Chapter 11: The Purge
Morning arrived, pale and reluctant, finding the house full of weary, anxious faces. At last, resolve broke through their exhaustion: they reached out to the owner and summoned pandit, preparing themselves for the cleansing ritual that felt like their last hope. Nitin and Harshit volunteered to venture out, braving the first rays of morning to fetch every item on the sacred list the pandit had provided.
The arrival of the pandit—a slight figure, robed in white and carrying a brass pot—seemed to shift the air itself. He wasted no words, instead moving methodically to arrange the Havan in the center of the hall. The scent of incense mingled with the anxious breath of the students as the ritual preparations began.
Pandit summoned Anay, his voice was calm but commanding. “Place two cloves on top of camphor in each room, then open the windows or the doors,” he instructed. With deliberate steps, Anay placed the camphor in each room, setting two cloves carefully atop each pile as if hoping their presence would anchor him to reality. Doors creaked open, windows allowed the unsettled morning breeze to slip in, and shadows stretched across the walls.
Meanwhile, same was instructed to Saurav but on all the corners of roof. Saurav stood rooted at the threshold to the roof, his hands trembling as he tried to mask his fear. Shivam, equally unsettled, joined him, and together—like children tiptoeing through a haunted tale—they carried camphor and cloves to every corner beneath the open sky. The roof, vast and empty, seemed at once too large and too close.
Task complete, the two hurried back, their footfalls echoing on the staircase. The stage was set, each corner and crevice now holding a fragment of hope against the creeping dread.
The house was thick with tension as the preparations for the puja reached their final stage. The hall was now transformed—marigold garlands hung loosely from the windows, and the air danced with the mingled scents of camphor and incense. The Pandit moved with careful, precise gestures, arranging the offerings and lighting the sacred fire. Outside, the sky was sullen grey, threatening more rain.
Anay glanced at his friends; their faces wan under the flickering light. The owner, usually so assured, stood silently near the doorway, worry carved deep into their features.
The chanting began. The Pandit’s voice rolled through the corridors, steady and unwavering, as the flames twined higher in the Havan. Thirty minutes slipped by in a haze of mantra and smoke. Suddenly, from the far end of the house, a soft glow flickered—then another, then another. The camphor in each room had ignited by itself, flames leaping upward as if summoned by invisible hands.
A gasp escaped Nitin. Harshit gripped the edge of a chair. Even the owner’s bravado seemed to crumble in the face of the impossible. “Did you see that?” someone whispered. They could hardly breathe, eyes darting towards the Pandit who, unshaken, continued the prayer with renewed vigor.
Fifteen more minutes passed. The chanting peaked, echoing off the walls, the fire casting wild shadows that danced across everyone’s faces. At last, the Pandit fell silent. He gestured for them to repeat after him, and together, their voices rose—quavering at first, then steadier, until the final mantra faded into a heavy silence.
The Pandit stood and handed them a gleaming copper vessel filled with holy water, its aroma thick with herbs and sanctity. “Sprinkle this throughout the house,” he instructed, a serene smile softening the lines of his face. Rahul and Anay moved from room to room, droplets falling onto thresholds, corners, and doorways, each splash a small act of defiance against the unknown.
When they returned, the Pandit announced, “Whatever it was, it is gone now. You have nothing to fear.” With a gentle nod, he gathered his things and left, the echo of his words lingering like a balm in the air. The group let out a collective sigh, the first flicker of relief sparking in their eyes as dawn crept toward the windows.
Ink of Dread 
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