying to inherit the throne of their illustrious father. The most formidable among them was Azim-us-Shan, a prince of vast influence and wealth, having amassed his fortune and power as the governor of Bengal. His presence loomed large at the court, casting long shadows over his competitors.

In contrast, the other contenders, Jahan Shah, Rafi-us-Shan, and the least formidable, Jahandar Shah, seemed to pale in comparison. Yet, it was in this intricate web of ambition and rivalry that Zulfiqar Khan, the empire’s most powerful noble, stepped in with a plan that would forever alter the course of Mughal history.

With a blend of cunning and political savvy that would have made the most seasoned statesman envious, Zulfiqar Khan maneuvered through the treacherous waters of court intrigue. He forged a clandestine alliance between the three underdog princes, creating a united front against Azim-us-Shan. 

Through diplomatic mastery and strategic brilliance, Zulfiqar Khan orchestrated Azim-us-Shan’s defeat, paving the way for Jahandar Shah’s rise to power. But his machinations did not stop there; he then supported Jahandar Shah in a ruthless consolidation of power by killing the other two princes. Zulfiqar didn’t just elevate Jahandar Shah to the throne; he bound the new emperor to him, making his rule entirely dependent on his support.

He became the “The First Kingmaker of the Mughals”.

Through his actions, Zulfiqar Khan demonstrated that true power often lies not in the hands of those who wear the crown, but in those who have the vision and the will to place it upon the head.

Zulfiqar Khan, wielding the reins of power with a deft hand, embarked on a mission to mend the frayed edges of the Mughal Empire, reaching out to the Rajputs, Sikhs, and Marathas. These groups, once integral to the empire’s vast mosaic, had grown distant, their alliances frayed by years of neglect and discord. Zulfiqar, in a bid to weave these threads back into the empire’s fabric, made a bold move: he abolished the jizya, a tax that had long burdened non-Muslim subjects, signaling a new era of tolerance and inclusivity.

His overtures of peace and unity did not stop there. In a gesture of reconciliation and respect, he bestowed high-ranking positions upon Rajput leaders Jai Singh II and Ajit Singh, integrating their strength and valor into the empire’s leadership. This was a masterstroke, aimed at solidifying a fragile peace and fostering a sense of belonging among the empire’s diverse subjects.

However, the tranquility of Jahandar Shah’s reign, under Zulfiqar’s careful administration, was not to last. The shadows of discontent and rebellion loomed large as Farrukhsiyar, a scion of the deceased prince Azim-us-Shan, raised the banner of revolt. Bolstered by the formidable Sayyid brothers, Farrukhsiyar tapped into the simmering unrest and dissatisfaction within the empire. The storm of rebellion he unleashed was a test of fire for Jahandar Shah’s rule.

Faced with an underpaid and disorganized army, a reflection of the empire’s internal turmoil, Jahandar Shah was unable to withstand the tide of Farrukhsiyar’s advance. The decisive confrontation near Agra was a resounding defeat for the emperor, crumbling the last pillars of his dominion. In a poignant turn of fate, Jahandar Shah found himself a fugitive in his land, seeking sanctuary in the home of Asad Khan, Zulfiqar’s father and a former wazir. 

 Camouflage

The distinct call of a peacock pierced the air.

On a fateful day, Shah Alam, Zulfiqar’s brother, arrived from Bengal at his father Asad Khan’s house with urgent news concerning English tradesmen—a matter of grave importance that hinted at the shifting tides of power and commerce. As the sound of horse hooves approached, a tense anticipation filled the air. Zulfiqar, ever vigilant, sensed the impending danger. With a swift decision, he ushered Shah Alam and his niece into the relative safety of a haystack near the cowshed, a humble hiding place that belied the nobility of their blood.

In the dim light of dawn, Shah Alam’s heart pounded against his chest, a frantic drumbeat signaling his urge to leap into the fray, to confront the assassins head-on. But Zulfiqar, through the narrow gaps of their rustic concealment, met his brother’s gaze. In his eyes, Shah Alam read a silent command, a plea underscored by the presence of his daughter. It was a look that spoke volumes, a desperate bid for the continuation of their bloodline, for the safety of the innocents among them.

Under the vast expanse of the early morning sky, Shah Alam stood alone, the devastation behind him a stark reminder of the price of power and betrayal. He lifted his gaze upward, where the first rays of sunlight pierced through the darkness, painting the heavens with hues of gold and crimson.

With clenched fists and a heart heavy with the promise of vengeance, he whispered a vow into the chill of the dawn air, “To the heavens that bear witness to this injustice, hear me now. The cruelty Farrukhsiyar has bestowed upon my brother, upon my flesh and blood, will not go unanswered. A day will come, Farrukhsiyar, when the shadows you’ve cast will engulf you. I swear, with all the fury and grief that now consumes me, I will return to mete out justice as you have done, but with a precision and a wrath you cannot fathom. You took the light from my brother’s eyes; so too shall I extinguish the light from yours, an eye for an eye, in the exact measure of your cruelty.”

His vow hung in the air, a promise etched into the fabric of time, as Shah Alam’s silhouette blended into the tapestry of fleeing shadows. The horizon blazed with the light of a new day, but for him, it marked the beginning of a quest for retribution, a path that would lead him through the corridors of power and into the annals of history. The empire, still slumbering in the innocence of dawn, remained unaware of the storm that was to come, a storm born from the ashes of betrayal and fueled by the unyielding spirit of a brother wronged.

 Vengeance

In the years shadowed by the past’s sorrow, Shah Alam sought solace in Katwa, a quaint town nestled on the western banks of Bengal, cradled by the confluence of the Ganga and Ajay rivers. Katwa, with its strategic position at the crossroads of vital waterways, had long been a place of significance. The town thrived under the imperial decree that granted English tradesmen the right to conduct their business tax-free, a testament to the emperor’s favor towards foreign commerce. However, this gesture of goodwill towards the English did not sit well with the local Nawab. His discontent with the emperor’s policies created an environment of indifference towards the emperor’s adversaries, making Bengal a haven for dissenters and rebels alike.

In this atmosphere of political apathy and strategic advantage, Shah Alam found the perfect cover for his dual existence. While outwardly embodying the ascetic life of a Sufi, inwardly he was anything but passive. Bengal’s indifference to the emperor’s enemies provided him with the anonymity needed to plot his revenge, its bustling markets and thriving port a façade behind which he could gather his forces, unnoticed by those who would seek to thwart his plans.

Before visiting his father Asad, on the day of tragedy, Shah Alam had arrived with a strong group of 200 soldiers. They were stationed near Beharampur as a guest of Nawab of Murshidabad. He left with only 10 of his bravest men, and they were lost in a terrible fight on that fateful night.

Shah Alam did not give up. He gathered his remaining soldiers and built a special mosque near the Ganga River in Katwa. But this was no ordinary mosque; it looked more like a fortress and had deep tunnels on three sides, with one side open to land. These tunnels connected to a secret passage that led to the river, hidden deep underground. To the untrained eye, he was but a Sufi saint, embracing a life of spiritual contemplation and peace. Yet beneath this cloak of tranquility, Shah Alam harbored a fervent desire for vengeance, silently forging an army from those who shared his yearning for justice.

Shah Alam created a small community around this mosque fortress. To avoid drawing attention, everyone had a disguise. Some became to be tea sellers, while others became cotton merchants. This clever disguise allowed them to blend in with the locals and go about their business without anyone suspecting their true purpose.

After some time, Shah Alam began sending out some of his men disguised as cotton merchants to Delhi. Their mission was to gather secret information that could help Shah Alam in his plans. These disguised soldiers became his eyes and ears, collecting valuable details without being noticed.

One day, during a quiet meeting in the shadowed corners of the mosque, Shah Alam spoke with one of his closest allies, who had just returned from Delhi.

“We’ve received word, my lord,” the ally began, his voice low and urgent. “The emperor has discovered our location. He’s sending soldiers to investigate Shahi Masjid.”

Shah Alam’s response was calm, yet filled with resolute strength. “Let them come,” he said, a spark of determination in his eyes. “We are prepared.”

The distinct call of a peacock pierced the air, a sound Shah Alam knew all too well. It was a signal he had taught his soldiers to use, a method of communication crafted from the mimicry of bird calls!

One evening, as the golden hues of sunset embraced the Shahi Maszid, a group of Farrukhsiyar’s soldiers arrived unannounced. Their presence, meant to intimidate, only served as a reminder of the unresolved past.

“Allah hu Akbar,” a soldier called out, his eyes scanning the serene compound with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Shah Alam, we’ve heard of your spiritual endeavors,” the leader, a stern man with the bearing of authority, declared as they stood in the mosque’s expansive courtyard. “The Emperor appreciates your dedication to peace. He sees it as a sign of your submission.”

With a serene smile, Shah Alam faced them, his voice steady, “Tell your Emperor, I am but a humble servant of the divine. The politics of thrones and power never concerned me.”

The soldiers, satisfied or perhaps choosing to believe the facade presented, departed as swiftly as they came, their boots echoing off the stone. As the soldiers departed, the air seemed to thicken with unspoken words and unseen tensions. 

Shah Alam turned his gaze back to the horizon.

Yet, as night fell over the river of the Ganga, a shadow lingered.

One soldier, curiosity or perhaps a sense of unfinished duty anchoring him, stayed behind, concealed within the darker recesses of the masjid.

 Intrigue

It was not any ordinary soldier who chose to stay hidden within the dark confines of the Shahi Masjid. It was Ajit Singh Rathore of Marwar, a name whispered with reverence and fear across the lands that once bowed to his ancestors. 

As he stepped forward from the shadows, his gaze fixated on the tranquil figure of Shah Alam, his mind was a tempest of memories and vendettas, a tapestry of Marwar’s tumultuous history woven with the threads of defiance and survival.

The story of Ajit Singh was not just his own but a chronicle of Marwar’s relentless struggle against the imperial might of the Mughals. His grandfather, Jaswant Singh of Marwar, a lion of the desert, breathed his last at Jamrud in December 1678, leaving behind a legacy cast in the shadow of uncertainty. With Jaswant Singh’s demise and no male heir to claim the throne immediately, Aurangzeb, the emperor with an iron fist, saw an opportunity to extend his dominion, converting the lands of Marwar into territories of the Mughal empire.

A nephew of Jaswant Singh was anointed as a puppet sovereign, a marionette dancing on the strings of Mughal ambition. Yet, the winds of dissent began to howl through the corridors of power as fate unfurled its own narrative.

The royal bloodline, however, was not to be so easily erased. 

As the saga of the late Jaswant Singh’s lineage unfolded, his two queens, vessels of Marwar’s hope, each delivered into the world a son after his death. In those hallowed halls, where whispers of rebellion already stirred the air, the birth of these heirs ignited a flame of defiance. 

Durgadas Rathore, the minister of Jaswant Singh, ignited the flames of resistance, challenging the decree of the emperor. He led a daring delegation to Shahjahanabad, pleading for the recognition of Ajit Singh, the eldest of Jaswant Singh’s posthumous sons, as the rightful ruler of Marwar.

Aurangzeb declined, proposing instead to elevate Ajit and grant him the title of raja, accompanied by a suitable noble status, upon reaching adulthood. This proposal, however, hinged on Ajit being raised in the Muslim faith, a condition that was completely unacceptable to those who had made the request.

Aurangzeb’s refusal to reinstate the young prince to his ancestral throne only fueled the fire of rebellion. The dispute took a darker turn with the death of Ajit Singh’s younger brother, tightening the noose around the legacy of Marwar. In a desperate bid for freedom, Durgadas Rathore orchestrated a daring escape from the clutches of the Mughal forces to the city of Jodhpur, smuggling Ajit Singh and the queens out of Shahjahanabad. 

Amidst this chaos, a tale of sacrifice marked the beginning of Ajit Singh’s journey to reclaim his throne. The Dhaa Maa (wet nurse) of the infant prince, in an act of unmatched devotion, swapped her own son for Ajit Singh, ensuring the prince’s safety in a basket, smuggled out under the cover of darkness. Aurangzeb fell to this trick and sent the child to be raised as a Muslim in his harem (royal household).

Back then, it was common for soldiers to lose their lives in the forest. They fell victim to wild animals, illnesses, or bandits. Life was considered much less valuable in those days. Earlier in the forest, he had taken down one of the soldiers, taken his uniform, and blended in with the troops to get close to Shah Alam. He doubted whether Shah Alam would trust him after so much time had passed.

Now, as Ajit Singh Rathore stepped forward, the weight of his heritage heavy on his shoulders, he was not just a soldier in the shadows. He was the embodiment of Marwar’s indomitable spirit, a prince whose life was shaped by the struggles of his forebears. 

His gaze was fixed on Shah Alam.

In the hushed ambiance of the mosque, Ajit’s voice softly broke the silence, “Hi, my friend,” his whisper reverberated off the ancient walls, carrying the weight of history and the warmth of old camaraderie. Ajit Singh, a close ally of his brother, stood in the dim light, his presence a testament to alliances forged in times both prosperous and perilous.

“Assalamu Alaikum,” came a voice unexpectedly from the shadows, rich with the resonance of authority and surprise. Shah Alam, true to his reputation, emerged like a phantom from the darkness, revealing the figure Ajit had initially mistaken for Shah Alam to be but a loyal soldier. The mosque, steeped in the echoes of whispered greetings, became a witness to the reunion of two souls intertwined by destiny and shared struggles.

“We have so much to discuss,” Ajit stated, his voice carrying a mix of hope and urgency.

It felt like his words were paving the way for deep and necessary dialogues—plans to be made, secrets to exchange, and strategies to formulate for what lay ahead.

Shah Alam, sensing both the significance of the moment and the weariness that enveloped Ajit, replied with a welcoming warmth. 

“You must be tired. Let’s talk over while we eat something,” he offered.

 

Retribution

Now …
9th April, 1719

As dawn broke over the Red Fort, the air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and the echo of a night-long battle that had raged under the cover of darkness. The mighty fortress, a symbol of the Mughal empire’s unrivaled power, had become the stage for a dramatic turn of fate. Ajit Singh Rathore, alongside the Sayyid brothers, had led a siege that would mark the end of Farrukhsiyar’s reign. Amidst the chaos, a strategic alliance had been forged, one that united former foes against a common enemy.

Initially, the Sayyid brothers played a key role in installing Farrukhsiyar on the throne. Indeed, they were the ones who orchestrated the assassinations of Bahadur Shah and Jahandar Shah. They infiltrated Asad’s House through a cook when Jahandar sought refuge there and fatally poisoned his food. They always preferred to avoid chaos and bloodshed. These very brothers have now shifted their focus towards Farrukhsiyar. This move underscores the dangerous dynamics inherent in the struggle for power.

The palace grounds, scarred by the violence of the siege, bore witness to the final act of this power struggle. Ajit Singh’s men navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the fort, their mission clear. It was in these hallowed halls that they found Rafi ud-Darajat, the youngest prince, his fate about to be irrevocably changed. 

But the coup de grâce was yet to come. Farrukhsiyar, the once mighty emperor, was found cowering in the sanctuary of his harem, surrounded by his mother, wives, and daughters. The irony of his hiding place, a domain ruled by the women he considered his protectors, would soon become the stage for his downfall. As the soldiers closed in, a tense silence fell over the room, a prelude to the impending retribution.

It was then that the unexpected happened. The distinct call of a peacock pierced the air. Farrukhsiyar’s opportunities to escape had been sealed off.

Amidst the harem’s veiled shadows, a figure stepped forward, her movements deliberate and unwavering. With the precision of one who had known betrayal and the taste of revenge, she wielded the needle that would seal Farrukhsiyar’s fate. The needle plunged into the emperor’s eyes, not by the hand of his captors, but by a woman from within his sanctuary.

The revelation sent a ripple of shock through the ranks. The woman was none other than Shah Alam disguised in the intricate garb of the harem’s inhabitants. This audacious plan, concocted with meticulous precision, had allowed Shah Alam’s forces to blend seamlessly with the palace workers, infiltrating the fort’s defenses from within. It was a maneuver that underscored the depth of Shah Alam’s resolve and his mastery over the art of war and deception.

In the charged silence of the chamber, four soldiers lunged toward Shah Alam with deadly intent. But in a flash, two figures—a whirlwind of grace and ferocity—stepped into their path. One, Shah Alam’s own progeny, a princess whose hands, though accustomed to the gentle grip of a rose, now wielded a dagger with the expertise of a seasoned warrior. Her companion in this dance of death was no less formidable: the captive daughter of Ajit Singh, a princess in her own right, her training with the blade evident in the fluidity of her movements.

In moments that seemed to stretch and bend, the clash of iron sang a deadly tune. Before the soldiers could lay a finger on Shah Alam, they were met with a swift and silent end, their threats extinguished by the princesses’ deft hands. The air was punctured by the heavy fall of bodies, a testament to the prowess of royal blood trained for battle.

Suddenly, a loud bang against the iron doors shattered the silence, signaling the onset of turmoil. Shah Alam, sensing the impending danger, raised his voice with authority, “Stay back!” His command resonated like thunder through the tension-filled room.

Then, with a noise that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, a tide of soldiers, accompanied by the splintered remnants of what was once a door, cascaded into the chamber.

From this maelstrom of destruction stepped a figure both formidable and weary—Ajit Singh. Bloodied, limping, yet unbowed, his presence commanded the space. Upon sighting his daughter, a fierce joy cut through the grimace of pain. With a strength born of sheer will, he surged forward, his arms outstretched not for the sword, but to embrace his child, a poignant symbol of resilience and undying love amidst the ruins of battle.

“He is all yours,” Shah Alam’s voice thundered, a tumultuous blend of vengeance fulfilled and the liberation of a burden long carried. 

His declaration, aimed at Ajit Singh, pierced the heavy air with the finality of a judge’s gavel. Within that moment, Farrukhsiyar, once an emperor draped in the majesty of power, became nothing more than a blind, broken figure, bereft of his imperial sight and dignity in a swift, brutal stroke of justice. Desperate, futile resistance marked his actions as he was seized by relentless hands, his body contorting in a vain attempt to escape the inexorable grip of his captors. They dragged him, a once-mighty ruler reduced to a pitiable state, towards a destiny he had always arrogantly believed was meant for his enemies, not for him.

The small room within the ancient Tripoliya Gate loomed as a silent witness to the culmination of this grim procession, its walls echoing the unspoken horrors of past retributions. 

This somber chamber shrouded in the whispers of those who had met their grim fates within its confines, awaited Farrukhsiyar. It promised an end as merciless as the betrayal that had led him here—an end where his screams and pleas would find no audience save for the indifferent stones that had absorbed the cries of countless before him.

In the shadowed recesses of Tripoliya Gate, the cries of the old Mughal officials, begging for a mercy that would not come, echoed hollowly against the cold stone. Their voices, once powerful and commanding, now reduced to the whimpering of the powerless, seemed insignificant to Shah Alam. His vendetta, born from the deepest wells of grief and rage, had reached its conclusion, a poetic justice written in the blood of empires.

As the emperor’s painful end was happening, Shah Alam watched from a distance. He likes to control the light while staying in the dark. With solemn gravity, Ajit Singh and the Sayyid brothers presented the young prince to the peacock throne, anointing him the successor in a moment that was as symbolic as it was decisive. 

Shah Alam quietly disappeared back into the shadows, fading away as if he were just a part of the night itself. He has the blood of a wazir flowing in his veins. He deliberately selected the feeblest among them to ascend the throne, knowing full well that the weakest links are effortlessly dominated and make the most pliable rulers.

He isn’t just a piece on the board; he’s the chess master controlling the game.

Sovereigns fall, yet from the ashes, hope gleams,
Heirs to Thrones, led by the last wazir’s dreams. 
Amidst despair, his wisdom lights the way, 
Heroes’ blood, in silent valor, they pay. 
Against the dusk, his legacy unfurled, 
Legacy of valor in a fleeting world. 
A beacon bright, in darkest times, he stands, 
Majestic force, fate resting in his hands.

The post The Last Wazir appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

This story is written with a different flair than my usual. It was my first attempt to jot down a thriller novel with interconnected stories centered around my hometown Katwa.

The tales of legendary figures have long captivated me. So, using inspiration from the Puranas and the histories, I set out to compose my own fairy tales.

I wanted to create magical worlds and characters that would captivate readers of all ages with their timeless themes and lessons. The neighborhood of Katwa was originally founded as Indrani Pargana, and it was said to have been built by Devi Indrani herself. Over time, the name evolved from Kantak Nagari to its final form, Katwa. I never like prefaces myself. So, let’s keep it short.

Tilotamma is the first story written in the Novel.

If you like it, You may jump out and check it out on Amazon for the rest of the stories.To add, I’ve never written anything for Wattpad before. I’ve planned to release the stories one by one slowly. That is the reason behind the shift in the language’s style. Check it out on Wattpad. Tale

Once upon a time, according to the Padma Purana, there was a woman named Kubja.

After the maddening fever claimed her husband, it left Kubja with blisters that distorted her appearance, casting her into the role of an outcast, her existence tethered to the outskirts, where village chatter seldom reached.

She lived at the very end of the village in a tiny hut made of leaves, a fragile shelter that was both her home and her hiding place from the world. This humble abode, barely standing against the winds and rains, was Kubja’s sanctuary, far removed from the heart of the village where laughter and warmth were shared among its inhabitants.

The villagers often mocked her. Their words, sharp and unyielding, were like stones thrown at her dignity. “There goes the cursed widow,” they would whisper, loud enough for her to hear, as she passed by with her head lowered, not daring to meet their eyes.

Some were fearful that she would steal their luck away, crossing paths with her only to quickly avert their gaze, as if a mere glance could transfer her misfortune to them. This superstition wrapped Kubja in a cloak of solitude, making her an unwelcome shadow in her own village.

Today, a rare spark of joy lit up Kubja’s eyes, for the calendar had turned its pages to the day of Makar Sankranti, a festival held in the heart of mid-January, celebrated across the vast expanse of India. This festival was special because it marked the end of winter and the start of longer, sunnier days. But the soul of Makar Sankranti lay in something far smaller yet immensely significant—the sesame seeds.

These tiny seeds, according to ancient beliefs, were not mere plants but divine gifts, believed to have originated from none other than Lord Vishnu himself. Considered to be embodiments of purity and fortune, these seeds carried within them a piece of the divine. It was said that to hold a sesame seed was to hold a fragment of Lord Vishnu’s essence. Thus, on this auspicious day, sesame seeds became central to every ritual, every offering made in hopes of securing blessings.

Kubja’s lineage was rooted in the ancient wisdom of Ayurveda, with her grandfather revered as a sage of this venerable science. Her father, bridging the ancestral wisdom with the modern world, carved a niche for himself as a prosperous businessman, his fortunes rising from the golden seas of sesame oil. The extraction and sale of this oil, revered not just for its culinary uses but also for its sacred and medicinal properties, marked a day of great significance for their family.

It was a tradition, deeply entwined with the rhythms of their lives, that on Makar Sankranti, their home opened its doors wide, becoming a hub of communal harmony. The chatter and laughter of the entire village, converging in their courtyard to partake in the feast, still echoed in her memories.

Her father’s prosperity had once painted their lives with the hues of abundance and joy. However, fate took a tragic turn on a day that had started like any other, with her family embarking on a pilgrimage to Puri, a journey meant to offer prayers and seek blessings.

They never returned, swallowed by the fierce storms for which Odisha is notoriously unforgiving. It was whispered that the tempest had claimed them, a family vanished as if they had never been, leaving behind only whispers of what might have happened. Kubja, merely eight years old at the time, was left in the care of her grandmother, the only anchor in her suddenly storm-tossed world.

Years had passed, but there were moments, like tonight, under the starlit canopy of the sky, when Kubja would sigh and look up, her eyes searching, perhaps, for more than just the twinkling lights above. Maybe, in the quiet communion with the night, she sought a connection with her grandmother, a guiding star in the vast, dark expanse, hoping to find in those silent watchers a trace of the love and security that had been so abruptly torn from her life.

Kubja hailed from a family of affluence and high caste, deeply entrenched in both business and Brahmin traditions, whereas her love belonged to a Dom. Doms are caretakers of the cremation grounds and the main keepers of the fire that lights the pyres, a lineage viewed with the utmost social disdain. Their union faced stern disapproval from the community. Despite the stark lines of caste that divided them, they shared a love as pure. Their union, a testament to love’s power, was tragically short-lived; her husband succumbed to the merciless fever.

In the wake of his passing, his family, fueled by grief and bound by prejudice, turned against her. But beneath the surface of their scorn lay a more insidious motive—a tactic to seize her father’s and family’s wealth, an inheritance now vulnerable and ripe for plunder. His sister, leading the charge with cold fury, forcefully expelled Kubja from the home they once shared, casting her to the fringes of the village. Stricken by the same illness that claimed her husband, Kubja was left frail and voiceless, her body wracked with the relentless ache of the fever’s aftermath.

Resting on the banks of the Ganga, lost in memories of days gone by, Kubja cut a lone figure against the backdrop of dust and time.

A tear wound its way down her cheek, a mute witness to the depth of her anguish and the overwhelming sense of isolation that had become her constant companion, bereft as she was of love, a home, and the rich heritage of her ancestors. The outskirts of Kantak Nagari stretched out to meet the Ganga’s embrace, terminating at the Sankhadhani Ghat, a place more frequented by foxes and stray dogs wandering the cremation grounds than by the living. Near this solitary stretch lay a small Shiva linga, which held a quiet mystery of its own.

Every morning, without fail, two datura flowers would be found freshly placed before it, though Kubja, despite her countless attempts, could never catch a glimpse of the benevolent visitor. Driven by curiosity and a yearning for connection, she resolved to vigil by the linga from dawn, hoping to finally unveil the mystery. Yet, fate played its tricks, and in the brief moments, her attention faltered, the datura flowers would once again appear as if by magic.

“Who are you?” she whispered into the silence, her voice barely more than a sigh, echoing her loneliness and the mystery of the unseen visitor that teased the edges of her world.

 Desolation

At night, where whispers start,
Kubja roams, seeking a heart.
Sleep now quick, or you’ll find,
Kubja’s coming, just behind.

Children, too, caught in the web of their parents’ prejudices, would stare at Kubja with wide, terrified eyes. They saw not the woman with a big heart but a figure from their nightmares, made real and walking among them. They would hide behind their mothers’ skirts or run away screaming if she came too close, convinced by tales spun in fear and ignorance that she was a ghost or a witch lurking at the edge of their world.

However, the fragile peace of this newfound friendship was soon shattered. Children, often incited by the village’s whispered tales of Kubja’s supposed witchcraft, frequently trespassed near her humble abode to throw stones at the solitary figure and her companion. The puppy, grown now into a loyal dog, stood by Kubja’s side through these trying times, a steadfast guardian against the malice that sought her out.

One unfortunate day, as a group of children approached, emboldened by their numbers and the stories they had been fed, the situation escalated. In the midst of the chaos, as stones flew and taunts filled the air, the dog, in a desperate bid to protect Kubja from the onslaught, leaped towards the main aggressor, the mean girl of Devadatta Tarkaratna, Devadatta. The resulting scuffle left the girl with a minor wound, an accident born out of panic and the instinct to defend.

This incident fanned the already smoldering suspicions of the villagers into a raging inferno of hatred. Misinterpreting the dog’s protective instincts as aggression, they labeled it a devil dog, a lethal weapon wielded by a witch intent on harming them.

The tales grew wilder, and the fear deeper, until it culminated in a horrifying act of cruelty. The villagers, consumed by their misguided fury, seized the dog, binding it mercilessly with ropes. Kubja could only watch in horror as they proceeded to beat it with rocks, demanding that she witness the punishment of her only friend for crimes neither had committed.

Overwhelmed by the brutality of the act, the injustice of it all striking a blow as harsh as the stones thrown at her loyal companion, Kubja fainted, the world around her fading to black as the echoes of her dog’s suffering merged with the darkness encroaching upon her consciousness.

 Rage

Years ago …

During Makar Sankranti, the Annual Harvest Festival Kantak Nagari, its name derived from “Kantak,” meaning “thorn,” was far from an idyllic hamlet nestled by the confluence of the Ajay and Ganga rivers. This region, plagued by thorns both literal and metaphorical, was the haunt of a notorious light cavalry mercenary group. Their infamy was born of the large-scale plundering that bled the countryside of Bengal dry, targeting the ships and boats that traversed the Ganga and menacing anyone daring enough to step into the forest that bordered the village.

Their reign of terror was marked by cries that cut through the silence of the night, “Give us money!” they would demand, a refrain that spelled doom for those who couldn’t comply. Those unable to fill their coffers were met with cruelty; nostrils filled with water, bodies drowned in tanks, lives claimed by suffocation. The merciless mercenaries left behind a trail of suffering and despair, embodying the very thorns that the village’s name alluded to.

“Look at her,” one woman hissed, her words laced with venom, “strutting about as if the gods themselves have blessed her. But we know the truth, don’t we? She’s a witch, that one.”

“Yes, a witch!” another chimed in, her eyes narrowing in malice. “She ate her whole family and now she wants to eat our family.”

“But of course,” sneered the first woman, “She is a harbinger of misfortune. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, nor a witch her wicked ways.”
The village square, alive with the joyous energy of the harvest festival, became the backdrop for a tense confrontation. Kubja, standing at the edge of the festivities, tried to maintain a distance from the Devadatta, who approached with a mix of authority and unwarranted intimacy.
Devadatta: “Kubja, such beauty shouldn’t be hidden away. You know, my doors are always open for you.”

Kubja, coolly: “My path is with someone who respects me, not with someone who sees me as a prize to be won.”

Devadatta’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of irritation. Before he could reply, Kubja’s fiancé stepped forward, his presence like a shield.
Kubja’s Fiancé: “She’s made her feelings clear. It’s time you respect that.”

Devadatta, sneering: “And what can you offer her? A life of struggle? She deserves better. She deserves power, security—something only I can provide.”
Kubja’s Fiancé, voice rising with anger: “She deserves love and respect, something you know nothing about.”

The tension escalated quickly, with Devadatta stepping closer, his tone menacing.

Devadatta: “You think you can challenge me? I am the law here. She will be mine, one way or another.”

Unable to hold back, Kubja’s fiancé lunged at Devadatta, fueled by a mix of protectiveness and rage. The two men grappled, their struggle a physical manifestation of the ongoing battle between power and integrity.

Villagers quickly intervened, pulling them apart before the fight could cause serious harm. Kubja’s fiancé, his clothing torn and face flushed with exertion, stood firm, his stance protective as he glanced back at Kubja, whose eyes shone with a mix of fear and admiration.

Kubja’s Fiancé, firmly: “Let this be the last time you threaten us. We want nothing from you.”

Devadatta, now composed, smoothed his clothing, his gaze cold and calculating.

Devadatta, with a forced smile: “This isn’t over. Remember, Kubja, you belong to this village, and I am its guardian.”

As the couple walked away, Devadatta’s threatening words lingered in the air, a dark omen of the challenges they would face together. Yet, in that moment of defiance, Kubja and her fiancé’s bond was solidified, a testament to their shared strength and determination to resist the oppressive forces seeking to dictate their fate.

Today …

Amid this chaos and cruelty was Kubja, once the epitome of beauty in the entire neighborhood, her grace and allure unmatched. However, the merciless hand of fate, through the blisters that marred her skin and the grief that clouded her spirit, had stolen from her more than just her beauty. It had rendered her an outcast, subject to the spite and scorn of those who once might have envied her.

Today’s horrific events, the culmination of years of whispered tales and unfounded fears, bore the insidious mark of Devadatta’s handiwork.
It was he who had planted the seeds of these dark stories in the minds of the village children, weaving a narrative so compelling that it ensnared even his own daughter, turning her into a tormentor for Kubja. From the shadows, he watched the unfolding tragedy with a smirk, a twisted expression of satisfaction on his face. His eyes, cold and calculating, remained locked on Kubja’s fallen figure, reveling in the chaos he had orchestrated. In this moment of her ultimate despair, it became evident that Devadatta’s malevolence knew no bounds. He derived a perverse joy from witnessing Kubja’s torment, a stark reminder of the power he wielded over the village and its inhabitants. His actions, driven by a vendetta against Kubja and her family, had set in motion a cycle of cruelty that now reached its zenith.

 Rise

Kubja’s laughter, raw and unrestrained, cut through the din of the village like a sharp blade. As her cackles rose higher, the skies responded in kind; the once calm expanse was now churning with dark clouds. Thunders boomed, echoing her turmoil, as lightning clawed across the sky, an electric dance of rage and power.

A bolt struck a nearby coconut tree, sending splinters of wood flying like shrapnel. The wind began to howl, picking up speed and strength, as if the heavens themselves were resonating with Kubja’s grief-turned-fury.

The villagers, their faces blanched with terror, were rooted to the spot. Their eyes were wide, their mouths agape, as they witnessed the birth of a kalbaishakhi storm—a tempest unique to the region, notorious for appearing without warning, fierce and unrelenting. Suddenly thousands of damarus started ringing across the horizon.

Kubja stood in the heart of the chaos, her arms spread wide, her head thrown back as the rain began to pour, washing the blood and tears into the earth. It was as if nature itself had risen in solidarity with her laughter, her pain, her defiance.

The villagers fled, stumbling over one another in their haste to escape the wrath they believed they had awakened. They left behind the fallen, the coconut tree still smoking, the echoes of a woman’s laughter blending with the fury of the storm.

This was no ordinary kalbaishakhi; it felt otherworldly, as if the very spirit of Unmatta Bhairava had descended upon the land, his wrath manifesting through the elements. Lightning flashed like the fiery eyes of the deity, and the thunder seemed to be His voice, loud and condemning, as if chastising the injustice served to His devotee.

In the midst of the storm stood Kubja, the outcast, now a force as formidable as the tempest around her. She had transcended her suffering, becoming one with the storm, her spirit as unbreakable as the deity she and her family had silently worshipped all these years.
The storm did not discriminate; it did not judge her scars, her past, her caste. It simply raged!

Keepers

Kubja’s family hailed from the verdant valleys of Nepal, steeped in the ancient traditions of a land where every mountain, river, and tree is infused with divinity. For generations, they were the caretakers of an enigmatic shrine dedicated to Unmatta Bhairava, a deity revered by few, known to even fewer.

Legend has it that Unmatta Bhairava was not a deity who yearned for the clamor of crowded temples or the fragrance of ceaseless offerings.
The deity’s fierce form stood sentinel in the sanctum of their modest home, an embodiment of divine wrath and ecstatic frenzy. With His multiple arms wielding potent symbols – the damaru drum that resonates with the rhythm of creation, the trishula spear piercing through ignorance, and the flame that illuminates wisdom – Unmatta Bhairava was a fearsome figure of awe.

Once a year, as the monsoon clouds retreated, and the stars aligned in an arcane pattern known only to the elders, the family celebrated a secret festival. The village remained unaware of the arcane rites performed within the closed doors of the shrine, where only the bloodline of Kubja could enter.

It was during these hallowed moments that the air would hum with the recitation of sacred verses, the glow of oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the scent of incense would mingle with the crisp mountain air. Offerings of food, flowers, and fire were made, each a silent testament to a bond that spanned eons.

To the outside world, Kubja’s family seemed ordinary, but the flicker of knowing in their eyes spoke of deeper truths. In reverence to Unmatta Bhairava, they remained the silent keepers of a spiritual legacy, their devotion unwavering, their faith a silent river that flowed unseen. And so, the deity unknown to all but them continued to be worshipped in whispers and veiled in the sacred mists of Nepal.
What happened in Puri was not an accident.

Kubja’s family held a belief that was different from what most people thought. They didn’t see Lord Jagannath as a gentle form of Lord Vishnu, but as Kal Bhairav, a fierce and protective deity. In their eyes, Jagannath was a powerful guardian, someone who was originally much more intense and strong than the kinder version worshipped by others today.

विमला सा महादेवी जगन्नाथा तु भैरव ।
सृष्टिभूत महाशक्ति मणिपुर निवासिनी विमला सा पराशक्ति उड्डियान
शुद्धेश्वरी अंजुना देहि में देवी बहिरयोगे ममम्बिके माधवः भैरव साक्षात्
प्राणतोस्मि जगत्पते ।।

vimala sa mahadevi jagannatha tu bhairava.
srishtibhuta mahashakti manipura nivasini vimala sa
parashakti uddiyana pureshvari anjuna dehi me devi
bahiryoge mamambike madhavah bhairava sakshat
pranatosmi jagatpate.

In the ancient practice of Tantra, Jagannath represented Bhairava, and the goddess Bimala was his partner, Bhairavi. For them, Jagannath was the ultimate expression of this intense and protective force, Kal Bhairav, and over time, people had softened his image.

Tragedy struck when Kubja’s family went to visit the temple in Puri. They were killed under mysterious circumstances, and with their death, the sacred statue of Unmatta Bhairav that they guarded was stolen. This was no ordinary statue.

Every eight years their family has to visit Kal Bhairav i.e. Jagannath Temple with the idol of Unmatta Bhairava.

 Altar

Unmatta Bhairava, known among the Bhairavas as the “Mad One”. He is a a deity shrouded in mystique and feared for his unpredictable fury and also revered as Chhetrapalaka, the guardian of the sacred Lord Pashupatinath. The Pashupatinath Temple, nestled in the heart of the Kathmandu Valley housed one of the few temples dedicated to Unmatta Bhairava.

Unmatta Bhairavais also known as Bhoot Damar is believed to be in control of all spirits, including the celestial dancers known as apsaras and the mystical entities called Yakshis. The sacred verses dedicated to him are chronicled in the Bhoot Damar Tantra. It is said to have the power to reach across the veil that separates the living from the dead. This esoteric knowledge is not found in mainstream religious texts and is often shrouded in secrecy.

Yakshis are fascinating beings from ancient stories. They’re not like the usual gods or demons you might hear about; they’re something else entirely—nature spirits. Both men and women, Yakshas and Yakshinis, are tied to the natural world, and often show up in all sorts of stories and myths, across different traditions like Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and even Islam.

As the night draped itself in its most opaque cloak, the new moon vanishing from sight, Kubja stood by the Shiva Linga, her resolve as unshakable as the ancient stone itself. In the times of the Vedas, sacred geometry in the form of yantras was the conduit for the divine, long before idols took their place in temples. These mystical diagrams were keys to unfathomable spiritual energies, and among them, the yantra of Unmatta Bhairava was said to be so potent, so secretive, that not even the oldest scriptures dared to describe it.

Among the tumult, one stone, propelled by an unseen hand, found its mark with a cruel precision. It struck her cheek with the force of pent-up fury, carving a deep, grievous wound from which blood began to flow with relentless intensity. The stark red against her skin stood out, a vivid reminder of the brutality of the moment. But tonight, that same blood served a higher purpose. As the heavens opened and rain descended like a deluge, washing the world in its relentless downpour, Kubja began the ritual. With her blood, she traced the intricate geometry of the yantra upon the ground, each line a whisper of ancient power, each shape a bastion of forbidden knowledge.

Surrounding this sacred emblem were her offerings—a vivid collection that painted a picture of life and death in stark reds and somber blacks. Blood-red flowers, plucked for their color of vitality and sacrifice; the still form of her faithful dog, its spirit now a guardian in another realm; and ashes from the cremation ground, a reminder of the transience of life.

Kubja had also prepared incense, believed to be cherished by Unmatta Bhairava. She ignited them, and the scent rose high, an aromatic plea to the heavens. The air grew thick with the fragrance, mingling with the ozone scent of the storm, creating a tapestry of olfactory intensity.
The only light in this dark tableau came from the sacred fire that Kubja had kindled. The sacred fire before Kubja stood as a challenge to the storm, its flames defiantly reaching skyward, undeterred by the torrential downpour. Each raindrop that hit the flames hissed in defeat, evaporating instantly, as the fire cast a glow that fought back the encroaching shadows. It crackled and spat, its flames reaching skyward as if attempting to bridge the world of mortals with that of the gods. The shadows it cast were long and dramatic, flickering across the road turned river by the rain, a path that now seemed to lead to otherworldly domains.

In this charged atmosphere, where the elements themselves seemed to hold their breath, Kubja chanted the mantras passed down through her lineage, her voice steady and clear. It was a sound that seemed to resonate with the frequency of the earth itself, a sonorous bell cutting through the tempest’s roar.

This was a moment of convergence, of past and present, of pain and hope. Kubja was both the culmination of her family’s legacy and the solitary beacon for an future uncertain. In the heart of the storm, before the ancient Shiva Linga, she invoked Unmatta Bhairava, not just as a deity, but as a symbol of her unyielding spirit, her refusal to be broken by the cruelty of fate or man.

The Yakshis, ethereal and fierce, circled Kubja, their forms a blur of motion. They whispered secrets in a language forgotten by time, their words a symphony of chaos and harmony.

Chanting the Stotra, Kubja entered a trance. The world around her faded, leaving her in a space where time and reality warped under the weight of her intent. As she called out to Unmatta Bhairava, the air around the temple stirred, a low rumble echoing through the night as if the very earth was responding to her call.

A whirlwind of energy engulfed Kubja. A wild and untamed power that threatened to consume her. But Kubja stood firm, her heart open, offering her fears, her desires, and her ego as a sacrifice to the deity. She pleaded for his blessing, not for power or revenge, but for the strength to complete her transformation.

As the ritual reached its zenith, a silence enveloped the Shiva Linga, a calm after the storm. Kubja, her body and spirit pushed to the limits, collapsed before the Shiva Linga, her mind teetering on the brink of consciousness. It was then that she felt it—a touch, light as a feather, yet imbued with an indescribable power, on her forehead.

A mark appeared, the symbol of a small two-headed drum, Damaru.

 Faces

Evening:

With the storm brewing, Devadatta raced against the looming threat of rain that threatened to muddy everything in its path. He saw Tilotamma playing with a dog on the street as he hurried by. Devadatta had noticed Tilotamma outside their home yesterday. Nowadays her daughter returns from paathsala with Tilotamma. Tilotamma, who had only been among them for a week, had already become a constant subject of her daughter’s lively discussions.

“Uncle, what’s going on? Why are you in such a hurry?” Tilotamma called out.

“I need to get somewhere quickly. You should head home; it looks like a storm is coming,” Devadatta yelled back, not slowing down. “By the way, have you seen Kabirajji around?”

Tilotamma shook her head. “No, Uncle, I haven’t.”

As Devadatta ran, something about the dog struck a chord in his memory. He paused for a moment, his thoughts racing. “Wait, isn’t that Kubja’s dog?” he wondered aloud, his heart skipping a beat.

But then he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. “That can’t be right; Kubja’s dog is long dead. All the street dogs look the same,” he told himself, pushing forward.

There was something unmistakably recognizable about Tilotamma to Devadatta, as though she had stepped out of a distant memory from his early years. “Am I going crazy?” he questioned internally. It was understandable, considering the unsettling reality he had just faced in his own home.

Just then, a loud clap of thunder roared, and the skies opened up, drenching everything in heavy rain as he continued his rush to Kabirajji’s house.

Afternoon:

Devadatta was in high spirits. His day’s work had been more lucrative than usual. He and his crew had stumbled upon a treasure trove—a ship heavy with rice, spices, and glittering with the gold of a newlywed couple and their family’s jewels. Their attack was swift, leaving no room for screams or protests.

His joy, however, turned to dread as he returned home to find his wife unconscious near the cowshed. Rushing to her side, his concern deepened when he ventured into the cowshed. There, an eerie sight greeted him—a tree, out of place and time, stood where he usually fed the cows. Its roots sprawled across the ground, moving with a sinister, almost sentient, intention. It was as if the tree breathed, its roots pulsating, gripping the earth and the air with a life of their own.

Devadatta stood frozen, caught in the gaze of this unnatural entity. The tree, with its limitless roots, seemed to be at the center of a nightmare that had sprung to life, threatening to engulf everything in its path. The horror of the situation was raw, palpable, and entirely beyond comprehension, ensnaring Devadatta in a web of fear and disbelief.

The air felt thick and scary, with the tree’s roots moving in a way that made creepy shadows on the walls. Devadatta couldn’t move, staring at the weird tree. It was like something from a bad dream, with roots everywhere, looking like they could grab anything close. Devadatta was scared, not understanding how this could happen. Quickly, he picked up his unconscious wife and carried her back home. Then, he ran as fast as he could to get help.

Morning:

Kamini’s life in the paathsala took an unexpected turn with Tilotamma’s arrival. Tilotamma, with her ethereal beauty, became the center of everyone’s attention, igniting Kamini’s insecurities but also sparking an idea. If she could befriend Tilotamma, perhaps some of her secrets could help Kamini overcome her own perceived flaws. Kamini’s strategy was simple yet hopeful: to make Tilotamma her confidante, hoping that Tilotamma’s beauty secrets would be the solution she had been looking for.

Tilotamma, aware of her effect on people, remained humble and approachable, which made Kamini’s mission easier than expected. They quickly struck up a friendship, bonding over shared lessons and their curiosity about the world beyond the paathsala. Kamini admired Tilotamma not just for her looks but also for her wisdom and the way she carried herself with grace and dignity.

One morning, during the break between the classes in paathsala, under the shade of a sprawling banyan tree, Kamini mustered the courage to broach the subject of beauty with Tilotamma. Their conversation unfolded casually yet intimately, marking the beginning of a deep and meaningful friendship.

Kamini: (Excitedly) “Tilotamma, you always look so radiant! Is there a secret to your beauty?”

Tilotamma: (Smiling warmly) “Oh, Kamini! Beauty is more about how you feel inside. But yes, I do follow a simple ritual taught by my grandmother.”

Kamini: “Really? I’ve been trying so many things. What is it? I must know!”Tilotamma: “It’s quite basic, actually. Just sesame seeds mixed in bathwater. Immersing in it for a couple of hours leaves the skin unbelievably smooth.”

Kamini: “Sesame seeds? Really? But how do you even use them here without a bathtub?”

Tilotamma: “Oh, these aren’t your average sesame seeds. They’re sort of like my family’s secret superfood for the skin. Just soak them in water, and you’ve got yourself a spa.”

She reached into the small pouch she carried and drew out a handful of sesame seeds, their appearance ordinary yet somehow filled with promise. Tilotamma extended her hand towards Kamini, offering the seeds.

Kamini: (Holding the seeds, now curious) “Superfood for the skin? Sounds fancy. But seriously, how do you manage without a bathtub?”
Tilotamma: “Just gotta be creative. I use the cowshed. Clean out a spot, fill a basin with water, and mix in the seeds. It’s all about improvising.”

Kamini: “In the cowshed? That’s… actually pretty cool. Think I could try it out?”

Tilotamma: “Sure, but it’s something you gotta do on your own. It’s kinda personal, you know? I am not going to take bath with you. Kamini, remember, you are beautiful just the way you are…”

At Tilotamma’s words, Kamini blushed, the implication hitting her with a mix of embarrassment and realization. This journey was hers to take alone.

At Noon, In the Cowshed:

Excited by Tilotamma’s secret, Kamini couldn’t wait to share it with her mother, who found the whole idea charmingly naive yet endearing. She chuckled at the image of her daughter attempting such an unconventional beauty treatment in their cowshed, of all places. It was an innocent adventure, a sweet testament to Kamini’s quest for beauty.

Alone, Kamini approached the cowshed, a sense of adventure replacing her initial skepticism. The rustic smell of hay and earth filled her senses, grounding her in the moment. She prepared her makeshift bath, scattering the sesame seeds into the water, their gentle descent like a promise of the transformation to come.

As she tentatively soaked her hands, then her arms, feeling the silky water against her skin, Kamini couldn’t help but smile. There was something liberating about this simple act—alone, yet connected to generations of wisdom. It wasn’t just about the pursuit of beauty but about embracing herself fully, flaws and all.

Time, however, seemed to stretch on indefinitely. Kamini, fully absorbed in her new beauty ritual, remained sequestered in the cowshed far longer than her mother had anticipated. Concern began to nibble at her mother’s calm as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows around their home.

“Kamini, are you alright?” her mother called out, her voice laced with a growing unease. Each time, the response was distracted, “Just a minute, Ma!” Yet, minutes turned to hours, and still, there was no sign of Kamini stepping out from her makeshift spa.

Unable to quell her worry any longer, her mother took decisive action, pushing open the door to the cowshed with a force born of fear. The sight that greeted her was one she could never have prepared for. There, amidst the dim light filtering through the slats, was Kamini, looking nothing short of distraught.

The sesame seeds, far from being the simple beauty supplement they were believed to be, had begun an eerie transformation. Tiny roots had emerged from them, weaving their way into Kamini’s skin, intertwining with her essence in a grotesque mimicry of nature’s embrace.

Kamini was cornered by her own reflection, a mirror propped against the wall as she desperately tried to remove the invading seeds with nothing but a piece of hay, her actions fueled by a frantic desire to reclaim her once unmarred skin. The horror of the situation was palpable, with Kamini’s mother frozen at the threshold, heartache and shock intermingling at the sight of her daughter’s anguish.

In the dim light of the cowshed, an eerie transformation unfolded, capturing Kamini’s mother in a vortex of disbelief. he spores, once seemingly inert, began to writz and swell grotesquely, transforming before her eyes. Her mother’s voice, a soft whisper of “Kamini,” was the last sound before silence took over; she fainted, overwhelmed by the sight.

 Haunting

Upon their return, Devadatta and Kabirajji were greeted by an alarming sight: Devadatta’s cowshed was ablaze, with orange flames leaping into the sky. Fortunately, the cows were elsewhere, unharmed by the fire.

But the relief was overshadowed by a more pressing concern: Devadatta’s wife was mysteriously absent from the scene. Also, no one has seen her daughter Kamini either! Devadatta once vibrant with the dynamics of his supremacy, now trembled under the weight of fear and uncertainty.

A cold whisper hissed to Devadatta’s ears, chilling and clear, “You think you can challenge me?” He spun around, but there was nobody there. But where is he? Suddenly, he realized he was standing alone in the middle of a festival ground, a place that should have been bustling with people, yet it was completely empty. There are no people anywhere.

Across the deserted expanse, Devadatta caught sight of Tilotamma, her attention captured by a few dogs. She was the only other soul visible. Her back was turned opposite. She has not noticed Devadatta yet. “Perhaps I’m going insane,” he speculated internally. He stepped towards Tilotamma.

Then, in a moment that sent shivers down his spine, Tilotamma’s head twisted completely backward around in a way that heads shouldn’t twist, revealing eyes that were entirely white, without any hint of black in them—like ghostly orbs staring right through him.
Devadatta’s heart skipped a beat in sheer terror.

“Remember me?” The voice echoed again, a cold whisper that seemed to float directly into his ears, as if the speaker was standing just behind him, breath warm against his skin, a haunting intimacy that left him uneasy, looking over his shoulder into the empty air.

Before Devadatta’s disbelieving eyes, Tilotamma’s form began to twist, her features blurring in a nightmarish dance. She elongated, her bones cracking, reshaping into Kubja’s familiar silhouette, the girl all the village boys had adored, including Devadatta. But this was different; there were no signs of the white blisters that Kubja had. It was her, yet it was as if he was seeing her from a past memory.

Suddenly, Devadatta’s memory sharpened – Tilotamma was not a stranger. Tilotamma looks like Kubja from their days in the paathsala.

As she tilted her head, a chilling smile spread across her face, revealing teeth that seemed to belong to some nightmarish creature rather than a human. Dark, viscous liquid oozed between the sharp, uneven teeth, dripping onto the ground. In an instant, the figure blurred into motion, charging at Devadatta with a speed that seemed both unnatural and terrifying.

Devadatta’s skin was slick with sweat, his heart pounding against his ribs, as fear rooted him to the spot. The once-familiar figure was now a specter of horror, her approach heralding a terror Devadatta had never known.

The post Tilotamma appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

1

Arpan lived in a small, forgotten town where the days stretched long and the nights even longer. He was a simple man with a complicated past, a past he kept hidden behind a crooked smile and tired eyes. Nobody in the town knew much about Arpan, and Arpan preferred it that way.

He lived alone in a rundown house at the edge of town, a house that seemed to sag under the weight of years of neglect. Moss crept up the sides, and the windows were cracked and dirty. But Arpan didn’t seem to mind. He spent most of his days sitting on the porch, staring out at nothing in particular, lost in his own thoughts.

Arpan’s life hadn’t been easy. He’d seen things and done things he wasn’t proud of, things that haunted him in the quiet hours of the night. But he never talked about it, never let anyone in. He was a closed book, and the townsfolk had long ago stopped trying to read him.

As the years went by, Arpan grew lonelier and more withdrawn. He lost touch with the world outside his door, lost touch with himself. He was adrift in a sea of memories, drowning in regrets.

And then, one cold winter’s night, Arpan didn’t come out of his house. The townsfolk whispered among themselves, wondering where he was, and what had happened to him. But nobody dared to go and check on him. Arpan was a mystery, and mysteries were best left unsolved.

Days passed, and still, Arpan didn’t emerge. Finally, one brave soul ventured up to the old house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. The door creaked open, revealing a darkness so thick it seemed to swallow the light.

The brave soul stepped inside, calling out for Arpan. But there was no response, only silence. They made their way through the house, searching every room, every corner. And then, they found him.

Arpan was lying on the floor of his bedroom, his eyes closed as if he were asleep. But he wasn’t asleep. He was gone, his spirit slipping quietly away in the dead of night, leaving behind nothing but memories and a town that would soon forget him.

And so, Arpan’s story came to an end, a quiet, unremarkable end befitting a quiet, unremarkable man. He was buried in the town cemetery, a forgotten soul in a forgotten town. 

And as the years passed, his name faded from memory, lost to the winds of time. But somewhere, deep down, Arpan’s story lived on, a whisper in the dark, a shadow in the night.

2

Arvind stood on the edge of his balcony, the cold metal railing pressing against his trembling hands. His fingers gripped tightly around the hilt of the knife, its blade glinting in the moonlight. He stared out into the darkness, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like a leaden sky.

His children were gone, taken from him by a cruel twist of fate. Leukemia had stolen their laughter, and their smiles, leaving behind only memories stained with tears. His wife, unable to bear the pain any longer, died a few weeks later, leaving Arvind alone with his sorrow.

But tonight, Arvind had reached his breaking point. The pain was too much to bear, the emptiness too vast to fill. He felt as though he were drowning in a sea of grief, each wave crashing over him with relentless fury.

As he stood there on the edge, the knife trembling in his hand, a voice echoed in the depths of his mind. It was a whisper, soft and insistent, urging him to end it all, to embrace the darkness and escape the pain once and for all.

But just as Arvind’s resolve began to waver, a faint glimmer of light appeared on the horizon. It was a tiny spark, barely visible against the vast expanse of the night sky, but it was enough to catch his attention.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Arvind lowered the knife from his throat and took a step back from the edge. He blinked away the tears that blurred his vision, the weight of his sorrow still heavy upon his shoulders.

But as he gazed out into the night, he realized that there was still hope, still a flicker of light in the darkness. And though the road ahead would be long and difficult, Arvind knew that he wasn’t alone. Somewhere out there, amidst the shadows and the stars, there was a glimmer of hope waiting to be found. 

But just as he turned away from the edge, a sudden sound shattered the silence. It was a low, guttural growl, coming from somewhere in the darkness below.

3

Arpan slowed his pace as he approached the commotion outside Arvind’s apartment building. He glanced around, trying to figure out what was going on.

“What’s happening here?” he asked, stepping closer to a group of people huddled together near the entrance.

An older man, recognizable as the local shopowner, turned to Arpan with a troubled expression. “It’s bad news, buddy,” he said, shaking his head. “Arvind, he… he jumped from the seventh floor last night. It’s a suicide.”

Arpan’s heart sank at the revelation. He knew Arvind, and had seen him around the neighborhood before. The idea of someone he knew taking their own life was hard to grasp.

“Why would he do something like that?” Arpan asked, feeling a mix of shock and sadness.

The shopowner sighed heavily, his voice tinged with regret. “Well, word is Arvind was going through some tough times,” he explained. “Lost his kids to leukemia, and his wife left him. I guess it all got too much for him.”

Arpan shook his head in disbelief. It was hard to imagine the kind of pain Arvind must have been feeling to take such drastic action.

“But still, to end it all like that…” Arpan trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy,” the shopowner agreed, his tone somber. “Just goes to show, you never know what someone else is going through. We gotta look out for each other, you know?”

As they spoke, the heat of the day seemed to intensify, sweat beads forming on the brows of those gathered in the bustling marketplace. Among the crowd, an aunty, fanning herself with the pallu of her saree, listened intently. Her expression was one of discontent, not just from the stifling heat but from the throng of people that had gathered, adding to the commotion and stifling the air even further.

Hearing Arpan and the shop owner’s conversation, she couldn’t help but interject. Wiping the sweat from her brow with a swift motion of her saree, she announced, “No leukemia. I heard he killed his own son and wife when he went to his mother’s place last year.” Her voice carried a mix of sorrow and a strange pride in revealing the secret.

The shop owner and Arpan turned towards her, taken aback by her sudden participation in their discussion. The aunty, undeterred by their surprise, continued, “Their family has covered it up, but the maid of his overheard a conversation between Arvind… but strangely, there was no one in the room when Arvind was talking. Then their maid told our maid.”

“These aunties are called Pepsi aunties for a reason,” Arpan thought, acknowledging her reputation for being overly interested in other people’s affairs. She was proud of her nosy knowledge, a local sleuth in her own right.

The shop owner, looking from Arpan to the aunty, finally said, “Seems like there’s always more to the story. We really do need to keep an eye out for each other.”

Arpan nodded, his mind racing with thoughts. He couldn’t shake the feeling of sadness that lingered in the air, but he knew the shopowner was right. Maybe if people were more aware, and more caring, tragedies like this could be avoided in the future.

Suddenly He felt engulfed in a cold, unsettling fog.

4

Akruti ran as fast as her little legs could carry her, tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she needed to escape the anger and pain that filled her home.

But then, disaster struck. She slipped on the wet sidewalk, crashing to the ground with a cry of pain. Her knee throbbed, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

“Why had Daddy screamed at me?” she wondered aloud, her voice trembling with confusion and hurt. “I didn’t do anything wrong…”

As she lay there, feeling lost and alone, a voice broke through the haze of her thoughts.

“Little girl, are you alright?”

Akruti looked up to see a man standing over her, his face as pale as the moon. His eyes were dark and deep, like the murky depths of a swamp at night. She gasped at the sight of him, but strangely, she didn’t feel as scared as she thought she would. There was something about him that put her at ease, despite his eerie appearance.

“I slipped,” Akruti explained, her voice small and shaky. “Daddy got mad at me… I don’t know what I did wrong. He started screaming, and then he… he smacked me hard on the face.”

The man listened quietly, his expression unreadable. Then, with a gentleness that surprised her, he reached out and lightly touched her cheek. Akruti winced at the touch, feeling the sting of her father’s blow all over again.

Her eyes widened as she looked up at the man, a flicker of fear creeping into her heart. But to her surprise, he smiled at her, a smile that sent shivers down her spine.

“It’s alright, little one,” he said softly, his voice like velvet. “You’re safe now.”

But as he spoke, Akruti couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something dark and hungry lurking behind his smile. She shivered, suddenly unsure of the stranger who had appeared out of nowhere to offer her comfort in her time of need.

5

The moon cast a soft glow over the quiet street, but it was the faint light that revealed a disturbing detail on his face—a scar on his left cheek, jagged like a bolt of lightning. Akruti noticed this as she glanced up at him. His eyes were too dark, a stark contrast to his usually stoic expression which had now returned.

“Why don’t I take you home? Everything will be alright,” he said gently, breaking the silence. His hand was soft but firm as it clasped hers, helping her to her feet.

Akruti managed a small smile, comforted yet uneasy, and nodded. Together, they walked into the thick fog that enveloped them, swirling around like an ominous fire without heat.

As they walked, the silence hung heavily between them, filled only by the distant sound of a night creature stirring in the darkness. The mist felt alive, moving and reshaping itself as if it were trying to whisper secrets. Akruti shivered, not from the cold but from the creeping dread that something was amiss.

“Sometimes, the fog feels like it’s hiding things,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes, it does. But remember, it also means we’re not alone. We have each other.”

The reassurance in his tone was meant to comfort her, but the shadows in his eyes told a different story—one of sorrow and secrets. Akruti wanted to ask more, to dive into what haunted the depths of those red eyes, but she hesitated, fearful of what she might uncover.

6

The next morning, the fragile peace of the night was shattered by the grim news that echoed through the quiet streets. A little girl had died tragically, two hours after a brutal beating. The early morning news reported it with a detached sadness. The beatings hadn’t killed her; it was the deep, precise cut across her throat that ended her young life.

Her parents had met the same fate, their lives claimed by similar brutal slashes. The police suspected a grim narrative of familial destruction—perhaps the father, overwhelmed by guilt, had lashed out against his family before turning on himself. Yet, the absence of the murder weapon posed a haunting question: where was the knife?

Rumors began to swirl among the locals as they pieced together the events, their fear tangling with the morning fog. The community was left to wonder and whisper about the darkness that lurked in the hearts of those they thought they knew.

Two old ladies sat in a cozy living room, the glow from the television casting shadows on their concerned faces. The news of the tragic deaths played again, causing a stir of emotions.

One of the ladies, her voice heavy with grief for the young girl and her mother but laced with disdain for the father, broke the silence. “Isn’t it strange that they all died with their throats slit?” she mused, her brow furrowed.

Her friend, knitting needles paused in mid-air, looked puzzled. “How is that strange?”

“Well, you see,” the first lady began, her tone dropping to a whisper as if the walls themselves might overhear, “Arvind told me something chilling. Just last year, a man took his own life with a knife. He’d been utterly discouraged—bankrupt, abandoned by his wife, and his children had succumbed to leukemia.”

She paused, ensuring her friend was following along. “Before he died, he left a note. He declared his intention to end the suffering of anyone living a life as bleak as his was. It’s only too bad, he thought, that he wouldn’t have the chance to do so. He was deeply depressed, all confused. Isn’t it fortunate, though, that he didn’t have the chance to carry out his dark wishes?”

“Yes, it is fortunate,” her friend agreed softly, setting her knitting aside. “The poor fellow. What did he look like?”

“Well,” the first lady continued, leaning closer as if to share a secret, “he was described as a man in his early middle age, pale as death—as if no sunlight ever touched him. His eyes were dark as the swampy lake at night…” She hesitated for a dramatic effect, then added, “and he had a scar on his left cheek, jagged like a bolt of lightning.”

Both women shivered, the eerie description settling over the room like a cold fog. The second lady glanced back at the flickering TV screen.

In the kitchen, the scent of spices and rice wafted through the air as Arvind’s wife diligently prepared dinner. She could hear the TV’s sporadic static from the living room, a sound all too familiar in their household. It was an old model, stubborn and unpredictable, much like Arvind’s mother, who had her own quirks.

Arvind’s mother, a feisty octogenarian with a sharp tongue, often blamed the neighbors whenever the TV flickered. “Why you people stealing my electricity!” she would shout indignantly out the window, convinced of their petty thievery.

This peculiar accusation had become one of those endearing if exasperating, perks of her old age. Arvind’s wife, accustomed to the outbursts and the old TV’s antics, stepped nonchalantly into the living room. With a practiced air, she approached the television. She eyed it with a mix of affection and irritation as if facing an old adversary.

Then, with a humor-filled grin, she delivered a tight slap to the side of the TV—an ancient technique passed down through generations, half in jest, to “fix this old piece of junk,” as she often called it. To the amusement of the ladies in the room, the screen instantly cleared, restoring the newscast to its crisp, visual clarity.

“Oh, there we go!” she exclaimed triumphantly, her hands on her hips as she turned to the old ladies with a playful shrug.

The television replied in the war. It started flickering again.

7

The laughter slowly faded from the room as the crisp images on the television continued to flicker across the screen. But a sense of unease began to creep back, thickening the air once more. Something was amiss. Arvind’s mother, usually quick to respond with a sharp retort or a witty remark, remained unusually silent.

Her stillness was uncharacteristic, and it drew the attention of everyone in the room. Arvind’s wife turned from the television, her eyebrows knitted in concern as she observed her mother-in-law sitting quietly, her usual vibrancy dimmed. The lively spark in her eyes had dulled, and she seemed lost in thought, staring blankly at the flickering screen.

“Ma?” Arvind’s wife called out gently, approaching her with a cautious step. “Is everything alright?”

The old woman blinked slowly, turning her head to meet her daughter-in-law’s worried gaze. There was a heaviness in her eyes that hadn’t been there before—a shadow of something unsaid, or perhaps, something deeply felt but not understood.

“I… I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s just that… that man they described on the news, with the scar and dark eyes… he reminds me of someone from long ago. Someone I’d hoped to forget.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging between them. The old ladies exchanged glances, their previous theories about the murders suddenly taking on a new, personal dimension.

“Who does he remind you of, Ma?” Arvind’s wife asked softly, sitting down beside her, her hand reaching out to gently grasp the older woman’s.

Arvind’s mother sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry years of buried memories. “It was many years ago, dear. A troubled soul from my past, when I was much younger. I never thought…” 

The post Death Merchant appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

“Can you come quickly by this afternoon?”, the Inox dog store uncle called me. It was the first period and my professor, Sahoo sir, was droning on at the front of the classroom. The scent of chalk dust and boredom hung thick in the air. I was sitting in the back row, doing disaster mitigation of my assignment-solving startup on the back bench.

Despite never being able to complete my assignments on time, I somehow managed to run a successful startup that does homework for Australian kids. Well, You get paid in dollars here. And, I have a workforce of the most elite minds in India because I study in NISER.

All college students are always in dire need of money. Being a student at NISER certainly had its perks –

We were considered “billionaires” in the student-infested Bhubaneswar because we got a 5,000 INR scholarship. But despite this “wealth”, many students still struggled.

The money often went wasted on various indulgences like drinking and smoking marijuana. Just outside the XIMB campus, opposite Domino’s pizza shop, there was a tea shop openly selling marijuana with a police car parked nearby. It seemed like nobody cared about it.

Things were different at KIIT though.

My best friend Sumit was from there and he used to say there were kilograms of marijuana in their hostel corridor. I had met many students from KIIT who were constantly high, making us joke that they would get high just by drinking water.

Some students wasted their money traveling during weekends, some spent it maintaining their girlfriends, and others splurged on expensive dates at places like Dominoes where a single meal could cost around 500 INR minimum. Then, if you add auto, and some here and some there, it will be near 1000 INR.

The girls at NISER were simple though in this pretense. The majority used to visit Unit I the next day scholarship is credited an auto together. Many students used to open the horrible net banking site of the Indian Overseas Bank before the pre-UPI era and refresh it the whole night on the alleged day when it was supposed to be credited. Anyways, if you saw 10 girls cramming into an auto instead of 5 coming out of college, you knew it was scholarship day.

Then there were the nerds who spent their money on premium-dollar courses or electronics after saving up for years. And finally, there were those rare individuals who didn’t need money at all – they had transcended humanity and entered the 5th dimension.

Arkada was my senior. He always urged me to save money instead of joining group travels.

“Bhai, You can buy 32 packets of maggy for 320 INR. Why waste”. He was always in a rush. He was general isimo in tankionline. He always used to have a big smile on his face unless he have died horribly in the game. But I couldn’t help but wonder what other vices he may have been hiding behind that smile.

It is said that if you cared about anyone, You should work extra work to keep in touch with them. Although I have been in touch with Sumit, I lost Arkada. He is not in Facebook or in twitter. I am still sure he is playing some game in his basement. He had a very happy ambition in life. As long as Lan cable god is working fine and working, He won’t need anything else.

Well, that is valid for most of the nerds like us. Right?

Anyways.

I quickly excused myself from the class under the pretense of going to the restroom. As I made my way to the Inox dog store, my mind raced with possibilities. Why did Uncle need me to come urgently? Or perhaps there was some sort of dog show happening nearby and he needed my help setting up.

When I arrived at the store, I was surprised to see Uncle looking quite distressed. “Ah, there you are,” he exclaimed as soon as he saw me. “I need your help with something very important.” Without waiting for me to respond, he ushered me towards a back room that I had never been in before.

As he opened the door, a wave of white furballs rushed towards me.

“I told you to wait for some days. Although I know, it has been a month and a half now. He will look like a prince.” He said.

I had indeed taken a flat recently at the start of February as my relationship with Kavita had stepped forward. I had introduced her to my parents. I had taken a flat near Dakhin 9. She used to love the Crispy Chilly baby corn there. I thought of taking a flat nearby there. It used to get pretty lonely at night. So I thought to get a puppy and once told inox uncle about it.

I asked, “Why are you tensed?”

“Who is tensed”, He replied in an utter inquisitive tone.

Some people look like they are about to have a serious tension problem all the time. He was one of them. I called Kavita.

We used to meet after the classes were over. Our college was very tense that day. The Net Neutrality rules were created. Internet Service providers were classified as Public Utilities. I do not know the gravity of the impact but the college was so festive that some seniors got the Nobel Prize today.

Usually, I have seen very weird stuff in my college. Girls generally torture puppies by making them bathe with lots of ingredients satisfying their estrogen. Terrified puppy crying is normal stuff. Also, You can see a 6-foot 2-inch guy running away and a puppy is chasing him.

I was standing on the cycle stand in front of NISER. Kavita arrived, her eyes widening in curiosity as she took in the scene before her. I gave the furball to her hand.

I had employed a group of 4 dogs with a packet of biscuits. Although half of the month I had forgotten to give them anything they were fat and thick because they used to feast on the thrown-out food of 500 people in the mess. They all had names. Apart from Persian, all the other ones used to come near me. Persian was hit badly by some stuff of mess. So, he never used to come near any homo sapiens in his lifetime. The boss dog was an old one. He had seen the times change and the students come and go. He was wise beyond his years, with a grizzled face that bore the marks of countless battles fought and won in the canine hierarchy. He smelled and approved of the white puppy.

“I will name him cute-u”, Kavita said.

I added, “That’s a weird name. You sure he will not get angry when he grows up and learns that his mother gave him this name”.

“He is so cute!!”, Kavita took him and disappeared into the hostel.

I stood outside the hostel. It often happened to me. Kavita is a hyper-energetic person. Sometimes her electrons jump from one ring to the other in happiness and She used to forget my existence for some time. I can not enter the girl’s hostel. I called her. She is not a phone person either. After the phone rang to its death, She picked up and said, “I am going to make him bathe. Will call you..”

She never cuts the phone. My mother also does the same thing. I get a good comfort at that. I like to hear both of them for hours in the background. Anyway, I left for the library. In the earphones, I heard “awww..”, and “so cute…” from countless voices who are possibly violating the personal space of my furball.

Oh, Estrogen!

The post The Inox Dog Uncle appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

Here goes the story of how I created a profitable online business without investment, made some profits and sold the business within 2 weeks!

I will give you the exact numbers and steps in this article-

The idea 

The fastest profitable idea for an online business without investment is to create a dropshipping site. After you fixate on starting your eCommerce Venture, picking the best products to sell is the next big challenge.

There are millions of products online from where you can choose and all of the millions of products being sold are successful.This is why picking products can be extremely difficult which can lead to products being picked on a whim, with the little consideration which ends in poor performance.

Selecting the Niche 

I chose a very competitive niche – Baby Products.

It is a fruit pacifier when you can insert the fruit into the pacifier and the baby will have the power of fruit avoiding the danger of the child choking on it or swallowing it.

Selecting the niche is always an amazing journey. You never start with a blank tab. Your hobbies, Products you like (fish rods), Products you use (t-shirts), Products valuable to others (dog beds) – there is a bucketful of ideas struggling to come to the top floor of your head.

My next idea is – Dog Beds. I searched up this term’s high ‘average monthly searches’ in Google Keyword Planner.

Why Pacifier?

Well, it is the current trend. I analyzed the facebook campaigns on my fellow competitors. They are getting good sales (to be precise 23551 sales on a spend of 4000$) with a shitty site and shit customer service.

I’m not selecting a niche here. I am just ensuring of being a better competitor.

The 17 Profitable Niches for Dropshipping 

Are you stuck with choosing a niche? I will share 17 niches which are properly researched and are best niches for dropshippping and starting such online business without investment!

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Nowadays you don’t have to ask your friends their thoughts on trends. Online Business without investment is really a tough work.

They have already told their trends. In fact, you know the answer based on thousands and millions of views. How? Use Facebook!

Products can be based on trends. You can read one of such journeys here at The Money Making Theory of Eurus Holmes – Amit Ghosh

 

 

The Website 

Being a WordPress developer has its own perks.

Finally, the site was done – Pacifruits

Most dropshippers think running the business is more important than the website. I will say they are equally important! That’s my USP.

My CPA (Cost Per Acquisition) is much lowered just due to good site user experience and flow.

Analyzing my peers, I’m sure this site will make around 150–300$ a month in sales on a 50–100$ investment in facebook. Yes, that’s how the system works mostly. Most profitable dropshippers make a funnel. They put money into a social campaign, it gets flush out as sales.

Here are the rules for starting a dropshipping business-You need to find a place where the product is getting sold at very low cost. My product I am getting at 1$ average.You need to find a demography who will buy. In my case, it is moms. I’m targeting US moms to be precise in this FB campaign.My suppliers provide a long time replying, I am making a good customer service whom they can trust and recommend. The business builds from the trust, not from sales.I will follow up my supplier on the product delivery.

SO LET'S GET YOU

Please feel free to subscribe to my newsletter and get exclusive online business strategies that you cannot find here on the blog, as well as free access to my eBooks.

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.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 { max-width: 530px;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 .snp-header {font-size: 35px; color: #000000;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 .snp-text {font-size: 17px;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 .snp-text {color: #000000;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 .snp-submit { background-color: #000000;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 .snp-header span { color: #000000;}.snp-pop-4841 .snp-theme11 { background-color: #FFB919; }What are the Next tasks for Online Business – 

Simple. Optimizing the conversation funnel. How the customer will end up spending more item. How I implant the psychology into the site.

Wait, The worst part is it may fail, it may end up taking too much of time. Around 5% of my projects fail if we haven’t done the competitive analysis but in this case, all my competitors have a shitty site with high expense.

The Shopify Mystery

They do sites on Shopify. Reason? When you learn to dropship from someone he will definitely give you their affiliated link to get you on the Shopify platform. I believe in WordPress and being a developer has its own perks.

So,

Either I will continue this site or from my experience of selling websites – it will sell in 1.5k$ like a piece of cake!

Investments this far –

Domain – 2$ for first year .com sites.
Hosting – Ah, I have a huge VPS of mine in Inmotion Hosting.
Ads – Thinking to spend 50$ this week.
SSL – Installed. I got myself a free one. Don’t pay for it. In StartSSL™, you can get 3 years free SSL certifcate for any kind of online business.

Expected Return –

50$ on 50$ in the first week.
80$ on 50$ in the second week.

The more the site gains reputation the less you have to put money on ads.

The Facebook Ads 

After the very first moment, I had the site created I was confident that it would get good sales. I made a facebook page and ran a Facebook PPE ad campaign with a post.

Though this post is about online business without investment but well the results I got out of investing 880 INR was staggering –

The Selling Begins 

It was a good return on investment.

My only secret was – instead of targeting the whole country; I targeted the cities having highest rent in US cause that is equivalent to spending capability of that city and I was also targeting moms of a singular age group.

We were getting orders every time we turn our facebook ads on.

Flipping the Site 

Then I got bored out of it. I need to move to the next idea cause those the return of investment was good, it is not a mentionable one so instead of allocating money from my stash; I thought to sell it and build an empire of dropshipping sites out of the money.

I listed in flippa here.

If you’ve been to the site and using it for a long time then the bid doesn’t mean anything. what means how many interested buyers are there and their engagement.

This guy was the first to message me – He wanted to take it out for 450$.

It’s sold

However, I sold it to my Aeron7 client at the end of the day at the price of 1.5K USD and deactivated the flippa auction. So, here does the end story of online business without investment paying off.

 

Tip: Skrill is shit. It takes a shit ton of money from the person who sends the money and from currency conversation. There will be no profitable online business if you use Skrill.

The Profit and Loss Statement 

As promised here is the profit and loss statement –

I had my site listed as starter site (19$ value) instead of the established site (29$ value) mistakenly.

Always do the maths

So they had me refunded the 19$ so that I can list it again properly. However, if you notice, I was returned (6.33–6.31) .02 less in service tax and (45.23 – 45.12) =.11 less in FCY Markup.

.13 INR is a piece of shit but I lose around 4–5K$ in this kind of small stuffs. Always do it extensively.

Tax

There was no charge mentioned for hosting, SSL implementation (SSL was free), Transfer of site. Now you can save tax by showing the appropriate amount in those fields as expense showing a net profit as O.

That’s an amazing fact.

So for a business which was started in 5117.12 INR and made around 100$ in between and sold at 93060 INR within 2 weeks is a pretty sweet deal.

What you’ve learned? 

Irrespective of whatever is written in the book like these ones(click here for the book), I had it applied. This site became a blueprint for me and I can make 10 sites and sell them in higher margins.

So far you have learned two methods using which you can make online business without investment. Ha, pennies have to be spent though but the profit margin is high.

You can do the dropshipping or can do the flipping. Both has the same amount of money where the dropshipping became more scalable one!

I intend to make a free dropshipping course later on my website (just stay subscribed there; I’m drafting the content) cause the course I referred in my post 3 Skills to learn this year to Make Money Online is not sophisticated enough,

PS: Don’t buy this book mentioned here.

If you have any questions on dropshipping or flipping a website in flippa or any other kind of online business without investment, do drop a Hi in the comment. I shall be happy to help.

The post How to start an online business without investment appeared first on Amit Ghosh.

Watched Sherlock? Ok, So then I will share one method of making money at home rather than blabbering much –

Make a cliche based Store 

Primarily the Tshirt sales are high but stuff like posters, mugs, key rings sell very well too. Tshirt store model is already a very profitable proven venture followed by tons of e-commerce stores and Amazon sellers.

Profitability is high –

For 180 gsm, cotton T-shirts, 2-color printing you can avail at price of 170–200 INR based on supplier. (Speaking on India)

Total profit per Tshirt comes around (499–200) = 199 INR; considering worst case let’s say 150 INR profit on 200 INR investment.

How to choose a niche – 

First there is no way of making money as the competition is shit too high unless you have a strong cliche.

As my blog’s viewership attains tons of views, I am likely to dig my own grave. So I am writing only one method which I follow –

I use Google Trends combined with Popcorn Time to generate these perfect niches for my weird ways of making money online. Yes, the same popcorn time which got banned. It’s the best source to tell in the shortest time that what is being watched by People and hence searched, commented and discussed in the given time frame.

So Sherlock is the first. You must make products on Sherlock franchise.

People had already started making money on this trend with even dumbest designs like shown above.

People are fighting for ad placements in Google as it seem they have found the holy grail of finding a profitable niche.

How Google Trends are useful for finding niche?

You can find optimal days when you can run such ads or prepare for such days.

You can literally see Season 1. Season 2, Season 3 and Season 4 here. Season 4 is going to break all the records to a huge extent – as you can predict with the search trend.

Google Trend result and Facebook Search result is hugely correlated.

What are the odds of your tshirt getting sold if you target 1000 Sherlock fans with the help of facebook ads which can be done in 150 INR.

Well, now I must say people had already thought this over. So the competition cost is high. How can you lower that ?

I monetize on villains! 

Didn’t you watch Sherlock ? Watch

Sherlock Season 4 Episode 1 – The villain is ‘vivian norbury’

Sherlock Season 4 Episode 1 – The villain is ‘eurus holmes’

You can clearly see from above search results that ‘eurus holmes’ nailed it.

So by tomorrow make few designs on ‘eurus holmes’ – tshirt, mugs, posters and make a facebook ad campaigns targeting sherlock fans.

Post your sales in comment.

Risk can be made minimal – 

a. You’re generally required to buy 20 pieces of per design and it will require around 1L investment. But if you are too mean like me then, you can make a deal with Tshirt printer companies on per sale basis. In such case, the profit will be let’s say 100 INR per 200 INR invested.

b. .com domain can be bought at 63 INR maximum. Just type “.com domain” in Google and you will get cheap deals.

c. Hosting

Choose Inmotion Hosting. Being a web developer I’ve tried my hands on WP Engine, Hostgator.com, Hostgator.in, BlueHost and tons of others but Inmotion is the beast when it comes to customer support and they give list of virus scan every time you ask them where Hostgator charges around 125$ per scan!

d. SSL

Don’t pay for it. In StartSSL™, you can get 3 years free SSL certifcate. I’m using it in tons of e-commerce sites like Pacifruits; You can see Stripe is working fine with the SSL. if you’re from India, I think you will use Instamojo as payment gateway. It requires SSL certificate to run on.

Well, now you have one for free.

Optimize Further – 

Are you serious? Then here are some more details that can optimize and boost your sales by 80% atleast –

virallocker_use = true;

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Competition – 

Yes, competition is sheer high but with properly researched niche having no competition. You can make a killing.

Niche like ‘eurus holmes’ can be niche of so many things. I am not making tshirt out of it. I made three blog posts on my different viral sites. They are doing good.

However, My aim for this post is to show you a weird way of finding superb niches.

The post The Money Making Theory of Eurus Holmes appeared first on Amit Ghosh.