The Breaking Point
The Sharma house had turned into a place of contradictions. To Anaya, it was warm, alive, a home still filled with her father's love. To Meera, it was suffocating—a place where every shadow felt like a silent watcher, where whispers rode the air like secrets she wasn't supposed to hear.
She had tried denial. She had tried reasoning with the unseen presence. But after weeks of restless sleep and mounting dread, she knew she could not continue like this.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice: "Don't send me away, Meera. I'm still here."
She remembered Pandit Devnath's warning—at first, the spirit protects, but soon, protection becomes control. That thought played on a loop in her mind.
And so, one sleepless night, as she lay listening to the faint hum of the ceiling fan, Meera made a decision. If Rajiv's spirit was truly here, she had to try to free him—or at least ease his hold.
An Old Memory
The next morning, after Anaya left for school, Meera searched the back of her wardrobe. Buried beneath old shawls was a faded cloth pouch her mother had given her years ago. Inside were dried tulsi leaves, a small brass diya, and a tiny book of Sanskrit prayers.
Her mother had always told her, "When shadows trouble your home, light will guide them away." As a girl, she hadn't believed it. But now, clutching the pouch in trembling hands, she prayed her mother had been right.
First Attempt
That evening, once Anaya had fallen asleep, Meera placed the diya in the living room. She lit the wick, the flame flickering gently, casting tall shadows against the walls. She placed the tulsi leaves beside it and whispered a prayer from the book.
Her voice shook, barely above a whisper. "Rajiv… I love you, but you must find peace. Please, don't bind yourself here."
For a moment, the flame steadied, glowing brighter. Relief rushed through her—maybe it was working.
But then, a cold draft swept through the room. The flame sputtered violently before snuffing out, leaving only smoke.
The curtains whipped against the windows. A picture frame rattled and fell from the wall, crashing to the floor.
And in the silence that followed, she heard it—his voice, firm and unyielding.
"Why are you trying to send me away?"
Her breath caught. Tears stung her eyes. "Because I'm scared," she whispered into the darkness.
But there was no reply. Only the oppressive weight of unseen eyes pressing down on her.
Anaya's Innocence
The next morning, Anaya bounded into the kitchen, holding up a new drawing. "Papa says he doesn't like the fire you made yesterday," she said cheerfully.
Meera froze. "What did you say?"
"He told me," Anaya explained, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "He said fire hurts him. He wants us to be together, not apart."
Meera's stomach twisted. The ritual hadn't gone unnoticed—it had angered him.
Second Attempt
That night, after putting Anaya to bed, Meera tried something simpler. She sprinkled water mixed with turmeric in the corners of the house, just as her grandmother used to when someone fell ill.
"Sacred things cleanse bad air," her grandmother had always said.
Meera whispered prayers under her breath as she moved from room to room, her hands trembling.
But in Anaya's room, as she flicked droplets into the air, the crayons on the desk rolled off one by one, clattering to the floor.
Anaya stirred in her sleep, mumbling, "Papa, don't be mad at Mama."
Meera's heart broke. She dropped the bowl, spilling the water across the floor, and fled the room.
The Consequence
The house grew restless after that night. Doors that once only creaked now slammed shut with force. The mirror in the hallway fogged over even when the air was dry. Lights flickered not just when Meera argued with Anaya, but at random times—during meals, while she prayed, even as she stood brushing her teeth.
Rajiv was no longer just lingering. He was reacting.
The Confession
One night, Meera couldn't hold it in any longer. She sat by Anaya's bed, watching her daughter sleep peacefully, unaware of the storm swirling around them.
"Rajiv," she whispered into the air, voice trembling. "I only wanted to help you. To free you. Not to hurt you."
The air turned icy. A faint indentation appeared on the mattress beside Anaya, as though someone had sat down.
"I don't need freedom," the voice whispered. "I need my family. Don't take that from me."
Meera's eyes blurred with tears. She wanted to scream, to demand that he see what he was doing—but the sight of her daughter, sleeping soundly, kept her quiet.
The Visit to the Temple
The next morning, Meera returned to Pandit Devnath. She poured out everything—the rituals, the failed flame, the angry whispers, the way her daughter repeated words she should not know.
Devnath listened quietly, fingers tracing his prayer beads. Finally, he said, "You must understand—his spirit is clinging harder because you tried to release him. To a soul bound by love, release feels like betrayal."
Meera's eyes widened. "So what do I do?"
"Choose," he said simply. "Either guide him fully onward with stronger rituals, or accept him. But you cannot walk both paths. If you try, you will only make him stronger—and angrier."
Torn Between Love and Fear
That night, Meera sat in the dark, staring at the suitcase still untouched in the corner of her room. Every thread of her heart longed to hold on. Every word of the priest's warning told her to let go.
In the silence, she whispered, "Rajiv, if you love us… let us live. Please."
The mirror shimmered faintly. For a heartbeat, she saw him—her husband, whole and smiling, the way he had been. Then the image flickered, his eyes hollow, his face unreadable.
Her heart shattered.
The Closing Scene
Later that night, Meera woke to the sound of laughter. She hurried into Anaya's room.
Her daughter sat up in bed, giggling into the air. "Papa, stop tickling me!" she said, squirming happily.
The chair in the corner creaked, though no one was there. The curtains fluttered in a still room.
Meera leaned against the doorway, tears filling her eyes. To Anaya, this was joy. To her, it was chains tightening.
She knew now: Rajiv wasn't leaving. Not willingly.
And every attempt she made to ease him only bound him tighter.