Chapter 2: Black Magic and Green Eyes

I don’t understand. I woke up extra early, packed in silence, and closed my door with care. I’d even rubbed coconut oil on the hinges the night before so they wouldn’t squeak and wake the whole house. Not even the house lizard noticed me slipping about.

So how did Arjun’s snake still manage to get in? Sometimes I think it’s picked up some kala jadoo from Arjun. Or maybe, as Dadi would say, it’s that old naagmani connection.

“You—you, don’t come near me.”

I shrank into the corner. My dupatta slipped off my shoulder as I pressed myself into the corner, silently reciting Hanuman Chalisa in my head. The suitcase on the floor felt like my last shield. Sunlight from the window caught floating dust, lighting up the little black snake, all glossy and alert.

The snake, pitch-black and sleek, paused at the doorway, tongue flicking, hissing softly—ssssss. The sibilance echoed through the small room, drowning out even the distant temple bells.

It seemed to be staring at my suitcase. And I swear, it looked annoyed. Wah bhai, now even the snake has attitude?

I waved my hand, trying to sound brave: “Just stay there, okay? Don’t move. Don’t even think of coming closer.” I tried to channel those old Hindi film heroines who could stop a villain with just one glare.

The little snake didn’t budge. It just kept those grape-like eyes locked on me. Sometimes, I swear it’s thinking, “Yeh ladki kitni dramebaaz hai.”

I let out a shaky breath and quietly went back to packing. The metal zippers on my suitcase jingled nervously.

“So early—where are you off to?”

The door creaked open. Arjun leaned against the frame, drawing out each syllable as he looked at me: “Fi-an-cée.” He always said it as if rolling a sweet on his tongue, testing the taste.

Like a rabbit caught in headlights, I jumped and stammered, “G-going out for a trip, just for fun.” My voice was embarrassingly squeaky—like a kid caught stealing laddoos.

“With whom?”

“My friend—you don’t know them.” Classic excuse. He never asks who my friends are anyway.

He narrowed his eyes and walked over slowly. I caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap and the faint neem from his garden.

I instinctively backed away. My feet bumped against the suitcase.

He frowned. “It’s bad enough you’re scared of snakes—are you scared of me too?” His words were sharper than usual. For a moment, I saw hurt flicker in his eyes, then it vanished.

Honestly, I’m not scared of him. But lately, that girl Priya—showing up in his snake greenhouse with her confidence—makes me feel like a joke. Like my place next to him is shakier than a rickshaw during monsoon.

I turned away, biting my lip, silent. My throat felt tight, as if I’d swallowed a chilly by mistake. I wanted to ask him why Priya could touch his snakes so easily, why I always felt like an outsider in my own story.

“Fine.”

Arjun crouched and picked up the little black snake. His hands were sure, gentle, almost loving. It obediently wrapped around his wrist, lifted its head, and hissed.

He stared at me. “Touch it.”

My heart was thumping so loudly, I wondered if even the neighbour’s dog could hear. I looked terrified.

The air around Arjun seemed to get colder. His face was the same one he wore when Amma scolded him for eating the last gulab jamun—defiant, but hiding something soft underneath.

He repeated, “Touch it. Keep it with you for one night. If you do, I’ll let you go out.”

He’s stubborn, but Arjun never goes back on his word. Not since we were kids—except maybe that time with Dadaji’s stolen mangoes.

Summoning every bit of courage, I reached out. Just as the snake poked its head forward, my hand trembled, and it was already climbing up. The sensation was slippery-cold, almost electric.

“Arrey—!”

I screamed. My voice echoed down the hall; I prayed Aunty wouldn’t come running. The little black snake greedily wrapped itself around my wrist, its tail rubbing insistently.

“Mmm.”

At the same time, Arjun let out a muffled groan. His face twisted, cheeks flushed. It was like he was fighting with himself—something I’d never seen before.

I stared at him, baffled. He looked both angry and embarrassed. “Go. Give it back to me tomorrow.”

After he left, I was alone with the snake, staring at each other in the heavy air scented with wet earth—someone must have sprinkled water on the verandah outside. The ceiling fan above us creaked, scattering a few dried neem leaves onto the marble floor. Somewhere outside, the milkman’s cycle bell clanged.