Chapter 1: The Night of No Rules

Someone’s girlfriend was hiding under the thin blue curtain of the lower bunk again—the only rule in this hostel was, there were no rules. The management barely bothered with discipline; wardens vanished after evening roll-call, and students relied on jugaad to get by. Somewhere down the hall, someone’s tiffin box clattered, and the stale smell of last night’s dal-chawal drifted through the corridor, mixing with the sharp tang of Gudang Garam cigarettes and cheap cologne. Tonight, Arjun from the lower bunk had gone too far—his girlfriend Meera was right there, giggling beneath everyone’s noses. I could just imagine the chaos if the warden caught them: Arjun’s parents summoned from Gorakhpur, Amma’s voice ringing in my ears, “Beta, hostel ka hawa hi kharaab hai!” But tonight, as the yellow tube light flickered and the ceiling fan whirred lazily, muffled giggles and whispers floated up from below. In the distance, a dhol beat from a late-night baraat thudded through the walls, blending with the ever-present buzz of the pressure cooker in the mess.

As the night deepened, the bed kept creaking. I lay there half-awake, mind wandering, feeling the humidity cling to my skin. The old metal cot squeaked in rhythm with the whispers and bursts of laughter below. Every now and then, a mosquito buzzed too close, and I slapped at my arm, cursing under my breath. Typical hostel night—restless, sticky, and thick with secrets. I tried to lose myself in the cracks of the ceiling paint, but the creaks just got louder, refusing to let me escape.

Suddenly, my phone’s blue light blinked in the dark. The WhatsApp chime was soft under my pillow, but Kunal’s message on the hostel group was anything but subtle: [Bhai, apne room ki ladkiyon ko bol, thoda dheere. Kabhi ro rahe hain, kabhi hans rahe hain, bahut shor hai yaar.] My brow furrowed. Girls—plural? Was he drunk or just pulling a fast one? I rubbed my eyes, trying to make sense of it. Our hostel thrived on gossip, but this was strange even by our standards.

Girls? A few girls? The question stuck in my mind. Maybe Kunal was just being dramatic—or maybe he wanted to start a fresh rumour. I sat up, sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to my back, and peered down at the lower bunk.

The curtain on the lower bunk was drawn tight, the cheap blue fabric fluttering slightly in the breeze from the pedestal fan. Only the shadowy forms of Arjun and Meera, huddled together, were visible. The bed rocked in a steady rhythm, but I couldn’t see anything else.

Another message from Kunal: [Bas bahut ho gaya.] [Pichle kuch din se har raat chaar-paanch ladkiyan, koi ro rahi hai, koi hans rahi hai, rukta hi nahi.] I scowled and quickly typed back: Kya bol raha hai, bhai? Sirf ek hai, Arjun ki girlfriend. Aur woh ro bhi nahi rahi, hans bhi nahi rahi. Sometimes, I felt like Kunal had gone fully mad—or maybe he just liked making trouble. I quickly typed back, hoping he’d let it go.

Kunal replied instantly: [Abhi bhi acting kar raha hai? Khud sun le, kitna shor hai.] He sent a voice note.

In the audio, several women’s laughter overlapped with strange sobbing, all muddled together. The slap-slap of chappals on the mosaic floor—at least four or five people—echoed, and someone knocked on a door, trying to get in. The laughter had that sharp, nasal edge, just like the girls from my hometown gossiping on the terrace at night. Then came the sobbing—thin, desperate—cut through by the frantic clatter of chappals and the faint clink of bangles. The knocking sounded urgent, like something out of those old Zee Horror Show episodes. I felt goosebumps rise on my arms, Amma’s words flashing through my mind: “Raat ko ladkiyon ki hansi sunna bura shagun hai.” My mouth went dry, the fan’s whirring suddenly deafening.

I was frozen. The sounds were definitely from our room, but how had I missed them? I touched my ears, feeling the sweat break out on my brow. Was I so sleep-deprived that my mind was playing tricks, or had I slept through a full-blown gathering?

When did our room have so many girls? Was someone sneaking them in when I wasn’t around?

I typed: [Kab record kiya tha?]

Kunal replied: [Do din pehle. Har raat do baje ke baad tum log shuru ho jaate ho. Bahut baar bola hai. Ab acting band kar.]

Reminded several times? I replied quickly: [Mujhe kuch yaad nahi hai.]

Kunal: [Bhai, not cool. Kal raat do baje main khud aaya tha. Tune hi darwaza khola, bola agli baar dhyan rakhenge. Bhool gaya kya?]

I was even more lost. Kal raat toh main cyber café mein tha, all night.

[Sure you have the right room? Hum chaaron toh cyber café mein the. Kisne khola?] I sent, confusion making my fingers shake.

Kunal just sent a 🙄 on WhatsApp: [Chhod na. Ab firse has rahi hain. Bahut tez hai. Pagal kar dengi mujhe.]

Again? I sat up, scanning the dark room. Lights off, everything quiet. No laughter, no crying. Just the hum of the inverter, the distant Bollywood song from the guard’s radio, Arjun’s soft snoring, and the steady ticking of my Titan watch. Nothing else.

I was about to ask Kunal what he meant, when the lower bunk’s curtain rustled. Arjun stuck his head out, worry on his face. “Rohit bhaiya, kuch awaaz aayi kya corridor mein?”

I frowned. “Kya suna tune?”

Arjun’s hand shook as he clutched his Nokia phone. “Sach mein awaaz hai! Main toh darwaze ke paas sota hoon, clearly sunai deta hai. Corridor mein kadam ki aahat, roz hota hai.” His voice trembled, eyes darting to Meera for reassurance. She pulled her dupatta tighter, bangles clinking as she glanced nervously at me.

“Itna toh normal hai, koi bathroom jaa raha hoga. Hostel hai, log aate jaate rehte hain,” I tried to sound calm.

But then, another roommate sat up, anxiety clear on his face. “Nahi bhai, yeh bathroom wali aahat nahi hai.”

The room rep, our self-appointed leader, sat up too. All three stared at me, faces pale. No one was asleep. Even Meera peered out, her eyes wide, wrapping her dupatta tighter around herself, fingers twisting her bangles nervously.

Before I could say more, a burst of footsteps echoed from downstairs.

Chak—

Chak—

Chak—

Women’s hard-soled sandals striking the floor, climbing from the first to the second floor. I stopped breathing. Each step echoed like the taan from an old Lata Mangeshkar song—deliberate, heavy, and haunting. Dadi’s old stories of chudails with backward feet filled my mind.

I checked my phone. 2:00 AM. Always at this time. Footsteps in the corridor, stopping at every door as if searching for something. Arjun whispered a quick Hanuman Chalisa, clutching his Om locket.

I quickly messaged Kunal: [Footsteps sun raha hai?]

[Sab aa rahi hain,] he replied.

The footsteps reached our floor. I held my breath, straining to listen. Suddenly, silence.

“I told you, bathroom jaane wala hi hoga…” I tried, but everyone’s faces looked terrible.

Chak chak chak chak chak—

A sudden burst of hurried footsteps, wild and frantic, stopped right outside our door.

Outside, the sound of red high heels faded into the night—but in my mind, they kept coming closer.