Shadows of Devotion
The appointed day arrived, and Geeta was occupied from early morning, skipping her usual jog—a detail she had mentioned to Naresh the day before. He didn’t know what she was doing, but her absence felt purposeful, as though she were preparing for something far beyond routine. Her secrecy had a ritualistic quality, each action imbued with unspoken intent. The mystery gnawed at Naresh, amplifying his unease.
For the first time in days, Naresh walked alone in the morning. Thoughts of Geeta lingered throughout, though he couldn’t tell if he missed her or if something deeper was unsettling him. After breakfast, the car Geeta sent arrived, and Naresh headed to her hotel.
Darshan, his closest friend, called again, but Naresh ignored it—his fourth or fifth missed call in recent days. His friends speculated about his odd behavior. Naresh, once cheerful and expressive, now avoided calls, skipped gatherings, and sat silently when he did show up. His laughter had faded into a hollow silence, leaving them to wonder why.
Geeta’s arrival unsettled Naresh, clouding his thoughts and altering his behavior. Her presence lingered in his mind, drowning reason and evoking an inexplicable devotion. Her words replayed endlessly, wrapping around his thoughts like commands rather than suggestions. Once lively and outgoing, Naresh now seemed distant and hollow.
Ritualistic Transformation
When Naresh entered Geeta’s suite, the air was thick with sandalwood and rose. She sat before a large mirror, a makeup artist flown in from Mumbai carefully working on her. The transformation was striking—a sharp contrast to her usual formal sarees or sleek tracksuits from her morning jogs. Naresh’s breath caught as he took in her mesmerizing presence.
The elegance he once admired now felt sacred and unsettling. She seemed to shed her worldly self, stepping into a realm of mystery. Her intricately braided hair, adorned with jasmine, radiated purity and tradition. The mingling scents of jasmine and sandalwood lent her an almost divine aura, as if she were preparing for something beyond mortal understanding. Every detail was deliberate, evoking a sense of sacred ritual rather than mere artistry.
A red thread tied around her wrist heightened the ritualistic atmosphere, making Naresh question if this preparation served a purpose far greater than art.
On her bed lay an array of exotic jewelry, scattered like ancient treasures. Each piece bore intricate symbols—serpents for rebirth, flames for purification. Together, they spoke of spiritual transformation, perfectly aligned with the ritual’s purpose. Naresh wanted to ask, but the question dissolved in his throat. An invisible weight bore down on him, clouding his thoughts and leaving him unsteady.
When Geeta locked eyes with him, her gaze seemed to unravel the unspoken questions buried in his mind.
"This jewelry has a special purpose for tonight," she said softly, her voice deliberate, each word heavy with meaning. Her fingers hovered over the jewelry, tracing its intricate patterns as though unlocking secrets hidden in the designs.
Uneasy Alliances
Downstairs, Naresh joined Choudhary Sir and Jayanti in the lobby. They sipped coffee and exchanged casual remarks—a stark contrast to the night’s ominous preparations. To an outsider, it might have seemed absurd: one friend preparing to pose nude, another tasked with painting her, and a former teacher silently observing it all.
Choudhary Sir, once a struggling art teacher, now exuded an unsettling calm, as if molded by the very forces he sought to control. The glint in his eyes spoke of a man who had stared into the abyss and embraced its secrets. His gaze lingered on Naresh too long, unblinking and charged with intent. Every movement was unnervingly deliberate, like a puppeteer guiding unseen strings in a practiced ritual.
They ate lunch in near silence, the air thick with tension. Geeta’s absence only heightened the unease. When Naresh rose to check on her, Jayanti stopped him, her tone firm but calm. She explained Geeta was busy with preparations and didn’t want to be disturbed.
Jayanti’s steady tone and firm gaze radiated authority, embodying Geeta’s will with quiet power. Her presence guided Naresh subtly but decisively, reinforcing his compliance without a word.
Naresh had the whole day to kill before the painting session, scheduled to begin around midnight. He spent some time practicing painting, wandered through the hotel garden, and eventually lazed and napped in the guest rooms Geeta had booked for them. Afternoon tea with Jayanti and Choudhary Sir passed in silence. Later, he tried watching a Hindi horror film in the hotel’s small theater, a genre he usually enjoyed for its mix of humor and exaggeration. But this time, Naresh walked out sweating—an unusual reaction for someone who normally laughed through such films.
Moonlit Portents
At 10 PM, a car arrived with a new driver—Rehman, a devout Muslim. Dressed in a crisp uniform with a henna-dyed beard and skull cap, he greeted them politely but hesitated before opening the door, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the keys. Was it the passengers he was about to ferry, or the ominous destination of the haunted Gulladmath bungalow, that gave him pause? The tension hung in the air, unspoken but palpable.
The night was eerily perfect—clear skies, a full moon, and unnatural stillness. The bright moonlight stretched shadows unnaturally long, alive with eerie energy.
The trip was uneventful and silent. Jayanti murmured something inaudible, while Choudhary Sir stared into the darkness outside. The car finally stopped in front of the Gulladmath bungalow. Bathed in the moon's eerie glow, the sprawling structure loomed like a slumbering beast, its hollow windows watching them. The whitewashed walls gleamed unnaturally—pale, cold, and lifeless, like drained flesh.
The bungalow stood deserted. As they unlocked the heavy mahogany door and stepped inside, an eerie stillness enveloped the expansive hall. When the light flicked on, two massive taxidermied tiger heads loomed on the walls, their glass eyes glinting menacingly, as if ready to spring to life. For a moment, fear gripped Naresh. Though he had visited the bungalow several times recently, something about those heads felt different and far more menacing that night.
Terrace of Symbols
They climbed to the terrace for a final check. The moonlight drenched the space, turning it into an ethereal stage. Additional lights encircled the easel, but the moon’s brilliance rendered them almost unnecessary, amplifying the surreal atmosphere.
Intricate patterns sprawled across the floor near the easel, their loops and jagged edges glowing eerily under the moonlight. Some resembled intertwined serpents, others spiraled inward like mazes, pulling the eye toward an unseen center. These ancient designs radiated an aura of power, as if carved from the memory of a forgotten civilization. Their meanings were cryptic, yet their ominous presence was unmistakable. Small brass bowls, filled with red powder and fragrant oils, were arranged in a precise circle, amplifying the ceremonial intensity.
After checking that everything was ready, Jayanti and Choudhary Sir headed downstairs to wait for Geeta. Naresh lingered, staring at the distant crescent atop a mosque, its studded lights blinking faintly.
"It’s time to go," Jayanti said firmly, breaking his trance. Without protest, Naresh followed them down.
Ascent to the Unknown
Jayanti pulled out her phone and spoke to Geeta—or so it seemed. Without dialing or speaking, it felt like telepathy, the phone merely a prop. The silence around her made the moment feel otherworldly, as if the conversation existed beyond human perception.
Jayanti said, her voice low and deliberate, "Geeta will be here in 10 minutes. Naresh, she wants you upstairs to prepare. She’ll go straight to the terrace."
Her tone carried an eerie urgency, as though the words held a hidden significance. Though her voice was steady, a faint tremor betrayed unease. She avoided Naresh’s gaze, her words precise and almost mechanical, more like directives than suggestions.
Naresh rose and headed upstairs. Choudhary Sir hunched over a worn leather-bound book, its cracked cover embossed with strange symbols that shimmered faintly in the dim light, as if alive. Whispers surrounded its origins—ancient rituals and forbidden knowledge passed down through shadowy lineages. The book exuded an aura of dread, its pages rumored to hold secrets bridging the mortal and the divine. Choudhary Sir traced its edges with deliberate care, his fingers lingering reverently, as if unlocking hidden textures within its surface.
Naresh felt the book had chosen Choudhary Sir, making him its vessel.
The line between faith and darkness tethered him, transforming him into
a gatekeeper of otherworldly forces.
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