THE SECOND FLAME
872 Words
Durga Ashtami.
The drums thundered through the village like a war cry. Streets were soaked in crimson and gold. Women danced with vermilion on their cheeks, swords raised in the name of the Goddess.
But Tara wasn’t at the pandal.
She walked alone—white saree draped over her shoulders like smoke, her eyes lined with kohl, a red tilak smudged across her forehead. A garland of black rudraksha beads hung around her neck.
Inside her, silence.
Outside, the beat of a thousand footsteps.
Mahesh was easy to find. Men like him always thought the chaos of celebration could protect them. That noise was a shield. That faith was blind again:
> “YOU HAVE MY BLESSING. DO WHAT I CANNOT IN THIS FORM.”
Tara lit a black candle. Tied a red thread around her wrist. Slipped a small pouch into her satchel.
And left.
Mahesh sat behind the pandal, drunk on bhang and ego. His shirt was open, gold chain glittering in the light of the firecrackers. Two boys laughed beside him. He slapped their backs, offered them more from his flask.
Tara waited.
She watched.
Until he stumbled toward the makeshift urinal behind the old banyan tree—alone, cursing, belching.
She followed.
No one noticed.
He turned a corner—and she was there, standing in the shadows.
“WHO'S THERE?” he called, stumbling.
She didn’t answer.
The sedative was in the air—burning slowly from a coil she’d planted earlier behind the tree. He inhaled it without realizing. His steps slowed. His pupils shrank.
“WHAT THE F—”
Darkness took him.
When Mahesh woke, he was tied the same way Rinku had been—metal chains, wrists raw, feet bound to the legs of the chair. But this time, the setting was different.
A ring of Trishuls surrounded him.
In front of him stood a painting—Maa Kali in all her terrible glory. Tongue out. Blood dripping. Severed heads around her neck.
And beneath it, Tara knelt in silence.
She wore a garland of hibiscus flowers and smeared ash across her arms. Her hair was loose, wild, her eyes closed.
He whimpered.
She rose.
When she opened her eyes, they were not hers.
They were fire.
“T-TARA,” he stuttered. “WHAT IS THIS?”
“MAHESH,” she said softly. “IT’S ASHTAMI.
“I—I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING!”
She stepped closer. “YOU WATCHED. YOU LAUGHED. YOU HELD HER MOUTH SHUT WHEN SHE TRIED TO SCREAM.”
“NO, I—”
She pressed her finger against his lips.
“SHH,” she whispered. “DON’T LIE TO THE GODDESS.”
From her satchel, she drew the same vials. This time, she had added one more: powdered glass mixed with honey.
“YOU KNOW,” she said, unscrewing the cap, “THEY SAY ON ASHTAMI, THE DEVI DOESN’T JUST PROTECT… SHE DEVOURS.”
He struggled. The chair clanked against the cement floor.
No one heard him.
No one came.
She dipped a spoon into the honeyed glass and fed it to him.
“SWALLOW,” she said.
He did.
He screamed as the sharp edges cut his throat from the inside.
His voice bled out with his blood.
She didn’t flinch.
Next, she poured the nettle extract over his wrists.
Salted lime over his feet.
She whispered verses as she worked—shlokas she had memorized from her father’s prayers. Her voice was steady, rhythmic, a lullaby of destruction.
He writhed. His eyes begged.
But she wasn’t listening to him.
She was listening to Kali.
The flames of the small havan beside her crackled louder.
The shadows danced on the walls.
She walked around him one final time, then stopped.
“YOU TOOK PLEASURE IN HER PAIN,” she said. “NOW… DROWN IN YOURS.”
She poured the final chemical—the dissolver—over his body.
The scream was shorter this time.
The liquid hissed. Flesh turned to pulp. His gold chain was the last to fall.
Tara stood still, watching it all burn away.
When it was over, she sat in front of the idol.
Her body shook.
Her hands bled—she had clenched them too tight.
But her face remained calm.
She picked up a pinch of ash from the floor, smeared it across her forehead, and whispered:
> “JAI MAA KALI.”
Then she rose, collected her satchel, and walked out into the night.
By morning, Mahesh was “missing.”
The villagers speculated: perhaps he’d run away like Rinku. Perhaps he'd drowned.
But Tara knew.
And so did the others.
Three names remained on her chalkboard.
Now, only two.
> SONU. AMAN.
That night, Adyaa left her door open for the first time.
Tara stepped in.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
But as they lay side by side, Adyaa reached for her hand and whispered:
> “I REMEMBER EVERYTHING NOW.”
Tara turned her head. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO—”
“I DO,” Adyaa said. “AND I WANT TO HELP.”
Outside, the drums of Navratri thundered.
Inside, two sisters breathed as one.
And somewhere in the dark—
The Goddess smiled.
- Writer
