Crimson Bond of Ravenkot

chapter 3 : Bonfire

Chapter 3 – Bonfire and Roast

Vihaan’s POV

The bonfire burned in the middle of the Gupta Lodge courtyard like a grumpy who’d seen too many winters and still refused to die. Flames licked upward, hungry, spitting sparks that danced briefly in the cold night air before surrendering to the snow.

Snow fell gently around it—fat, lazy flakes that hissed and vanished the moment they touched flame—but nobody cared.

The aunties sat cross-legged on thick woollen blankets near the heat, shawls pulled tight over their heads like armor, faces lit gold and red as if they were part of the fire itself.

Their laughter came in bursts, sharp and delighted, echoing off the stone walls and making the night feel smaller, safer. For a moment.

The uncles huddled on wooden benches, rubbing knees stiff from decades of climbing these same hills, gossiping in low voices like bored cats watching a mouse they were too lazy to chase.

Steel thalis were passed hand to hand, warm from the kitchen. Dal makhani thick enough to stand a spoon in, rich with cream and slow-cooked butter. Jeera rice, fragrant and steaming. Butter-soaked rotis torn straight from the tawa, edges crisp and golden, soft inside like a promise. And aloo tikki—crispy outside, soft potato spiced with jeera, green chili, and a whisper of garam masala inside—that smelled illegally good and radiated quiet threat, as if it knew it was the last good thing we’d eat before the mountain took its toll.

The four of us sat in the middle like we’d wandered into a family function we were definitely not invited to—and the villagers were about to remind us why.

A fat uncle with a wool cap and a mustache that looked like it had its own postal code pointed at Aarav’s bright orange jacket.

“You people from Delhi wear so many colours. Are you a festival or just walking warnings to the ghosts, like ‘here comes dinner’?”

Aarav blinked once, then grinned wide, unfazed.

“This is called fashion, uncle-ji. You should try it and i have extra do youwant it? and Might make the ghosts jealous.”

“Haan haan,” another uncle snorted, rubbing his knees harder. “In our village we call it ‘come eat me first, bhoot.’ You look like a walking mirchi cart. One bite and the ghosts will sneeze themselves to death. Then they’ll curse you for ruining their appetite.”

The aunties burst out laughing—sharp, delighted cackles bouncing off the stone walls like they’d been saving it all day. One wiped tears from her eyes with the edge of her pallu.

Vani leaned sideways toward me, voice low, eyes wide with mock horror.

“Why do I feel like we’re being roasted on a slow flame? And why is it so accurate?”

I smiled sweetly, tearing a roti.

“Oh no, they’re just planning our funeral menu—with extra mirchi and a side of judgment.”

Yash shot me a warning look—the classic Yash “please don’t make it worse” glare. He was already calculating escape routes.

One of the aunties—short, round, sari the colour of dried marigolds—finally stood up and waddled over, wiping her hands on the pallu as if preparing to touch something cursed. Her bangles clinked softly, a tiny warning bell.

“You people,” she said, switching clumsily between Hindi and Garhwali, eyes narrowing, “why do you come here? Really?”

“To eat,” Aarav said instantly, mouth full of aloo tikki. “And live. Mostly eat.”

She ignored him completely. Eyes fixed on me like she could see straight through the sarcasm.

“You go near mountain?”

“Not yet,” I said, tearing the roti slowly. “But it’s on my to-do list. Between dessert and dying tragically.”

Her mouth tightened into a thin line.

“Mountain is no place for jokes, beta. You think mountain is your Tinder match? Swipe left, beta, swipe left. Or it will swipe you right into the abyss.”

The aunties howled again. One slapped her thigh so hard the blanket jumped, sending a puff of snow into the air.

“Good,” I said, chewing slowly. “I’m allergic to seriousness anyway.”

“Allergic?” another aunty scoffed, older, silver streaks in her hair, eyes that had seen too many winters. “Beta, you’re allergic to sense. Look at you—cigarette in snow, sneakers in jungle, face like you already lost the argument with life and are waiting for the rematch.”

Vani tried to hide a laugh behind her roti, but it came out as a snort. i glared her in fury and nudged her .

“People pray before they go,” the first aunty continued, voice softer, almost maternal. “They offer food. Flowers. Blood sometimes. Small things to keep it sleeping.”

“Blood?” Vani repeated, phone halfway to her ear like she was about to record this for content. Her thumb hovered over the record button.

The aunty crossed herself and muttered a quick prayer, glancing toward the dark slopes.

“There’s a hidden mandir there. Very old. The Lord inside protects us. Keeps the bad spirits sleeping. You don’t wake it with jokes.”

“Like a spiritual snooze button,” I said brightly, lifting my thali like a toast. No one laughed.

“You disrespect,” she snapped, eyes narrowing.

“Then it should hear this,” I replied lightly. “I’m charming as hell.”

She stared at me like she was trying to memorize my face for a memorial poster—or perhaps to warn the mountain in advance.

“Charming?” a skinny uncle barked from the bench, voice gravelly. “Beta, you look like the kind of boy who gets lost in his own colony and blames Google Maps. Charming? You’re a walking red flag. Bhoot will see you coming and think, ‘arre, this one’s already haunted.’”

The aunties lost it—full-on thigh-slapping, head-shaking, “hai Ram” cackles echoing into the night.

“Bad things follow men like you,” the aunty whispered suddenly, serious again. Her voice dropped so low the fire seemed to lean in to listen.

“Yeah,” I said quietly, smile fading just a fraction. “I know.”

The words hung there.

She studied me a moment longer, then left without another word, returning to her blanket.

The laughter died down—not gone, just quieter, like the fire had eaten half the sound.

A skinny uncle poked the logs with a stick, sending sparks spiraling into the falling snow. They twisted upward, almost reluctantly, before dissolving.

“So you four want to go up the mountain? Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “For trekking.”

“For what?”

“. Photos. Stories. The usual.”

The old man clicked his tongue, disappointed.

“In our time, boys climbed mountains to find gods. Now you climb for i********:. God must be very impressed by your reels and filters.”

Aarav leaned forward, grinning. “If we meet God, can we tag him? #BlessedByRavenkot?”

The aunties burst out laughing again—sharp, delighted, like they couldn’t help themselves.

“Pagal boys,” one said, shaking her head. “No fear in their bones.”

“Oh, there is fear,” I said, voice low. “We just hide it under sarcasm and emotional damage.”

The aunties looked confused for a second, then one nodded slowly. “That much is true. Damage we can see.”

A younger uncle pointed at my cigarette, smoke curling lazily.

“And you! Smoking in cold? Why?”

“Stress.”

“What stress? You haven’t even met the mountain yet.”

“That’s exactly why.”

Someone clapped slowly from the bench.

Then one aunty leaned forward, eyes serious, firelight dancing in them.

“You joke, but Ravenkot does not. It remembers every word. Every laugh. Every disrespect.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” I replied. “Mountains are famously bad at comedy.”

The fire crackled louder, as if agreeing—or warning.

“People go up laughing,” she continued. “They don’t come back laughing. Or at all.”

A younger aunty elbowed her.

“Arre, don’t scare them. Let them eat first. They look half-starved from Delhi air.”

“They should be scared,” the old woman muttered. “City children think bravery is loud. Real bravery is silence.”

Yash finally spoke—quiet, steady, cutting through the noise like a knife.

“We’re careful.”

One uncle snorted.

“Careful? You came wearing sneakers in snow. Careful? You look like you came to audition for a ghost movie. Bhoot will see you and say, ‘arre, this one’s already dead. No need to kill.’”

Vani looked down at her feet, then back up.

“Okay yeah, that part is fair. Note to self: buy better shoes.”

Laughter rippled—warm, almost fond, like scolding their own wayward nephews.

But behind the teasing, the way they watched the forest… That wasn’t funny.

The old man looked at me across the fire, eyes reflecting orange flames like twin suns.

“The mountain listens, beta. When you mock it, it remembers. And it waits.”

I felt the strange pull again—a quiet but sharp hook tugging deep inside my ribs, right where my heart should be too busy being cynical.

It wasn’t pain.

It was recognition.

Like an old wound remembering how to bleed.

I smiled anyway.

“Good. I have a very memorable face.”

The villagers didn’t smile back.

Silence fell—heavy, thick as the dal.

Then the chai-wala—a thin man with tired eyes and hands scarred from hot steel—lowered his voice, barely above the crackle.

“The jungle doesn’t just take lives. It takes memories too. Those who go… their stories linger. Sometimes you hear their voices at night.”

Vani swallowed hard.

“That’s… poetic. Horrifying, but poetic.”

“You won’t come back,” an aunty muttered, almost to herself. “And then we’ll cry again. Like every time.”

I felt the pull sharpen—a strange pressure pressing inside my chest, testing, waiting.

My heartbeat stuttered, then synced with something deep inside the rock.

“Maybe,” I said softly, “we won’t disappear.”

The old woman shook her head slowly.

“The mountain decides that. Not you. Not your jokes. Not your reels.”

Snow thickened outside, muffling the world.

And for a moment, even the Delhi gang fell quiet.

Because laughter was easy.

But belief… belief was dangerous.

The fire popped.

A log cracked open, sending sparks into the falling snow like desperate signals.

........

third's pov

And somewhere up there—beyond the red prayer flags snapping in the wind, beyond the deodar trees standing silent sentinels, beyond the place where light stopped and darkness began—something listened.

Not yet ready to answer.

But curious.