Sanjh's POV:
The next morning, I woke up with a strange mix of excitement and nervousness swirling in my stomach. Today was the day. Abhimaan and Aryan were finally coming. I spent extra time getting ready, changing my mind at least three times before settling on a simple but nice kurta in soft pink. Hima, who was already awake and scrolling through her phone, kept giving me weird looks from the bed but didn't say anything. I was grateful for that. I wasn't sure how I would explain why I was suddenly so conscious about my appearance.
When we reached the dining hall for breakfast, the aroma of fresh parathas, pooris, and hot chai filled the entire space. The whole family was already gathered, the noise of conversations and clinking plates creating a cheerful chaos. I spotted Manoj uncle seated at the far end of the table, and beside him was Priya aunty—Manoj uncle's wife, our neighbor for as long as I could remember. She was laughing at something my mother was saying, her warm smile lighting up her face. And next to her sat Aryan, grinning at his phone like he had just seen the funniest meme in the world.
But Abhimaan was not there.
I looked around the room once. Then again. My eyes scanned every corner, every group of people, every chair near the table. My heart started sinking even before anyone spoke, a cold weight settling in my chest.
Priya aunty noticed me first. She stood up and came towards me with open arms, pulling me into a warm hug. "Sanjh, meri bachchi, kitni badi ho gayi. Bohot miss kiya tumhe." (Sanjh, my child, how grown up you've become. Missed you so much.)
Her voice was soft and motherly, exactly as I remembered from all those years growing up next door.
I hugged her back and said, "Aunty, maine bhi aapko miss kiya." (Aunty, I missed you too.)
She held me at arm's length and looked at me proudly. "Kitni khoobsurat lag rahi ho. Abhimaan ko dekhna chahiye tha tumhe." (You look so beautiful. Abhimaan should have seen you.)
The moment she said his name, my heart clenched. Aryan must have noticed because he looked up from his phone, his eyes flickering towards me briefly before looking away.
Manoj uncle joined us and said cheerfully, "Beti, aaj toh party deni padegi. Itni stylish aa gayi." (Daughter, today you'll have to throw a party. You've come so stylish.)
I smiled and said, "Uncle, aap hamesha tease karte ho." (Uncle, you always tease.)
Everyone laughed, and for a moment, things felt normal. Then Manoj uncle added casually, "Abhimaan kal raat tak nahi aa paya. Koi important kaam aa gaya usko. Do din mein aa jayega." (Abhimaan couldn't come until last night. Some important work came up for him. He'll come in two days.)
Two days.
The words hit me like a splash of cold water. Two whole days. I tried to hide my disappointment. I really did. I forced my face to stay neutral, my lips to stay in a straight line. But something must have shown in my eyes because Aryan's smile flickered for just a moment—a tiny, almost invisible change—before he looked down at his phone again.
I should have greeted him properly. I should have walked over and said something nice, asked about his journey, made him feel welcome. But all I could manage was a small nod before turning away and sitting down at the table next to Sriya di.
Throughout breakfast, I barely tasted the food. Parathas that should have been delicious felt like cardboard in my mouth. Chai that smelled amazing went cold in my cup. My mind was stuck on one thought, playing on repeat like a broken record—Abhimaan wasn't coming. Not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Two days felt like forever.
Sriya di nudged me and whispered, "Kya hua? Kamaal ka khana hai aur tu kha nahi rahi." (What happened? The food is amazing and you're not eating.)
I forced a smile and said, "Bas, subah subah zyada bhook nahi." (Just, not very hungry in the morning.)
She gave me a look that said she didn't believe me but let it go.
Aryan, meanwhile, was his usual self. Loud, funny, cracking jokes with Prithvi bhai about his terrible sense of direction, teasing Sriya di about her obsession with clicking photos of every single thing, stealing food from Hima's plate just to watch her pretend to be angry. He was trying to make everyone laugh, putting on a show like he always did. And gradually, despite myself, I started laughing too. His energy was infectious, impossible to resist.
At one point, when the others were distracted by an argument between Yuvi bhai and Prithvi bhai about some cricket match, Aryan appeared beside me. He sat down casually, like it was nothing, and said softly, his voice low so only I could hear, "Itni sad mat ho, Sanjh. Do din mein aa jayega. Aur main hoon na yahan. Kaafi nahi hoon?" (Don't be so sad, Sanjh. He'll come in two days. And I'm here, aren't I? Am I not enough?)
I looked at him. His eyes were warm, teasing, but there was something else beneath the surface. Something I couldn't quite read. I punched his arm lightly and said, "Chup. Toh tu hai toh kya hua." (Shut up. So what if you're here.)
He laughed, but for a second, his eyes looked different. Sad, maybe. Like I had said something that hurt without meaning to. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual grin, and he was back to cracking jokes.
Sriya di stood up and announced loudly, "Chalo chalo, sab ready ho jao. Pehle Chhaya Devi temple, phir Nishiteshvar Temple. Bohot late ho raha hai." (Let's go, let's go, everyone get ready. First Chhaya Devi temple, then Nishiteshvar Temple. It's getting very late.)
The dining hall erupted into chaos as everyone started moving—aunts calling out to uncles, cousins running around looking for their phones and bags, my grandmother being helped by Ramesh uncle towards the door.
As we were about to leave, my father pulled me aside near the veranda. His hand on my shoulder was firm, his eyes serious. "Sanjh, tum mere saath rahna poori time." (Sanjh, you stay with me the whole time.) His voice left no room for argument.
Before I could respond, Aryan appeared beside me like he had materialized out of thin air. He said smoothly, "Sagar uncle, hum sab hain na. Ujwal bhai, Sriya di, sab. Hum sambhal lenge Sanjh ko. Aap tension mat lo." (Sagar uncle, we all are here. Ujwal bhai, Sriya di, everyone. We'll take care of Sanjh. Don't you worry.)
My father looked at Aryan for a long moment, studying his face. Aryan met his gaze steadily, confidently. Finally, my father nodded slowly. "Theek hai. Lekin koi problem nahi honi chahiye." (Okay. But no problem should happen.)
Aryan grinned and gave a little salute. "Promise. Aur uncle, aap jaante ho na—Sanjh meri best friend hai. Usse kuch hua toh main khud nahi bachunga." (Promise. And uncle, you know na—Sanjh is my best friend. If something happens to her, I won't spare myself either.)
My father's expression softened slightly. He patted Aryan's shoulder and said, "Theek hai beta. Jaao." (Okay son. Go.)
And just like that, I was officially under Aryan and the cousins' protection for the day.
We all piled into the cars with the usual chaos of arguments about who would sit where. Our car had Ujwal bhai driving, Yuvi bhai in the passenger seat, and Sriya di, Prithvi bhai, Hima, Aryan, and me squeezed into the back. It was a tight fit—the kind where elbows ended up in ribs and knees pressed against seats—but no one complained. This was how family trips always were.
Aryan managed to sit next to me, his shoulder pressing against mine, his leg bumping mine with every turn the car took. He was telling some ridiculous story about something that happened in his college—something involving a monkey, a professor's lunch, and a chase across the entire campus. His storytelling was so animated, so full of expressions and sound effects, that soon the whole car was laughing. Even Ujwal bhai, who was usually too cool for such things, was shaking with laughter.
Hima was giggling so hard she almost fell off her seat. Sriya di was wiping tears from her eyes. Prithvi bhai kept saying, "Aryan, tu jhooth bol raha hai. Yeh sab nahi ho sakta." (Aryan, you're lying. This can't all happen.)
Aryan put his hand on his heart dramatically and said, "Bhagwan ki kasam. Mera hostel wala floor abhi bhi uss bandar se darta hai." (I swear on God. My hostel floor is still afraid of that monkey.)
I forgot about Abhimaan for a while. The laughter, the warmth, the chaos—it felt like home.
After about twenty minutes of driving through narrow roads lined with dense trees, we reached Chhaya Devi temple.
The temple looked different in daylight. Smaller than I remembered from that first night. Less intimidating. The black stone idol stood in the center of a small sanctum, surrounded by old brass lamps and faded marigold flowers that must have been offered yesterday. The priest was an old man with kind eyes framed by deep wrinkles and a calm voice that sounded like it had been chanting prayers for decades.
All the couples—my parents, Manoj uncle and Priya aunty, Ramesh uncle and Chandrika aunty, Prasad uncle and Ramalata aunty, Sivaram uncle and Payal aunty—went inside to start the pooja. The priest mentioned something about abhishek taking more than an hour, a special ritual that required time and devotion.
Grandma stood near the entrance, her lips moving in silent prayer, her eyes fixed on the idol. She hadn't spoken much since last night. I wondered what she was thinking, what memories this place was stirring in her mind.
Ujwal bhai grabbed my arm firmly and said in his big brother voice, "Chal, tu mere saath. Idhar udhar mat bhaag." (Come, you're with me. Don't run around here and there.) He started pulling me towards a huge tree a little away from the temple, his grip tight like he was afraid I would disappear if he let go.
The tree was massive, its branches spreading wide like protective arms. It had an elevated cement platform around it, the kind used for village panchayats or community meetings in old times. The shade was cool and soothing, and the spot felt surprisingly peaceful, cut off from the rest of the world.
Ujwal bhai made me sit down on the platform and pointed a finger at me. "Yahin baith. Aur kuch mat kar." (Sit here. Don't do anything else.)
I rolled my eyes dramatically but sat down. Aryan joined us a moment later, plopping down on the other side of me with a theatrical sigh.
"Badi strict policing hai," he teased, grinning at Ujwal bhai. (Very strict policing.)
Ujwal bhai ignored him completely and picked up a stick from the ground, starting to dig idly at the mud near the platform. I watched him for a moment, then found my own stick nearby and joined in. There was something satisfying about digging, about watching the soft soil move under the stick.
Aryan looked at both of us like we had completely lost our minds. His expression was priceless—eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, head tilted in disbelief. "Tum dono ko kya ho gaya? Maa ki god mein khod rahe ho?" (What's happened to you both? You're digging in Mother Earth's lap?)
I threw a small pebble at him. He ducked, laughing, and threw one back at me. It hit my arm lightly and we both burst out laughing.
Just then, Sriya di's voice cut through the air from near the parking area. "Ujwal! Car ka khula hai! Aa na!" (Ujwal! The car door is open! Come here!)
Ujwal bhai sighed heavily, the sigh of an older brother who was always being called for something. He dropped his stick, dusted his hands, and started walking towards where the cars were parked. Aryan's phone rang, and he moved away a few steps to answer it, his voice fading as he walked towards the tree's other side.
I kept digging alone.
The mud was soft, easy to move. The stick sank in effortlessly with each push. My mind wandered as I dug—thinking about Abhimaan, about tomorrow, about this strange village and its even stranger goddess.
I wondered what Abhimaan was doing right now. Was he thinking about this trip? About me? Probably not. He was always so busy with his own things. That was one of the things I liked about him—he was focused, dedicated. But sometimes I wished he would notice me the way I noticed him.
Aryan, on the other hand, was always there. Always around. Always making me laugh. It was different with him. Easy. Comfortable. Like breathing.
My stick hit something hard.
I brushed away the soil curiously and found... a photo.
An old photo. Faded at the edges, the corners curled and damaged by time. But when I picked it up and looked closely, my heart stuttered in my chest.
The photo was blank.
Completely, utterly blank. Like someone had taken a picture of absolutely nothing. No faces. No scenery. No objects. Just... nothing. A void captured on film.
I stared at it for a long moment, confusion swirling in my mind. Why would anyone print a blank photo? What was the point? Photographs cost money to develop. No one would waste money on printing nothing.
I turned it over. The back was yellowed with age, but there was something written there in faded ink. Handwriting. Old, shaky handwriting.
I squinted to read it. The letters were barely visible, but I could make out a few words:
"...jo dikhta nahi... wahi asli hai..." (...what doesn't show... that is real...)
What didn't show? What was real?
Maybe it was just a printing mistake. A defective film roll. Something that got exposed to light by accident. People threw away such things all the time. The writing was probably just some philosophical quote someone had scribbled.
I shrugged and slipped the photo into my pocket. It was weird, but not worth worrying about.
I kept digging.
The stick hit something else now. Softer this time. Different. Like cloth.
Curious, I scraped away more soil and saw a piece of old, rotting fabric. I grabbed it and pulled. It was stuck, held by something beneath the earth. I pulled harder.
Aryan's voice came from behind me, making me jump slightly. "Kya mila? Koi khazana?" (What did you find? Some treasure?)
He knelt beside me, his shoulder pressing against mine as he grabbed the cloth too. Hima, who had wandered over at some point without me noticing, joined us on the other side. The three of us pulled together, our hands gripping the fabric tightly.
The cloth came free suddenly, making us stumble back.
And then we saw what was attached to it.
A body.
Not a whole body. Just a part of one. From the neck to the hips. No head. No arms. No legs. Just a torso wrapped in rotting cloth, half-eaten by soil and time. The skin—what was left of it—was dark and shriveled. Bones peeked through in places.
My mind stopped working.
Aryan's hand froze on the cloth, his fingers still gripping it like he had forgotten how to let go.
Hima opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first.
And then all three of us screamed.
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