The rickshaw puller's bare feet slapped against rain-slicked pavement as he rounded the corner of Chhattambey Lane, lungs burning like cheap kerosene. Behind him, Mrs. Das leaned forward, her nurse's uniform still smelling of antiseptic and exhaustion.
"Right," she rasped, jabbing a finger toward the shadowed spire looming ahead. "Cathedral side. Not the market gate." The predawn air hung thick with wet dust and jasmine blooms, pierced by the distant, sweet melody of the Adhan drifting from the Mosque of Seven Arches, a call to prayer that usually soothed, but today felt like a thin thread fraying under tension.
The puller Bishnu, his name stitched crookedly on his vest grunted, swerving past a pyramid of rotting jackfruit. He knew the shortcut through the archway choked with bicycle rickshaws, but the memsaab wanted the view. Always the view. Even at 4 AM.
"Ten taka extra," Bishnu panted, slowing near the moss-eaten gargoyles. "For the detour."
Mrs. Das's laugh was a dry leaf crumbling. "Detour? This is the way. Fair's fair, McGrath."
She never called him by his real name. It was always "McGrath," a relic from some long-dead Irish priest who'd once tipped him generously. She dug into her worn purse, coins clinking. "Here. Five. And be glad."
Bishnu spat onto the wet cobbles. "Five buys you halfway to hell, memsaab. Cathedral steps or not."
She dropped the coins into his calloused palm. "Then halfway's where I'll get off."
Her eyes flickered toward Colony Heights, its windows dark except for one, third floor, left. Her children's window. A shadow seemed to ripple across it, quick as a lizard darting under a stone.
The stain awaited her.
Not on the third-floor landing, but in it a slick, viscous oval sunk deep into the concrete like a fossilized tear. It wasn't black anymore. Under the flickering corridor bulb, it pulsed with bruised purples and oily greens. Mrs. Das paused, her cheap sandal hovering an inch above its edge. The air tasted metallic, thick. Like licking a battery.
"Again?" she muttered. Last week, it smelled of burnt sugar. Today, wet earth and something...
Male sweat, maybe. Or rust.
She stepped over it. Her key scraped the lock. Inside, the flat breathed silence. Too silent. No cartoons blaring. No squabbling. Only the drip-drip-drip from the kitchen tap. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Not again. Not today.
"Bablu? Chumki?"
A giggle slithered from beneath the sofa. Then another. Relief flooded her, sour and thin. Safe. For now. She toed off her sandals. Her husband's snores rattled the bedroom door. Good. Let him sleep. Let him dream his scaly nightmares far away from her.
Mrs. Das padded toward the kitchen.
And froze.
On the chipped Formica counter, beside yesterday's unwashed pot, sat three perfect rotis. Not stacked. Arranged in a tight, gleaming spiral. Like a serpent's coil.
Mrs. Das stared. Her fingers, still smelling of hospital bleach, trembled. This wasn't Bablu's clumsy play. This was precision. Cold, alien precision. The drip-drip-drip of the tap echoed the frantic thud of her heart. Where were they? She whirled, scanning the cramped kitchen. The sagging cupboard door, the grease-smeared stove, the crack snaking up the wall near the sink. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Then, a stifled giggle. From inside the crack.
"Chumki?" Her voice cracked. "Come out. Now."
Silence.
Then, a soft rustling from inside the wall crack like dry leaves skittering across concrete. Mrs. Das lunged forward, pressing her ear to the peeling plaster. "Bablu? Answer me!"
A muffled whisper, high-pitched and giggly, "Shiny Auntie says play quiet."
Mrs. Das recoiled. Her stomach clenched. Not rats. Not imagination. Something else. Something that left spiraled rotis and spoke through cracks. She grabbed the broom leaning against the fridge, its bristles stiff with old grease. With a grunt born of desperation, she jammed the handle into the crack, levering it sideways. Plaster dust showered onto the countertop. A small, dark cavity yawned open empty except for a single, iridescent scale, smaller than her fingernail, catching the weak kitchen light like a shard of oil-slicked glass.
Her gaze snagged on a half-burned matchstick lodged near the skirting board. A memory bloomed, sharp and bright against the dread. Bablu and Chumki sprawled on the kitchen floor a few days ago, sunlight slicing through the barred window. They'd built a sprawling cityscape from matchsticks. Crooked towers, lopsided houses, and Bablu's crowning glory, a bridge.
Not just any bridge. He'd declared it "like Leonardo the Vinchi," painstakingly weaving matchsticks into a fragile, intricate arch spanning two chipped teacups. Chumki had giggled, placing tiny pebbles as "peoples" crossing it, her eyes wide with delight. Mrs. Das had scolded them about the fire risk, her voice thick with the warmth of ordinary worry. Ordinary joy. The memory felt alien now, a fossil trapped in amber.
On the chipped Formica counter, beside yesterday's unwashed pot, sat three perfect rotis. Not stacked. Arranged in a tight, gleaming spiral. Like a serpent's coil.
Mrs. Das stared. Her fingers, still smelling of hospital bleach, trembled. This wasn't Bablu's clumsy play. This was precision. Cold, alien precision. The drip-drip-drip of the tap echoed the frantic thud of her heart. Where were they? She whirled, scanning the cramped kitchen. The sagging cupboard door, the grease-smeared stove, the crack snaking up the wall near the sink. Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. Then, a stifled giggle. From inside the crack.
"Chumki?" Her voice cracked. "Come out. Now."
Silence.
Then, a soft rustling from inside the wall crack like dry leaves skittering across concrete. Mrs. Das lunged forward, pressing her ear to the peeling plaster. "Bablu? Answer me!"
A muffled whisper, high-pitched and giggly, "Shiny Auntie says play quiet."
Mrs. Das recoiled. Her stomach clenched. Not rats. Not imagination. Something else. Something that left spiraled rotis and spoke through cracks. She grabbed the broom leaning against the fridge, its bristles stiff with old grease. With a grunt born of desperation, she jammed the handle into the crack, levering it sideways. Plaster dust showered onto the countertop. A small, dark cavity yawned open empty except for a single, iridescent scale, smaller than her fingernail, catching the weak kitchen light like a shard of oil-slicked glass.
The kitchen door creaked. Bablu and Chumki shuffled in, bare feet whispering on the cool tile. Their small arms stretched out, fingers trembling towards the stiff white folds of Mrs. Das's uniform. They moved as one, stumbling into the space where her knees met starch, seeking the sharp tang of hospital bleach beneath the clinging metallic dread. Safety smelled like disinfectant. Safety was Ma. Chumki buried her face in the crisp apron bib, inhaling deeply. Bablu pressed his forehead against her hipbone, a silent anchor.
"No Shiny Auntie talk," Mrs. Das commanded, her voice low and frayed at the edges. She pushed two greasy paper packets into their hands – hotel-bought rice and curry, their containers stained translucent with oil. "Eat. Proper food. Forgot your breakfast again, didn't I?" Her smile was thin, brittle. A nurse's smile for frightened children. Bablu clutched his packet, the oily paper crinkling loudly in the thick silence. Chumki stared at hers, then at the unnervingly coiled rotis still gleaming on the counter. The rice and curry smelled of spices and warmth, earthy and real. The rotis smelled… blank. Like dust.
Mrs. Das knelt, her uniform skirt pooling on the gritty floor. She took Chumki's small face in her hands. The girl flinched slightly, her large, dark eyes wide pools reflecting the flickering kitchen bulb. Mrs. Das traced the curve of her daughter's cheekbone, the rich, deep brown of her skin – skin like fertile earth after the first monsoon shower, beautiful and resilient.
Skin that made Mrs. Das's own heart clench. "Who will see this?" the treacherous whisper slithered in. "Who will see past the colour when she grows? Who will claim this beautiful, dark blossom?" She tucked a stray curl behind Chumki's ear, her thumb brushing the soft skin. "My little queen," she murmured, forcing warmth into her voice. "Dark as midnight, bright as morning. Eat now." She pushed the meal packet closer.
Bablu tore into his packet, grease spotting his fingers. He didn't look at the coiled rotis. Chumki hesitated, her gaze flicking between the rice and the unnerving spiral on the counter. Then, slowly, she picked up her rice, taking a small, deliberate bite. The oily container crackled faintly in the thick silence. The scent of warm rice and spices bloomed, momentarily smothering the damp, metallic tang from the crack.
Mrs. Das watched them chew, the simple act anchoring her against the swirling dread. Bablu's jaw worked mechanically, his eyes distant, fixed on the weeping crack in the wall. Chumki chewed slowly, her tiny shoulders tense. Relief, thin and sour, washed over Mrs. Das. They were eating. Occupied. For now.
As soon as Bablu swallowed his first bite, Mrs. Das turned. "Finish," she commanded, her voice clipped, nurse-sharp. "I need to wash." She didn't wait for a reply. Padding past the silent children, she pushed open the bathroom door.
Inside, the cracked porcelain sink offered a familiar refuge. She twisted the tap. A rusty cough, then a thin brown trickle splattered into the basin. She waited, willing the water to clear. It didn't. It smelled faintly of the Hooghly at low tide; mud, decay, and something else. Something metallic, sharp. Foundation stone dust weeping into the pipes.
She splashed the tainted water onto her face, the cold shock anchoring her. Her reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink looked gaunt, shadows pooling under her eyes like bruises. She leaned closer. For a heartbeat, the face staring back seemed… smoother. Younger. The lines around her mouth softened, the exhaustion lifting like mist. Then, a ripple, subtle, unsettling, passed across the glass surface. The familiar lines snapped back into place, etched deeper than before. Her breath hitched.
Tomorrow, she thought, the word a fragile anchor chain. Ten o'clock. She had to get them ready. School started at ten-thirty. Routine. Normalcy. "Ten," she whispered aloud, her voice rasping against the silence. "Get Bablu and Chumki ready. 'Ten.'" The repetition felt like a ward against the impossible.
She pushed away from the sink, the damp imprint of her hands evaporating quickly on the cool tile. Turning towards the kitchen doorway, the kitchen table stood empty. Two abandoned plates sat beside untouched glasses of milk. The coiled rotis were gone. Mrs. Das froze.
A cold tremor started deep in her belly. Where were they? She scanned the cramped room – the sagging cupboard, the grease-smeared stove, the gaping crack in the wall. Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Then, a soft rustle. From the hallway leading to the children's room. She moved swiftly, silently, her cheap sandals whispering against the worn linoleum. Peering around the doorframe, her breath caught.
Bablu and Chumki lay sprawled on their shared mattress, tangled in the thin sheet. Fast asleep. Bablu's arm was flung protectively over Chumki's shoulder; Chumki's small fist was curled near her chin. Their breaths were deep, even, the frantic tension of the morning utterly dissolved in the soft rhythm of sleep.
Dark circles still smudged beneath their eyes, but their faces were smooth, peaceful. Too peaceful, perhaps. Like dolls carefully arranged. Mrs. Das's rigid shoulders slumped a fraction. They'd retreated. Escaped. Without her. She leaned against the doorframe, the frantic resolve to get them ready for school crumbling. Ten o'clock felt impossibly far away, a shimmering mirage in a desert of dread. Let them sleep. Let them have this stolen peace.
On the small wooden crate beside the mattress, two school notebooks lay open. Chumki's, pink vinyl cover peeling, displayed a page of Bengali letters copied painstakingly: 'ক', 'খ', 'গ'. Perfectly formed rows. Bablu's, a faded superhero logo half-scratched off, showed maths problems: '2 x 4 = 8'. Correct. All correct. Mrs. Das sat on the worn rug beside the mattress, its synthetic fibers scratchy against her sari.
She picked up Bablu's notebook, her thumb tracing the familiar, slightly wobbly '8'. Relief, thin and sour, washed over her. Homework done. All done. All good. For now. This small, tangible proof of normality, the sums added, the letters written, anchored her. The meal eaten, the homework completed. These were shields. Weak shields against whispering cracks but shields nonetheless. She gently closed Bablu's notebook, her fingers brushing the cheap paper. The faint scent of pencil shavings and chalk dust lingered, the clean, sharp smell of the schoolroom. A world away from mildew and whispers.
Outside Colony Heights, the city slowly stretched awake. Dawn bled watery gold across the sky, painting the concrete towers in soft, forgiving light. Below, Chhattambey Lane lay quiet, still damp from overnight rain. On a fourth-floor terrace across the street, Old Man Ghosal bent stiffly over his potted marigolds, humming a tuneless Rabindra Sangeet. His wrinkled fingers pinched off a dead leaf, the motion slow, deliberate, peaceful.
Two buildings over, Mr. Banerjee watered his prized bonsai neem tree, its tiny leaves glistening. The rhythmic splash-splash of his tin watering can was the only sound beyond distant crows. Down in the alley beside Rafiq Chacha's tailoring cubicle, the pyramid of rotting jackfruit seemed less sinister, just decaying fruit under a pale sun. The air, thick with the scent of wet earth and jasmine blooms a few hours ago, now held the faint, hopeful aroma of woodsmoke and frying oil drifting from early tea stalls. Peace, fragile and temporary, draped over the morning like a worn, familiar shawl.
Inside Apartment 3C, Colony Heights, silence reigned. Deep, unnatural silence. Not the quiet of sleep, but the stillness of suspended breath. Mrs. Das lay curled on the thin mattress beside her husband Shankar, her eyes closed, her body slack. But her mind wasn't resting. Behind her eyelids, vivid flashes erupted, the pulse of the stairwell stain, oily greens and bruised purples; the whisper scraping inside the kitchen wall crack; the chilling precision of those spiraled rotis. Shankar twitched beside her, a low groan escaping his lips.
"Sssserpents… coils…" he mumbled, lost in scaly nightmares.
Across the small room, Bablu and Chumki slept unnervingly still on their shared mattress. Their chests rose and fell rhythmically, but their faces were smooth, expressionless masks. The faint scent of pencil shavings and chalk dust from their homework notebooks lingered, a fragile shield against the metallic tang creeping from the damp crack in the kitchen wall. Deep slumber? Or the stillness before the storm cracks open?