Chapter 1: The News Arrives

When my bhabhi was three months pregnant, we found her hanging from the ceiling fan. In Rajpur, even the walls seem to whisper such news before the phone rings. The shock crashed over me—cold, instant, and absolute. The moment the call came, my hands shook so badly that the phone slipped from my grasp and clattered onto the floor. As I fumbled to pick it up, I tried to dial back, but my mind was blank, the numbers slipping away. On the other end, Mummy’s voice trembled, barely holding back her sobs, but she never told me what had happened. Only, “Beta, jaldi aaja. Ek baar dekh le usse.”

I took the overnight train back to Rajpur.

The train was jam-packed—suitcases poking my knees, a toddler wailing for Frooti, someone’s samosa oil staining the seat, and chaiwalas yelling at every stop. The thick scent of cardamom chai mixed with sweat and iron rails. My mind kept spinning, replaying Mummy’s voice again and again. Even as the tracks rumbled beneath me, I couldn't shake off the heavy sense of dread that sat on my chest like a stone.

My mother never mentioned the reason for my bhabhi’s death. She only urged me to hurry and see her one last time.

When I reached home, the house was silent in that peculiar way only grief can bring. No neighbours peeking in, no aunties whispering in the corridor. Mummy didn’t look up. She kept twisting the edge of her dupatta, lips moving in a silent prayer, as if hoping the right words could undo the last twenty-four hours. The air inside felt heavy, as if holding its breath. But she just said, "Jaldi ja, beta. Ek nazar dekh le usko."

I had just approached my bhabhi’s body when, all of a sudden, she opened her eyes.

Her eyelids fluttered, and for a split second, I saw the same mole on her chin I’d teased her about during Diwali. My knees nearly buckled. It was like seeing a ghost in broad daylight, in your own drawing room, with the tick of the wall clock in the background. For a second, I thought my own mind was playing tricks on me.

She said, "Ishaan, run."

Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but it pierced the thick air of the room like a knife. My skin erupted in goosebumps.

Ishaan is my name.

In that moment, my heart hammered against my ribcage. My palms turned cold and clammy, as if I'd been caught doing something wrong in school and was about to be scolded by the principal. But this was no ordinary scolding. This was a warning, from the dead.