Chapter 2: The Curse of Banmali Colony

Years passed. Mobile towers rose, but my heart stayed hollow. I wandered the alleys of my ruined childhood, a rusted blade in hand, every step a goodbye. Then, by chance, I overheard a drunken confession at the liquor shop. There was a long silence as men passed around the glass, the only sound the buzzing of mosquitoes. Amit, Neha’s brother, boasted, "Old hag, since I dared to burn you to death back then, I’m not afraid. If you haunt my dreams, I’ll piss on your grave every day."

Rage and shock snapped me awake. I forced Amit to confess: it was Neha and her family who set the fire, to stop Dadi from seeking justice for me. Their greed and hatred were boundless.

With red eyes, I slaughtered Amit and stormed the Sharmas’ two-storey bungalow. Neha, now married to the richest businessman’s son, sat resplendent in gold. I remembered the smell of kerosene, burning silk saris, and vengeance. I did not hesitate—I slit every throat, set the house ablaze, and lay down in my pit, stained red. The wails of their household echoed, but I felt only a hollow peace as the fire roared.

When I opened my eyes again, the same old fan creaked overhead, the smell of Dadi’s agarbatti filling the air. The sound of azan mingled with the sabziwala’s cries outside. Time had turned back again—to the day of the board exam, 1990. Not far away, I heard Neha’s desperate shouts. This time, I clenched my teeth and walked on, letting her cries dissolve into the humid morning. The bitterness of my past life burned away any trace of pity.