Chapter 3: The Bargain and the Peepal Wood

The old man, annoyed by my attitude, flung my arm aside.

His bangles clattered together as he released me, face twisting in irritation. "Aaj kal ke ladke, kuch nahi samajhte—sabko sab kuch mazaak lagta hai."

He looked me up and down, smirking. "Teri shirt dekh—do din ka paseena. Aur phone bhi purana. Sapne dekhna band kar, beta. If you don’t have a mirror, at least you have a puddle to look in, hai na?"

He pointed with his stick at a muddy puddle by the gutter. His tone was half-mocking, half-pitying, like some strict headmaster scolding a stubborn student.

"Soch, kya lagta hai tujhe? Aisi sundar ladki tujhe line degi?"

His words stung. It was like a slap without the sound. My mouth opened to retort, but nothing came out.

I wanted to retort, but the words caught in my throat. I couldn’t argue back.

It was the kind of silence you only feel when someone hits a nerve. My fingers curled, embarrassed.

He was right.

I have neither looks nor money.

I thought about my second-hand mobile, my torn wallet, the stains on my shirt. What did I have to offer, except a half-broken taxi?

Sure, I’ve dated a few women, but last night’s—she was way out of my league. No way would someone like her be interested in me.

My friends would have laughed at me if I’d told them. No, it didn’t make sense. It just didn’t add up.

I handed the old man a Gold Flake cigarette.

I figured, if nothing else, at least he’d leave me alone after a smoke. That’s how things worked at the stand—chai, smoke, and some time.

"Baat kar lete hain."

I said it quietly, the way one asks for a story rather than a solution. He eyed the cigarette, lips twitching in approval. He took the cigarette, sniffed it, then lit up with a practiced hand, lips stained red.

He glared at me, then pulled me to the side of the dusty road.

The horns and bustle of the morning traffic seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of us and the faint buzz of mosquitoes.

"Zinda rehna hai ya marna hai?"

He took a long drag, his eyes never leaving mine, the smoke curling around his beard like a ghostly halo.

I flicked the cigarette butt away. "Kis ko marna ka shauk hai?"

My voice was harsher than I intended, but I was rattled—no point pretending otherwise.

He handed me a piece of wood. "Jeena hai toh yeh le."

He rummaged in his jhola and produced a piece of dark, gnarled wood. It smelled of earth and rain. Like the temple courtyard after a storm—almost sacred.

"Aaj raat ko, jab gaadi chalaye, isse darwaze ke paas rakhna."

He pressed it into my hand, the weight oddly comforting. "Bhoolna mat, haan?"

"Koi bhoot ya chudail nahi aa sakta."

At the mention of 'chudail', I felt another shiver. I remembered Nani’s stories—women with their feet turned backwards, haunting the peepal trees on amavasya nights.

The wood was blackened.

He said it was struck by lightning—peepal wood, a talisman against evil spirits and chudails.

He recited a little mantra under his breath as he handed it to me. "Peepal ki lakdi, bijli se jali—badi taaqat hai isme. Rakhlena."

I took the wood, eyeing him with suspicion. "Arrey baba, ek din ki chhutti le loon? Kyun jaoon aaj raat gaadi leke, jab bhoot intezaar kar raha hai? Pagal thodi hoon."

"Ghar baith jaoon, toh bacha reh jaaunga?"

My friends would have called me a madman for even considering it. But the old man’s expression didn’t change.