(Part-1)
The following morning, the air inside the house felt like stone. Heavy. Cold. Even sunlight seemed reluctant to enter through the windows, as if some invisible hand were pressing against the glass.
Meera had sent for the priest. Her heart was torn open—every step she took toward this decision felt like betrayal, and yet every glance at Aarav reminded her of what was at stake.
When the priest finally arrived, the sound of his footsteps on the front verandah was strangely reassuring. He was an old man with calm eyes, carrying only a small cloth bag. Within it rattled the faint sound of beads, brass, and tiny bottles filled with oil and ash.
"Your home has reached a threshold," he said, stepping inside. "What was love is turning restless. If you wait longer, the spirit may anchor itself deeper, until no words can move it."
Meera's chest tightened. "But it is Rajiv. He is not a stranger."
The priest nodded. "That is what makes this more dangerous. Love binds harder than hate."
The family gathered in the living room. The priest began by marking the four corners with holy ash. He lit a brass lamp, its flame trembling in the still air.
"Tonight, we will call him," the priest explained. "But remember—when he comes, you must not show fear, nor anger. Fear feeds spirits. Anger feeds them too. Speak with firmness, but not cruelty."
Priya clutched Meera's hand, her knuckles white. The grandmother muttered prayers under her breath. Aarav sat quietly, confusion and innocence mixed on his small face.
The ritual began with slow, rhythmic chanting. The priest's voice filled the house, deep and resonant, vibrating against the walls. He circled the lamp, sprinkling sacred water. The smell of incense spread thick through the room, clinging to skin and fabric.
At first, nothing happened. Only the steady rise and fall of the chant, like waves against an unseen shore.
Then, the flame of the lamp flickered wildly, though no wind stirred.
Meera felt her heart slam inside her chest. She knew—he was here.
The temperature dropped. A breathless chill filled the room. The chandelier trembled, and in the corner of the room, the air shimmered as though bending around an unseen figure.
"Rajiv," the priest called firmly. "Your family is here. Speak to them, and listen."
A voice rose, faint at first, then stronger, echoing as if carried from two places at once.
"Why… why do you bring him?"
Meera's breath caught. "Rajiv…"
"Why do you bring a stranger to drive me away?" the voice thundered, and the lamp flame flared higher.
The priest's chant grew louder, steady, like a wall against a storm. "You must listen. You have lingered too long."
"I stayed for you, Meera," the voice said, softer now, almost pleading. "I stayed for Aarav. I stayed because you needed me."
Tears blurred Meera's eyes. "I did… I do need you. But you're hurting them. Hurting us."
Silence. The air hung thick, suffocating. Then came the sound of footsteps—though no one moved. Heavy, dragging footsteps circling them slowly, unseen.
The priest raised his hand. "Show yourself."
And then, in the corner, the shape of Rajiv began to form. Faint, flickering—like smoke caught in sunlight. His face emerged, half clear, half shadow. His eyes glimmered with both love and fire.
Meera gasped. "Rajiv…"
Aarav's small voice whispered, "Papa."
The spirit's gaze softened at the sight of his son, but then shifted, burning toward the priest. "You want to take me away."
"I want to set you free," the priest replied calmly. "You are not meant to remain."
"No!" The voice thundered, and the walls shook. The curtains billowed outward, as if pushed by invisible hands. "I will not leave them. I cannot."
The priest struck a small bell, its piercing sound cutting through the air. Rajiv's form wavered, as though the very sound weakened his grip on the room.
Meera's heart clenched. She wanted to run to him, to hold him, to beg the priest to stop—but Priya's hand tightened around hers, reminding her of why they had begun.
The spirit roared. Furniture rattled. The lamp's flame stretched high, unnaturally tall, throwing twisted shadows across the walls.
"Do you want me gone, Meera?" the voice demanded.
Her lips trembled. "I want you at peace."
"Peace?" His laughter was hollow, echoing in every corner. "My peace is here, with you!"
The priest's chants rose louder, faster, weaving a rhythm that pushed against the spirit's voice. The sound felt like a shield wrapping around the family.
Rajiv's form distorted, flickering between tenderness and fury. One moment, his eyes shone with love; the next, they burned with rage.
"Choose!" he cried. "Keep me—or cast me out!"
Meera fell to her knees, sobbing. Aarav whimpered, hiding his face in his grandmother's shawl.
The priest's voice boomed over the storm. "The living must choose life. The dead must let go. Do not chain them with your sorrow, Rajiv."
The chapter ends its first half here, at around 950 words, with the ritual building and Rajiv demanding a choice.
(Part-2)
The air in the house grew heavier with each passing second. The priest's chanting did not falter, but Meera could feel how much effort it took to keep the rhythm steady. Her husband's presence was no longer a gentle whisper—it was a storm circling around them.
"Meera," Rajiv's spirit said, his voice breaking between love and rage. "Do you really want me to leave?"
Her throat closed. She wanted to scream "no," but Priya's grip on her arm reminded her of Aarav, who clung to his grandmother, trembling.
The priest lifted the brass bell and struck it again. The clear ringing cut through Rajiv's words like a blade. The spirit wavered, his form shrinking, then swelling, as if fighting to stay.
"You are bound by memory," the priest said firmly. "But the time has come to free both yourself and those you love."
"I am their memory!" Rajiv thundered. "Without me, they will forget. They will move on. Is that what you want, Meera? To live as if I was never here?"
Meera's tears spilled freely. "No one could ever forget you. You are with me always, Rajiv. In my heart. In Aarav. In everything we do. But you are not at peace this way. You are hurting us—and yourself."
The spirit's flickering slowed. For a brief moment, his face softened. The warm eyes she remembered shone through.
But then, as if torn in two directions, the shadows returned. His expression twisted. The curtains flew outward, and a picture frame shattered against the wall.
"Do not send me away!" he roared.
The priest's chanting grew louder, faster. The lamp's flame stretched higher. He motioned for Meera to speak again.
"Rajiv," she said, forcing strength into her voice, "I love you. I always will. But love is not chains. Love means letting you be free."
Her voice cracked, but she held firm. "If you stay like this, you will become something you are not. And that is the one thing I cannot bear—to see you turn into someone I don't recognize."
The room shook violently. Aarav began to cry, but then, through the tears, he called out:
"Papa, don't be angry! Papa, please be happy."
The small, innocent voice pierced the air more deeply than any ritual. For a heartbeat, Rajiv's form steadied. His eyes turned toward his son, and the rage faltered.
"Happy…" he whispered. The word seemed fragile, almost broken.
The priest seized the moment. "Do you hear, Rajiv? Your son asks not for your shadow, but for your peace."
The spirit's glow dimmed. His form flickered, then steadied, then flickered again—torn between staying and leaving.
Meera stepped forward, trembling. "Rajiv… when you left this world, I wasn't ready. I begged for you to stay, even if only as a memory that walked these halls. But I see now—it is selfish of me. You should rest. Please, rest. Carry my love with you, but don't let it trap you here."
Her voice broke into sobs, but she forced herself to keep going. "We will keep you alive—in stories, in laughter, in everything you gave us. You don't need to hold on like this anymore. We won't forget you. I promise."
The silence after her words stretched unbearably long. The only sound was the priest's steady chant and the soft sobs of her family.
Then, slowly, Rajiv's spirit lowered his head. His form softened, the shadow around him thinning. The fury in his voice vanished, replaced with something weary, almost tender.
"Meera…" he whispered. "I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure you were not alone. But… perhaps I forgot what it truly means to love. Forgive me."
Meera reached out instinctively, though she knew she would never touch him. "There is nothing to forgive."
The priest's chanting reached its peak. The flame of the lamp flared, and the sound of the bell rang once more. This time, the spirit did not resist.
Rajiv's form shimmered, the edges of his body breaking apart like mist. He looked one last time at Aarav, who was staring wide-eyed.
"Be strong, my son," he said softly. "Take care of your mother."
Aarav reached his small hand forward. "Bye, Papa."
Rajiv smiled faintly, a smile full of love. Then his form dissolved into the air, the cologne-scent fading, leaving only the warmth of memory behind.
The lamp steadied. The curtains stilled. The air in the room lightened for the first time in months.
Meera collapsed to the floor, weeping—not only from sorrow, but from release. Priya knelt beside her, holding her tightly. The grandmother whispered prayers of thanks.
The priest lowered the bell. His voice was calm, though tinged with fatigue. "It is done. He has gone to where he belongs."
"Is he… at peace?" Meera asked through her tears.
"Yes," the priest said gently. "And now, so must you be."
That night, the house was quiet—not the heavy, oppressive quiet of before, but a soft, healing silence. When Meera tucked Aarav into bed, he asked, "Will Papa come again?"
Meera stroked his hair. "Not like before. But he will always be with us—in our hearts, in our memories, in every story we tell about him."
Aarav smiled sleepily. "Then I'll dream of him."
Meera kissed his forehead, tears in her eyes, and whispered, "That's the best place for him to live."
Closing Reflection
The ritual had ended, but the journey for Meera and her family was not over. Grief would remain, as it always does, but now it was touched with acceptance. Rajiv was gone, yet not lost.
Meera stood by the window, watching the night sky. Somewhere beyond the stars, she imagined, Rajiv's spirit finally rested. And here, in this quiet home, his love remained—no longer a chain, but a light to guide them forward.