Chapter 4: The Secret Bag and Night’s Bargains

We hid near the hill, set up our tent, and sat together. Before we knew it, night had deepened. The noise from the others faded away.

From our little patch behind a thorn bush, we watched the camp grow quiet. The city folk’s laughter faded to soft murmurs, then to the odd cough, the gentle rustle of someone searching for their toothbrush, and finally to the silence of spent excitement. Our own tent, battered from past monsoons, felt like a safe little island.

My cousin’s hands moved slow, almost reverent, as he unzipped the faded bag. I could hear my own heartbeat, loud as the temple drum on Shivratri. He ran his fingers over the worn canvas, eyes twinkling. “Aaj toh kamaal ki raat hai,” he muttered, lips curving into a mysterious smile. Whatever was in that bag, it was more precious than gold, at least to him.

I asked, “What’s in there?”

He just raised an eyebrow, teasing, “Guess karo toh jaane!” The secret seemed to tickle him, making him almost giddy. “Chup chaap baith, sabar ka fal meetha hota hai.”

He said, “Don’t ask. Our earnings for this trip depend on this.”

The way he said it—so sure, so street-smart—reminded me of the traders at Kaveripur haat, who could sell you anything from turmeric to dreams. He kept the bag close to his chest, patting it like a pet. I was itching with curiosity, but he had his rules.

He always handled the group’s supplies himself, never letting me help. I was curious, and a little resentful.

Sometimes, I’d wonder if he thought I was too young, too naïve. I’d helped carry bags, set up tents, even lit fires that refused to catch, but the important things—he kept for himself. That night, I felt the line between us as clear as the mountain air. Still, I trusted him. After all, he was family.