Chapter 7: The Temple’s Warning
The sun hung high overhead, smothered by a thin blanket of haze, as the group of friends made their way to the temple at the far end of the society. The city’s midday heat pressed against their backs, but each step was driven by a current of dread stronger than any summer sun. When they reached the temple—a quiet refuge of marigold garlands and wavering incense—they filed in, eyes downcast, hearts thudding with the echoes of the night before.
They found the pandit seated cross-legged beside an altar, his gaze both knowing and kind. One after another, the boys spilled their fears, recounting the shadows, the unearthly silence, the shape that haunted their roof. The pandit listened in grave silence. When the last words faded, he nodded and spoke with measured authority: they must avoid drinking on the rooftop from now on, and more importantly, perform a Puja Havan in their flat. He handed them a list—a brittle slip of paper inked with ritual items and sacred offerings—then outlined a handful of auspicious dates.
Anay scribbled the details in his notebook, his fingers trembling as if the words themselves could anchor him to safety. The others hung on the pandit’s every instruction, desperate for any promise of relief. Outside, Rahul turned to them, his voice steady, “We need to talk to the PG owner. He should help us. This is his responsibility too.”
A swift phone call later, the group agreed to meet with the owner that evening. As they left the temple, the world felt a shade lighter, though the fear still clung to their skin like the humidity—persistent, invisible, and impossible to forget.
The owner arrived just as the oppressive unease in the room threatened to swallow them whole. Rahul, steadying himself, recounted every unsettling detail that had plagued the PG. The owner’s brows knitted in confusion as he listened, the story twisting around the silence like a cold wind. At first, he hesitated, offering to sponsor only half of the expenses for the Puja, claiming the sum was more than he expected. Voices rose in heated debate—frustration and fear battling reason—until at last, a compromise was struck: the owner would cover eighty percent of the cost, and the necessary rituals would take place at the start of the next month. Not everyone was satisfied, but the agreement brought a measure of relief—a fragile truce with the unknown.
Rahul took it upon himself to return to the temple. Alone beneath the swaying trees, he found the pandit and confirmed the chosen date, pressing an advance payment into the priest’s weathered palm. As he left, the faint scent of incense lingered on his clothes, a quiet promise that, perhaps soon, the darkness would lift from their lives.
Only twenty days remained until the Puja, and a thick veil of unease had settled over the PG. The boys avoided the staircase, shunned late-night gatherings, and some recited the Hanuman Chalisa daily, clinging to rituals for comfort. Amid this atmosphere of dread, Anay received a call from his friend Zunaid, who wanted to stay for a week and study together. Anay, honesty outweighing hospitality, confessed, “My PG is haunted. We’re waiting for a Puja to help set things right.” Zunaid laughed it off. “I don’t believe in such things,” he said, dismissing the supernatural with a confidence that sounded almost brave. The arrangement was made—Zunaid would move in for a week, ghost stories and all.
Ink of Dread 
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