SINS OF THE FATHERS

Nitin K. Mishra

December 31st. Goa, India.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do…”

The words slipped out, hollow. Broken. Almost to himself.

“We’ve doubled security around the palace, sir,” Chief security officer Kadam reported crisply. “We’re scanning CCTV recordings. Whoever did this won’t get away…”

“Sir!”

The shout tore through the room. The commando at the monitor was frozen, his eyes wide, face drained of color.

Everyone turned. First to him, then to the screen. The footage was looping. A segment caught on the feed.

A girl—maybe thirteen, stood stiff and lifeless in the center of the room. Still as stone. Her eyes locked on a wooden table in front of her. Empty.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Like she was carved from the same marble that lined the floor.

The curtain of the tall French window in-front of her stirred, light and sudden.

And just like that, a box appeared.

6 by 8 inches.

Rectangular.

Sitting on the table like it had always been there.

No sound. No cut. No indication of how it got there.

Just—there.

The girl moved forward slowly. Robotic. Possessed. Even through the grainy output of the CCTV, the terror in her eyes was unmistakable. Palpable.

She reached out with trembling hands.

Lifted the lid.

And screamed.

High-pitched. Raw. Animal.

The door flung open. Subhadra rushed in, breath caught, eyes scanning in panic. That was the end of the video loop. 

“Out. Now,” Kadam snapped.

The commando manning the monitor got up without hesitation and left.

“Who are you going to catch, Kadam? How?”

The voice came from behind—low, shaking.

Girish Babu stood in the doorway. Unstable. Dazed and haunted. The same wooden box clutched in his hand. The same one from the footage.

Kadam turned sharply. “Sir—”

But Girish wasn’t listening. His body was shutting down.

His knees buckled like a puppet’s strings had been cut.

His mind had already dropped through some inner void.

He was falling—hard—straight toward the marble.

Kadam lunged and caught him just in time. If he’d been even a second late, the Chief would’ve smashed face-first into the floor.

And this time, it would’ve been worse than the last.

“Dad!”

Malhar’s voice came from the hallway, frantic.

Dr. Thapa was right behind him. “Pulse is dipping. Kadam, get him to the bedroom. I’m calling an ambulance.”

Shirt buttons were undone.

The cold metal of Thapa’s stethoscope met Girish Babu’s chest.

“No… I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “I won’t leave Ira behind.”

His voice was faint. But cold. And final. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

Everyone in that room knew what it meant when Girish Babu spoke like that.

“Take me to my room,” he said.

Thapa, Kadam, and Malhar supported Girish Babu’s limp body. Subhadra followed behind, visibly shaken.

Two minutes later, Giriraj Babu was in his room.

The box was still with him.

“Besides the four of you, I don’t trust anyone… if I’m being honest, I’m not even sure I trust myself anymore.”

Girish Babu’s voice cracked slightly as he looked at them, each face more tense than the last.

“You know the situation. Better than anyone. And I…” he paused, rubbed his forehead like trying to smooth out the madness, “…I have no idea what the next move is.”

“You need rest, Girish Babu,” Dr. Thapa offered. “We can talk once…”

“Don’t cut me off, Thapa.”

Dead silence.

“Nothing matters more right now than Ira,” Girish babu choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of desperation.

Silence settled again, heavier this time. Nobody argued. Nobody had to.

“You saw the footage. All of you. You saw what was in the box,” he continued, quieter now. “There’s no room left for doubt. Whatever’s happening…it…it’s not human. It’s tied to that curse… the one this family brought on itself thirteen years ago. Ira is paying for it now.”

It felt like he wasn’t speaking to them anymore. Not really. The confession was half to himself.

“I don’t believe in curses or spirits,” Thapa replied, measured, though his voice had thinned. “And even if something was out there… how would a supernatural force produce something physical? That box was real. Tangible.”

“I agree with Dr. Thapa,” Kadam added. “This feels like the work of someone with a deeply disturbed mind. A human monster.”

And then, 

The hallway shattered.

“Daddyyy—!”

The scream was primal. Cut straight through the heavy sheesham door like it was paper.

“Ira…My child…”

Girish babu’s whole body flinched. Heart nearly seized. His body forgot the weakness, the illness, everything. On legs that trembled beneath the weight of his age and grief, he launched himself off the bed like a heron startled into flight.

The door flew open. He staggered into the corridor, running before anyone could even stop him.

No one did. They followed.

From the room next door, something else was screaming now. Low. Wet. Ugly. Like an animal being gutted with something serrated.

Girish babu reached the door. Yanked the handle.

Locked.

“It’s locked from the inside.”

“Step back, sir. I’ll get it,” Kadam said, already rolling up his sleeves.

The sounds inside twisted. Moans becoming whispers, turning into something darker. Chanting maybe. In a tongue no one recognized. But every instinct told them it wasn’t meant for human ears.

The growing commotion in the corridor drew the attention of nearby commandos.

Two commandos rushed up the corridor at the noise.

“Stop them, Kadam,” Girish babu said, voice hollow with dread. “No one else sees what’s inside that room.”

A flick of Kadam’s eyes was all it took. The commandos froze in place, exchanged a glance, then backed off, without a word.

Inside, the sounds had shifted. The animal cries gave way to soft hissing. Like chanting. Low, unintelligible syllables in some dead language, bubbling under the door.

“Now, Kadam. Break it down.” Girish Babu yelled. 

Kadam and Thapa slammed into the door. Sheesham didn’t give easily.

Kadam glanced at Malhar.

He just stood there. Calm. Hands in pockets. Watching.

Didn’t lift a finger.

Kadam clenched his jaw. Hard to tell whether it was rage at Malhar’s indifference or panic for what was happening to Ira, but the next two blows came harder.

The latch cracked. 

The door burst open.

They stormed inside. 

And froze. 

In the center of the room, on top of a large round bed, stood the same girl from the CCTV footage. Still.

Ira.

Her face was contorted, like her muscles had forgotten how to form human expressions. Her eyes rolled so far back they were almost white. Her limbs taut as if yanked by invisible strings.

Then she spoke.

“Look who’s here… Girish Babu. Tell me…how does it feel? Smelling your daughter’s blood?”

The voice didn’t belong in a child’s throat.

It rasped. Warped. Slipped between octaves like it couldn’t decide what it was.

“Ira!” Girish babu staggered forward.

Then stopped.

Backpedaled

Her joints began to twist.

Slow. Deliberate. Grotesque.

“Come any closer,” the voice sneered, “and her bones will tear through her flesh like knives.”

They watched in horror as her body bent at angles no human should survive.

“Your daughter has bled, Girish Babu. Bled her way into womanhood.”

The voice dropped lower. Darker. “ I’ve waited thirteen years for this moment. Your bloodline ends now.”

Girish babu’s breath caught. “Who are you? What have you done to her?”

Ira smiled—if that’s what the mangled movement of her lips could be called.

“Nothing…yet.”

The voice dropped to a whisper.

“But now the rituals begin. What I’ll do to her will haunt your soul long after your body is cold.”

The girl’s stiff arms reached down and grabbed the hem of her skirt. Slow, mechanical…and began to lift.

“Does this get your old blood boiling, Girish babu?”

The voice that came from Ira wasn’t hers. It was cracked, mocking. Too guttural to belong to a child.

The skirt rose up to her thighs.

Girish Babu, Kadam, Dr. Thapa, and Malhar all turned their eyes away.

“Look at her. All of you.”

The command came out of Ira’s throat like gravel dragged across glass. Her arms jerked mid-motion like they wanted to stop. Like she wanted to stop, but something else was pulling the strings.

Her body began to tremble violently, like she was seizing.

“No!”

Subhadra couldn’t take another second. She lunged forward, yanked a blanket from the bed, and wrapped Ira up in it.

Ira’s body instantly went limp. Her head collapsed onto Subhadra’s shoulder, unconscious.

Girish Babu, Kadam, and Dr. Thapa rushed forward. They laid her down gently.

Thapa checked her pulse.

“She’s collapsed from extreme shock. We’ll need to keep her under observation.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Girish Babu said, his voice back to its commanding edge.

“Call in a top-tier medical team. I want everything—equipment, diagnostics, care units brought here. Installed here. No transfers.”

Thapa hesitated, then nodded.

Girish Babu exhaled, then stopped himself mid-thought.

He paused. Then looked at Thapa.

“We need someone else too…”

A beat passed.

“A psychic.”

Thapa blinked. “You mean a psychiatrist?”

Girish Babu turned his head slowly toward him.

“Does that look like a case for psychiatry to you, Thapa? We need someone who deals with things beyond your textbooks. Someone who knows how to stand against… forces that don’t bleed. A shaman. A real one.”

Kadam’s brow furrowed. “With respect, sir… what exactly are you saying?”

Girish Babu’s voice cracked with helpless rage. “You saw her. You all saw her. You think that voice, that look, those movements… were my daughter’s? My poor Ira’s?”

Silence.

Not one of them could argue.

“She’s either possessed… or being controlled by someone through ’vashikarana’. We need someone who understands black magic. Who can see what we can’t.”

Kadam spoke carefully.

“That’s a serious risk, sir. People like that…these so-called experts, they’re conmen. And even if one of them is the real thing… there’s no guarantee he won’t exploit Ira’s condition. Or your position.”

Thapa added, “He’s right. Once word gets out, it’ll spread like wildfire. Your name, your reputation, your political career—it’ll all go up in smoke.”

“I’ll burn it all to the ground if I have to,” Girish Babu said flatly.

“Just to save my Ira,”

Then, for the first time since the incident, Malhar spoke. Bitter. Loud.

“She’s insane. Lost her mind, just like her mother.”

“Malhar!”

Girish Babu’s voice cracked like thunder.

Malhar clenched his jaw, like words were boiling under his teeth. But he didn’t say them.

He turned. Walked out, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.

No one followed. No one flinched.

It was the kind of exit they’d come to expect from him.

Subhadra spoke. Quiet. Steady.

“I know someone who can help.”

Girish Babu’s eyes lit up with cautious hope.

“Who?”

Subhadra hesitated. As if just saying the name cost her something.

“Nimitt. Nimitt Kalantri.”

Silence.

Then Thapa snapped, “What? No. Absolutely not. That man is clinically unstable. He should be in a psych ward, not treating anyone.”

Kadam added, “I’ve never trusted these mystics, sir. But this guy…he’s a fraud among frauds. The worst of lot.”

Girish Babu didn’t respond. He was thinking, pulling at a thread buried in his memory.

“Nimitt Kalantri… that name sounds familiar. But I can’t place it.”

Kadam nodded. Calm.

“He was the protégé of Acharya Sanjeev Gautam. Two years ago, Nimitt was charged with fraud, criminal deceit, and accidental manslaughter. The media ate it up. But due to lack of evidence, nothing stuck. Since then—he’s vanished. No one knows where he is, or what he’s doing.”

Girish Babu narrowed his eyes. “Acharya Sanjeev Gautam… the ‘Art of Love, Personal Healing and Awakening’ guru?”

“The same. Kalantri was his star disciple. Until the greed got to him. Until he wanted to outshine his master.”

Girish Babu fell silent.

The flicker of hope Subhadra had just ignited in his eyes faded just as quickly, swallowed by the dim exhaustion on his face.

Subhadra didn’t argue. She simply accepted his silence like a quiet defeat. Instead, she reached out and gently brushed a hand across Ira’s forehead, fingers moving with the care of someone who had loved deeply and suffered silently.

“How do you know this… Nimitt Kalantri?” Girish Babu finally asked.

“He was my senior in college.”

Subhadra didn’t flinch. “And I’ve seen what this man is capable of.”

Girish Babu looked from Ira’s pale, unconscious face to Subhadra’s tear-filled eyes. There was nothing manipulative in them. No pretense. Just the kind of pain only real love leaves behind.

“I still remember,” he said quietly, voice heavy with memory. “The day you first arrived here… Ira was barely two months old. A motherless child who probably wouldn’t have survived without care. You came on a six-month contract as a nanny, a caretaker…That was thirteen years ago.”

Subhadra didn’t speak. But two tears slipped from her lashes.

“You could’ve had an entirely different life. You were young. Bright. Talented. You wanted to be an artist. You used to talk about traveling the world… But instead, you chose this. You chose to be Ira’s mother. Every minute of these last thirteen years…you gave to her.”

Girish Babu paused, eyes tightening.

“If there’s anyone in this world who’s loved her more than I have… it’s you, Subhadra.”

Kadam shifted uncomfortably.

He opened his mouth to speak but Girish Babu raised a hand like a sovereign issuing final judgment.

Kadam fell quiet. Head bowed.

Girish Babu turned back to Subhadra.

“You truly believe this man can help her? Heal her?”

His eyes searched hers like a man peering into the abyss, praying to see something other than his own reflection.

“I know, only he can, sir.”

Her voice held no hesitation. No tremor. Just absolute conviction.

“But Kadam said he’s vanished. No one knows where he is. How are you going to find him?”

Subhadra straightened.

“Day after tomorrow is January second.”

Girish Babu frowned. “Yes, and?”

“If Nimitt Kalantri is alive… no matter where he is in the world… he’ll be at one place. At exactly 5:55 p.m. And I know where that place is.”

She stood abruptly, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Ira’s forehead.

“I have to leave immediately, sir.”

Girish Babu stood too. “Where?”

Subhadra didn’t blink.

“To his city.”

January 2nd. Varanasi, India.

Time: 5:54 p.m.

Namami shamishaan nirvaan rupam Vibhum vyapakam brahma vedswaroopam

Nijam nirgunam nirvikalpam niriham Chidakash maakaash vasam

bhajeham

Nirakaram omkar moolam turiyam Gira gyan goteetmisham girisham Karalam mahakal kaalam kripalam Gunagar sansar paaram natoham

The ancient verses of the Rudrashtakam echoed from the distant Assi Ghat, vibrating through the dusk like a forgotten hymn. The holy syllables folded into the air, carried by the river wind.

Subhadra stood near the crumbling steps of Ravidas Ghat, tucked into a shadowed corner where the Ganga lapped at the earth in quiet rhythm. The cold was unforgiving. Her sweater, scarf, and heavy coat did nothing to stop the chill sinking into her bones.

It felt like time had folded back on itself.

This place had a memory.

And it was dragging her by the heart into alleys of the past she’d bricked up long ago.

Thirteen years ago.

Deepak.

The first and last man she ever loved. Their story wasn’t some cliché college romance. No violins, no meet-cutes. From the moment they met, something clicked. Their connection rooted deeper than skin. It bloomed quickly. Strongly. 

But not all bonds, no matter how deep, are built to last. Love can be immortal but lovers? 

Deepak and other students had gathered to demand reforms—outdated curricula, broken infrastructure, garbage management policies. That’s when chaos hit. The student union boys clashed with the university’s private guards. Stones flew. Batons cracked. One of them struck Deepak across the head.

By the time they reached Sir Sunderlal Hospital, he was gone.

The university, under pressure, suspended a few guards. A charade of accountability. That night, the students lit floating candles on the Ganga in his memory. 

One by one, they left. All except Subhadra.

She stood at the edge, watching the candles drift into the dark, her eyes spilling tears deeper than the river itself.

Subhadra screamed.

Loud. Raw. The kind of scream that tears at the fabric of your lungs.

She wanted to let it all out. The grief. The isolation. But where pain left her, despair rushed in. She couldn’t take it anymore.

She rose from the steps and staggered toward the river. Slowly. Numb. The dusk was thick. Her eyes blurred with tears. She walked with the setting sun like she meant to dissolve with it and let the Ganga take her pain, her memories…her breath.

Her feet touched the icy water. It stung. But what made her spine jolt wasn’t the chill.

It was the voice.

“Stop.”

She spun around.

A figure sat on the higher steps. Cloaked in shadow. Now descending toward her. As he stepped into the fading light, she saw him. Recognized him.

Nimitt Kalantri.

Her senior.

She had seen him just that morning. Beating the living hell out of the guards who’d struck Deepak. He was the one who carried Deepak’s bleeding body to the hospital. His white shirt, soaked in blood, was now crusted brown.

They’d barely spoken in college. Honestly, Subhadra couldn’t remember him talking to anyone. People whispered names behind his back—Weirdo. Creepy genius. Paranormal freak.

And now here he was.

“What the hell were you doing?” he barked.

“N-nothing,” she stammered, throat sore from screaming.

“Liar. You were about to jump.”

His voice was stern. Almost angry.

“This life may feel like it’s yours but you didn’t breathe it into existence. You didn’t carve it from the silence before time. So no, you don’t get to end what you didn’t begin. Even self-destruction is theft… and the soul, whether broken or burning, still belongs to the One who lit it.”

“Says who?” Subhadra snapped, her pain suddenly flaring into fury. “It’s my life. If not me, then who the hell gets to decide?”

He pointed upward.

“Mahadev. The world belongs to Him. So does life, so does death. He is the one who holds creation in His stillness and ends it with a glance. What we receive, what is taken from us, when we rise or fall… it’s not our choosing. It’s His. Always has been.”

Subhadra laughed, broken and bitter.

“Oh, Mahadev had no problem taking Deepak’s life. No hesitation stealing the only thing that made mine worth it. But he’s squeamish about taking me?”

Nimitt didn’t flinch.

“Because it’s not your time.”

Then he added, like it was an afterthought,

“And that love you lost? It’ll come back. In six months.”

Subhadra blinked. “What?”

“I said…within six months, love will return to your life.”

She stepped back, face twisted in disbelief. “Who the hell do you think you are? What the hell are you? Psychic? God? No one can replace Deepak…and I mean—no one!”

Nimitt’s expression didn’t change.

“Of all the forms of love, you know which one is the highest? The purest?” He paused.

“Motherhood. What Mahadev took from you, he’ll give back. Tenfold.”

It made no sense. None of it. He sounded like a madman. Maybe people were right about him after all.

“Motherhood? In six months? You’re insane.”

“Don’t try to kill yourself again. It won’t work. You’ll fail. And probably catch pneumonia,” he said dryly, turning to walk away.

Subhadra shouted after him.

“You know what hurts the most? Everyone who showed up today for show—press, politicians, classmates… in a week, they’ll forget his name. But not me. I won’t let anyone replace him. Not in memory. Not in my heart. Never.”

Nimitt froze mid-step.

Then turned around slowly.

“If that’s true… I swear this to you, Subhadra.”

His voice was calmer now. Stronger.

“From this day forward, for as long as I’m alive and breathing, I’ll come here. Every year. On this exact day. At this exact time. To honor Deepak’s memory.”

Subhadra laughed harshly.

“You’ll come here every year? For him? You barely even knew him.”

“You don’t need to know someone to feel connected to them,” he said quietly.

“God, you’re delusional,” she muttered.

Nimitt smiled. That slow, unsettling smile.

“Never wore pride.”

“If you’re pulling this stunt thinking, ‘her boyfriend just died, she’s broken and ripe for the taking,’ then let me make it real simple…fuck. off.”

Subhadra’s voice was razor-sharp, eyes locked on him like a loaded gun in the dark.

“Playing grief counselor just to score points with a girl who’s bleeding inside? That’s not just disgusting…it’s predatory. You don’t need help. You need exorcism.”

Suddenly he extended a hand toward her. Subhadra instinctively stepped back, startled.

“Om Hreem Yam Ham Anahataya Namah…”

Nimitt’s eyes were closed as he whispered the mantra into the dying evening light.

And suddenly—Subhadra felt it.

The crushing weight in her chest… it lifted, just enough for her to breathe again.

“Om Shok Vinashinyai Namah,” Nimitt continued softly.

“Your Anahata chakra… your heart center. It will calm.”

The ache, the storm of grief and longing that had been churning inside her… began to settle. Like a wounded sea growing still.

“May love find you in ways that mend your heart… Om Namah Hariharaya,” he said quietly.

Then, without looking back, he turned and climbed the ghats with long, purposeful strides—vanishing into the darkness.

Whether it was the effect of those mantras or simply the stilling of her emotions, Subhadra didn’t try to end her life that night.

After that, she never spoke to Nimitt again.

She saw him a couple of times on campus… but he never approached her.

A month later, Subhadra dropped out.

The college, the hallways, the classrooms, everything reminded her of Deepak.

Staying had become unbearable.

She began traveling across India, studying traditional and folk arts in remote villages.

It was a dream she and Deepak once shared—to explore the world, collecting stories through brush and color.

Now it was a dream she’d have to fulfill alone.

But dreams are expensive. And hers far outweighed what her savings or her broken heart could carry.

Five months later, at her aunt’s insistence, Subhadra landed in Goa.

Her aunt, who was about to retire, had worked for years as secretary to Girish Babu. She hoped to pass her position to Subhadra.

But Subhadra wasn’t interested in the job. Not even a little.

She was just stepping out of Girish Babu’s office, ready to walk away…

when a baby’s piercing cry stopped her cold.

A cluster of ayahs were huddled around a frail two-month-old infant, doing everything they could to feed and soothe her.

But the child was inconsolable. As if howling from some deep, primal wound.

Subhadra couldn’t bear it. She walked over, gently took the baby from the ayah’s arms… and just like that, the crying stopped.

When you’ve lived in the sound of grief for too long, silence hits harder.

It frightens.

Girish Babu, startled by the sudden quiet, rushed out of his office, only to find Subhadra, seated calmly, feeding the baby from a warm bottle.

In that moment, Girish Babu didn’t hesitate. He hired her on the spot as nanny and caregiver to the child. He offered her a salary more generous than anything she’d dreamed.

Enough to fund her travels.

Enough to fulfill her dreams.

Subhadra agreed. She would work for six to eight months, earn what she needed, and then finally leave the country for good.

Six months passed in the blink of an eye.

Ira was now eight months old.

In all that time, not a day went by when Subhadra didn’t think of Deepak.

But the memories had changed.

The pain was no longer sharp, no longer heavy.

What remained was warmth… love… stillness.

Moments sealed in golden light.

And then—January 2nd returned. The date that was etched with the deepest ache.

Subhadra was scrolling through old photographs of her and Deepak on her phone when a message popped up. A video. From an unknown number.

A single diya, flickering gently across the Ganges, floating downstream from Ravidas Ghat.

She glanced at the time.

5:55 PM.

Her heart clenched.

Nimitt.

She had almost forgotten him. Forgotten the voice, the man, the strange echo he left behind.

But something in that video pulled her back to that cold evening on the ghats.

She was still staring at the screen, her fingers trembling slightly…

when Ira, now eight months old, looked up at her and spoke her very first word:

“M…mm…ma.”

“What Mahadev took from you, he’ll give back. Tenfold.”

Nimitt’s voice still echoed in her ears like a whisper folded into time.

“Love will return to your life in the form of motherhood… within six months. May love find you in ways that mend your heart.”

Since then, every year on the 2nd of January, at exactly 5:55 PM, a video would appear on Subhadra’s phone. A lone diya floating gently across the Ganges.

And as Ira grew older, so did Subhadra’s love for her. So fiercely and completely that her desire to ever leave her faded like a dream at dawn.

Subhadra became part of Ira’s world. And of Goa’s.

In those years, she would sometimes see glimpses of Nimitt in the news, always surrounded by shadows, guiding the lost in darkness, igniting hope where none remained.

In doing so, he seemed to make more enemies than friends.

Subhadra never tried to reach out to him. And Nimitt, aside from that yearly video, never contacted her either.

Then, one day on Calangute Beach, her phone slipped from her hand and disappeared into the tide.

With it went her final thread to Nimitt…

No more videos came after that.

A couple of years later, reports of a police case against Nimitt broke into the media.

And just as suddenly, he vanished.

Gone from the spotlight. Gone from social media. Gone from the world.

But Subhadra never stopped believing.

No matter where he was, or what had happened…

Nimitt would still keep his word.

He would light that diya.

He would send it on the Ganges… for her.

⸻

Har Har Mahadev Shambhu, Kashi Vishwanath Gange…

The sound of the evening aarti rose from Assi Ghat, shaking her loose from memory.

Darkness had fallen. The moment had passed.

And Nimitt was nowhere.

Thirteen years had gone by.

How long can a stranger keep a promise made to a woman he hardly knew?

She sighed. It had been foolish to hope. What would she tell Girish Babu now?

What about Ira?

A quiet dread settled over her chest.

Just like thirteen years ago, she was turning away from the ghat empty-handed when she caught a flicker in the corner of her eye.

A diya.

Tiny, trembling, riding the ripples of the Ganges. She hadn’t noticed it before.

And then, through the drums, conches, bells, and distant chants of Ganga aarti, she heard it.

A voice. From the river.

A voice she’d heard only a few times in her life—

but could never, ever forget.

“Shiv Shiv Shiv Shambhu, Mahadev Shambhu…

Shambhu… Sada Shivam… Shambhu…”

He rose from the water like something out of legend. A spectral figure, soaked to the bone.

Shoulder-length waves of wet black hair. A white linen shirt. Turquoise denims, a leather holster, boots… and rudraksha malas wrapped around his neck like a storm.

He had gone into the river dressed like that.

He came out as if he belonged to it.

By the banks, a massive black German Shepherd sat in the shadows, nearly invisible. The moment Nimitt stepped onto land, the dog sprang to life, tail wagging.

“Wuff—wuff!”

“Come, Alpha. Take a dip. Mom’s calling us both,” Nimitt said, flicking his wet hair at the dog. Alpha leapt away in mock protest, dodging the spray, tail still wagging.

The two of them walked up the steps, dripping, laughing…and stopped in front of Subhadra.

“N-Nimitt… Where have you been?” she asked, stunned.

“Right here,” he shrugged. “You were lost in a flashback, so I figured I’d give you and memory some privacy… while I caught up with Mom.”

“Mom?” Subhadra blinked.

He gestured casually to the Ganga behind him.

“Mommy. Mom. Mother. Amma. Mai. Bebe. Aai. Call her whatever you like.”

Subhadra looked at him from head to toe.

He looked exactly as he always had—like someone who didn’t quite belong to this world.

“Aren’t you cold? You’ll catch pneumonia!” she asked, her voice still shaky.

Nimitt laughed, brushing his hair back with his fingers.

“Cold? In Her arms?” he tilted his chin toward the river.

“Not a chance. And as for pneumonia…youth seems to be in no mood to leave me yet.”

Subhadra stood there, watching this strange man, trying to figure out how to place her words in front of someone like him.

Nimitt met her gaze with a knowing smile.

“Say it. I know you didn’t come all this way just to check if I still show up every 2nd of January.”

Subhadra’s eyes flickered.

“Thirteen years ago, you knew everything without even knowing me. You looked at a grieving stranger and told her love would return… in the form of motherhood. Can’t you see now that I’m here to protect that very love?”

Nimitt’s voice was calm, flat as still water.

“How could I? I’m not God. Not fully, anyway.”

“Not fully God?”

Subhadra raised an eyebrow.

“So, you’re partially divine now?”

Nimitt didn’t flinch.

“Everyone is. We’re all… a little bit of God. People forget that the Divine made man in His own image and that the entire cosmos lives, quietly encoded, inside the human form. God and Devil, light and shadow, right and wrong, both live within us. It’s how we hold the balance between those energies…or how we let that balance tip—that defines who we become.”

His voice remained still. Serene. Like a monk who’d already made peace with contradiction.

“So have you made that balance?” she asked.

“Probably not. Which is why I said, ’a little bit’ of God. The rest…?”

He left the sentence hanging, like incense curling into silence.

Subhadra exhaled hard.

“I need your help, Nimitt.”

Her voice had no artifice now. No pride. Just urgency.

In the next two minutes, she laid out the entire situation.

Nimitt didn’t speak. Just stood still, face unreadable, like a carved statue.

Alpha sat patiently by his boots, tail still, listening too.

When she finished, Nimitt finally stirred.

“Girish Babu? That politician?”

Subhadra nodded slowly.

“Big man. Powerful man. Why would someone like him need me? He could hire one of those high-profile celebrity psychics with glossy websites and six-figure rituals.”

“This isn’t a PR gimmick, Nimitt. It’s not some spiritual stunt for headlines. This is about Ira’s life. You have to help me.”

His face didn’t change.

“Politicians, cops, and lawyers , I place them at the bottom of the human chain. Soulless vessels, steeped in deceit, stripped of the humanity they were meant to carry. I steer clear of their breed… and don’t let them walk the roads I walk.”

He turned to leave.

“Girish Babu isn’t like that. He’s not. People in Mollem worship him like a god.”

“Good for him. Good for the people of Mollem. Not my soup.”

“This isn’t about Girish Babu. This is about Ira. She’s just a child. And whatever’s happening to her…she doesn’t deserve it.”

Nimitt’s voice darkened.

“Welcome to reality, Subhadra. It’s always the innocent who get what they don’t deserve. That’s how this world works. Deal with it.”

He turned.

“I can’t help you.”

“Come, Alpha.”

The shepherd by his feet stood up instantly at his command.

And just like that, Nimitt walked away. Leaving Subhadra standing there…

adrift in a tide of silence, disbelief, and growing despair.

“I made a mistake coming here,” Subhadra spat the words at his back, her voice thick with disgust. “Maybe the world’s right about you. You’re a selfish lunatic who can’t see past his own reflection.”

Nimitt stopped. No rush. Just a slow turn of the head. His eyes caught the light. Cold. Unreadable. A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.

“Never wore pride,” he said. The voice was steady. Too steady.

“You used to stand for something,” she threw back. “Now look at you. Drowning in ego. Blinded by your craving to play God. You’re not trying to rise, you’re trying to outgrow the one who raised you. That’s not ambition...that’s desperation.”

In the quiet that followed, a voice crackled in Nimitt’s skull—dry, sarcastic, too damn amused.

“Oh yeah, dream of the century—overthrowing the toothless king of a half-dead two-cent worth kingdom,” Skelly muttered. Only Nimitt and Alpha heard it.

He tried not to laugh. Really did. Didn’t work.

It broke out. Sharp. Cracked. Unapologetic.

“Shut up, Skelly. Not the time for stand-up.”

Nimitt muttered sideways, under his breath, like he was scolding someone sitting right beside him.

But there was no one there.

Subhadra narrowed her eyes.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Skelly.”

“Skelly?”

“Forget it.”

He waved it off like swatting smoke.

Then his tone hardened. Still calm, but cutting.

“Look… Everything you said about me? True. Absolutely. That’s me. The whole damn mess of it. Happy now? What next? Gonna go join the Nimitt Kalantri Hate Group? Plenty of crybabies in there. Scream my name, tear your blouse, claw your chest, do whatever fits the mood. You’ve got your confirmation. I’m that awful. So why do you still want my help? People like me…you keep at the same distance you’d keep Lucifer.”

He smiled, not out of warmth, but out of detachment. Like someone who had already been condemned, and learned to enjoy the echo of it.

Subhadra’s expression shifted. Her tired, desperate eyes searched his. He recognized the helplessness. The rage boiling over not at him—but through him.

He said nothing.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Nimitt. I’m not in my senses. I’m saying things I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t apologize. Look, I’m telling you…it’s all true.”

He shrugged, unbothered.

But she stepped closer.

“If it were true…you wouldn’t be here lighting a lamp in Deepak’s name every year. I know you, Nimitt. You’re not what the world thinks. Because the world only knows what you let it know.”

Nimitt’s gaze didn’t soften. But it narrowed.

“Instigation doesn’t work on me. Neither does reverse psychology. My choices. My nature. They don’t change, Subhadra.”

He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the finality in his whisper.

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned to leave—for the third time.

But he didn’t take more than two steps.

Because a voice erupted from Subhadra’s phone.

A voice soaked in venom.

“There he is… Girish Babu. How’s it feel? Smelling your daughter’s blood? Try to come closer, and her bones will rip right out of her flesh. Your daughter has bled, Girish Babu. Bled her way into womanhood. Thirteen years I’ve waited for this moment. The end of your bloodline begins tonight.”

The sound froze Nimitt mid-stride.

Subhadra was playing the CCTV footage of the incident that took place two days ago.

He stepped back. Took the phone from her trembling hands.

And watched. Watched like the world had gone silent around him—except for the image of Ira on that screen.

He didn’t say a word.

Subhadra’s voice returned, flat and dry,

“She hasn’t woken up, Nimitt. And Girish Babu—he’s holding on to hope only because I asked him to wait for you. We don’t know if Ira’s coming back. And if she does… we don’t know what that thing inside her will do to her. You can go now. I won’t stop you this time.”

She reached for the phone. Took it from his hand.

Nimitt didn’t resist.

But his fingers lingered at his throat—finding the pendant of Maa Durga hanging there.

His thumb began to circle it. Slowly. Repeatedly.

“What sort of crossroads is this, Mom?” Nimitt muttered, fingers brushing the Durga locket at his neck. “The heart says help her. The head’s screaming no.”

“Mom ain’t putting you in a dilemma. This disaster magnet is,” came Skelly’s sarcastic whisper, echoing inside Nimitt’s skull. “And listen, Chump, every time you’ve followed your heart, you ended up with an arrow through your soul and somewhere a lot less poetic. Use your head for once and walk away from her Greek tragedy.”

Nimitt paused, tone neutral, thoughtful. “Alright. If Mom really wants me to help you… she’ll send a sign. In the next sixty seconds.”

“A sign? What kind of sign?” Subhadra asked, puzzled.

“How the hell would I know?” Nimitt shrugged casually. “Anything. I’ll know it when I see it.”

“And if no sign comes?” Her voice cracked slightly.

“Then I walk away. With zero regrets.” His voice was flat. Final.

Subhadra’s eyes locked on the digital glow of her smartwatch. Nimitt’s own gaze drifted to the second hand ticking around the face of his antique Zodiac compass watch.

“Brilliant, Chump,” Skelly muttered like a half-drunk uncle, audible only to Nimitt and Alpha. “Mom waltzes outta The Ganges in full Chopra-verse drag and gives you a divine thumbs-up.. not anytime soon. One-way ticket outta sad girl saga, and we’re free. ”

Alpha, clearly unimpressed, let out a low growl and looked up at Nimitt with disapproval in his eyes. Nimitt responded with a shrug, as if saying don’t look at me, blame the cosmos.

For Subhadra, that one minute stretched longer than a lifetime. Each ticking second slammed into her chest like a hammer. Everything else had slowed. The wind had died. The river stilled. Even the waves refused to move — as if the universe had hit pause.

Time… froze.

No sign. No divine whisper. No shift in the current. Just silence.

“Nothing. No signal. Answer’s clear, Subhadra,” Nimitt said, voice cold as winter steel. “I can’t help you.”

“Crisis averted! Time for sweets, Alpha. My treat tonight—sweet ‘malaiyo’ at the Pehelwaan’s. Chum’s paying,” Skelly crowed with wicked cheer.

The final second of the countdown was about to fall when—

“Woof-woofsss!” Alpha barked sharply — but there was something off about it. Not protest. Not annoyance. Something else.

Nimitt stopped mid-step. Turned toward the river.

That’s when he heard it.

From the misted banks, carried over the still Ganges air, a voice floated from a passing steamer:

“Aigiri nandini nandhitha medhini

Viswa Vinodhini Nandanuthe

Girivara Vindhya Sirodhi Nivasini

Vishnu Vilasini Jishnu Nuthe

Bhagawathi Hey Sithi Kanda Kudumbini

Bhoori Kudumbini Bhoori Kruthe

Jaya Jaya Hey Mahishasura Mardini Ramyaka pardini Shailasuthe”

The Mahishasura Mardini Stotram — ancient, potent, the hymn of Maa Durga blared through rusted deck speakers, echoing like a war drum through the still night.

Alpha began hopping on his front paws, tail wagging like a temple bell. Nimitt’s eyes narrowed, then softened. His gaze fell on the boat now gliding down the river, wrapped in fog and hymn.

Nimitt smiled. Quiet. Knowing.

“Guess the malaiyo’s off the table,” Skelly grumbled with mock sorrow.

“Alpha rides cabin, not cargo,” Nimitt muttered, almost like a ritual promise.

“Done,” Subhadra nodded, fingers gently combing through Alpha’s fur.

“Let’s move. Looks like Mom just RSVP’d,…Malaiyo’s on me tonight,” Nimitt began climbing the steps, Alpha and Subhadra right behind him.

From the top lane, a benarasi local wobbled past on a rusty bicycle, singing in a ganja-dazed slur:

“…pehle apne mann saaf karo, fir auron ka insaaf karo. Yaar hamaari baat suno, aisa ek naadaan chuno…”

“…jisne paap naa kiya ho, jo paapi naa ho,” Nimitt completed the verse in tune as they passed into the dark.

To be continued.