Nayantara - Echoes of the Taken

Chapter 3

Shri had hours before his early morning flight to Nagpur, but sleep wasn’t coming easy. He jolted upright, chest heaving, the echo of a guttural growl still ringing in his ears. The bungalow lay shrouded in darkness, the only light the crimson glow of the clock piercing the gloom—3:17 a.m. He was sprawled across the bed, sheets twisted like restraints around his legs, his shirt clinging to him with the chill of sweat. His mind was a void, no trace of the dream that had ripped him from sleep, just an unsettling blank where something monstrous should have been. Had it tracked him down after all these years, that thing from the village night? A flash of crimson eyes slashed through his mind, and he shoved the image away, lurching to his feet. He stumbled through the morning, every move a fight against shaky hands and legs. The shower was hot, steam filling the bathroom, but it didn’t warm the chill inside him. His toothbrush hit the sink loud, unsteady, and the mirror showed a worn-out man—dark circles under his eyes, skin tight and pale. The broken whisky glass sparkled on the floor, ignored as he packed—clothes stuffed into his suitcase, the zipper loud in the quiet. The bungalow creaked like it didn’t want him to go. Ramu stood at the door, mumbling goodbye half-asleep, but Shri was already out, rushing to the car waiting in the gray dawn, its engine pulling him away. The airport was bright and loud—lights glaring, people talking fast. Shri sank into his plane seat, the take-off hum calming him a little. Sleep came quick, giving him two hours of rest, his body limp against the window as clouds passed below. The landing woke him with a jolt, Nagpur’s heat sneaking in. A car waited outside, the driver quiet in a neat uniform, sunglasses on. Shri got in, phone to his ear, giving short orders—work stuff, anything to keep him steady. The city faded, turning into open land, the road cutting through fields and bare trees. He looked out, trying to find bits of that trip almost thirty years ago—the rickety bus, the dust in his throat. Nothing fit; time had wiped it clean, leaving something strange and heavy. The car bounced over rough patches, each bump rattling his nerves. Hours stretched ahead to wherever he was going, a place he felt more than knew. His mind slipped back to Dr. Pratap—those sharp eyes, that warm smile—and then the flood came: that night, the statue, its living skin and whispered words. Shri shut his eyes tight, praying like a kid: Make it a dream, make it go away. Time dragged, his heart pounding, until he looked again. The room was quiet, lit by pale moonlight. The statue was back on the shelf, just wood, like it’d never moved. Was it all in his head? Just too tired? He breathed hard, sweat sticking his shirt to him, but sleep was gone. He pulled the sheet over his head, wrapping himself up, the cloth thin against whatever was out there. His breathing was loud in the dark, fast and shallow, as he tried to calm down. The night crawled on, and somehow he fell back asleep, deep and blank. Then a knock woke him—steady, loud, banging through the small room. His heart jumped, each hit ringing in his head. The statue sat still in the corner, mocking him. Who was at the door—or what? His legs shook as he got up, the floor cold under his feet. The knocking stopped, then started again, harder. He grabbed the knob, sweaty hands slipping, and turned it slow, the hinges creaking loud. Relief hit him hard—it was Prakash, Dr. Pratap’s assistant, standing there in the dim light. “Saheb,” he said flat, “breakfast’s ready. Get cleaned up and come. Doctor Saheb’s waiting.” Shri nodded, too shaken to talk, and watched Prakash walk off down the dark hall. The room felt tighter now, the masks and spears closing in. He splashed water on his face in the tiny bathroom, the mirror showing a guy he didn’t know—eyes sunk, skin pale. The statue stayed in the corner of his eye as he dressed, quiet but heavy. The hall was brighter—sun coming through cracked windows, dust floating in the light. Dr. Pratap sat at an old table, a plate of hot parathas and curd in front of him, smiling warm but off somehow. “Sleep okay?” he asked, his voice light but digging, looking Shri over. “Well… yeah,” Shri lied, forcing a smile as he sat. The food smelled good—ghee and spices—but his stomach wasn’t ready. Pratap laughed, a sound that didn’t match his eyes. “New place—takes a bit to get used to. Eat up, then we’ll go to the hospital. It’s close. Your room’ll be ready by tonight.” He turned to Prakash, who came in with tea mugs. “Fix his quarters by dusk. Do it right. And pack the gift—put it in his room later.” Prakash mumbled okay and left. Shri frowned. “Gift?” Pratap’s smile grew, a spark in his eyes—fun or something else? “You’re new here. Gotta welcome you with something from around here.” He leaned back, arms crossed. “A little piece of this place for you.” Shri laughed a bit, though it felt tight. “Thanks, sir. I should’ve brought something too.” “Don’t worry,” Pratap said, waving it off, his grin softening but still sharp. “You showing up’s enough for me.” His words hung there, heavy with something Shri couldn’t figure out—nice, but maybe not. The tea burned his tongue as he sipped, a quick distraction from the questions piling up. What gift? Why’d Pratap sound so pushy about it? And why’d the air feel thicker now, like the house was holding something back? Shri glanced at the hall, half-expecting the statue to show up—not wood, but alive, those red eyes still on him. The paratha sat there, untouched, the morning light not enough to shake the unease growing inside him. They walked to the hospital down a dusty road, and Shri’s senses woke up, taking in everything he’d missed last night. Old trees lined the path, their twisted branches letting sunlight spill through in patches. Beyond them, mountains rose up, covered in thick forest, big and quiet in a way that hit him deep. It was rough, sure, but alive—birds chirping, leaves rustling, the air smelling of dirt and pine. He couldn’t stop looking, caught by how wild and pretty it was, so lost in it that Pratap’s voice barely got through. “Shri… Shri…” “Sir… Sir…” The words snapped him back, loud and sharp. Shri gasped, sitting up straight in the car, the sound of tires on the road rushing in. His heart thumped, confused, as he blinked into the daylight pouring through the windshield. The driver had pulled him out of the past, his shape stiff behind the wheel. Shri rubbed his eyes, the memory sticking like dust. He was still in the car, rolling through a quiet stretch where towns felt far away. Trees stood tall on both sides, their shadows long and thin, like the ones he’d walked under with Pratap years ago. “Yes?” Shri said, his voice scratchy, the past heavy in his head. The driver looked at him in the mirror, his sunglasses showing a quick flicker of worry. “Sir, can I stop for a minute? Have to relieve myself.” “Oh, sure,” Shri muttered, waving a hand as the car slowed, gravel crunching. It stopped on the side of an empty road, dust settling around them, the place feeling familiar but off—like something he half-knew. Shri grabbed his water bottle, the plastic cool in his hand, and drank deep, the water steadying him. He rolled the window down, and fresh air rushed in—crisp, earthy, with a hint of rain. It woke him up, easing his nerves, but it pulled up flashes: the bumpy bus ride, the hospital against the mountains, Pratap’s odd smile. Years away had blurred it all, but now it was coming back sharp. The driver got back in, shutting the door with a thud, and started the car. “Almost an hour to Shivalkot, sir,” he said, his voice even but quick. Shri nodded, leaning toward the open window. “Keep the AC off. This air—it’s real.” The driver gave a small smile, teeth flashing in the mirror. “Yes, sir.” The car moved on, the breeze messing up Shri’s hair as he pressed closer to the window. He looked out, trying to grab onto his past—those trees, those mountains—but time had kept the beauty and lost the details. The road curved, the forest got thicker, but nothing clicked. Just nice trees swaying soft, and faint mountain outlines against a darkening sky. Then something caught his eye—a quick shape, gone too fast to name. “Stop,” he said loud, sharper than he meant. The driver braked, tires skidding a bit, and Shri was out before the car stopped, crossing the road fast, not sure why. His shoes crunched on dry ground as he headed into a clearing, the forest closing around him. The driver called out, “Sir?”—worried now—and followed, his steps unsure. Shri kept going, branches tugging at his sleeves, until he stopped short, breath catching. There was a small temple-like building, its stone worn but solid, vines wrapping its base. He stared, not believing it—how was it still the same? Twenty eight years out here, open to weather, but it looked untouched, like time skipped it. The driver caught up, breathing a little hard, eyes wide behind his sunglasses. “You’ve been here before, sir?” Shri turned to him, a small smile pulling at his mouth, though his heart raced. “Yeah. Almost thirty years ago.” The driver’s jaw dropped, surprised. “How’d you even find it? This temple—you can’t see it from the road. No one knows it’s here unless…” He stopped, looking at the trees like they might say something. Shri turned back, his heart jumping as he saw the road was gone, hidden by thick leaves. The clearing felt cut off, the temple its center. Fear hit him quick and cold, holding him there as he stared at it. The air got heavy, and then—a sound. A soft hum, sweet and quiet, weaving through the silence. It was nice, pulling at something he couldn’t name. He tilted his head, listening hard. “You hear that?” The driver, pale now, his hands fidgeting, blinked fast. “What, sir? Hear what?” “Someone humming,” Shri said low, his eyes on the temple. “A tune… real nice…” The driver’s face tightened, panic creeping in as he looked around the empty clearing. “No, sir. Just the wind—I only hear wind. We should go. I’ve gotta get back to the city after dropping you.” Shri barely heard him, the hum growing, wrapping around him, drowning out the leaves. He stepped closer to the temple, touching the cool stone, brushing a vine aside. Flowers were scattered at the base—marigolds, bright against the gray, like someone just left them. Who? He picked one up, its smell sharp and sweet, and put it on the altar, a quiet wish in his chest—for answers, for calm. The driver copied him, quick and nervous, dropping a flower with a mumble before stepping back. “Can we go now, sir?” the driver asked, his voice tight, eyes jumping to the trees. Shri nodded slow, the hum fading fast, leaving an empty ache. He walked back, the clearing letting him go slow, branches brushing him like whispers. The car waited, a way back to Shivalkot, but the temple stayed in his head—unchanged, forever, tied to a past he couldn’t shake. The driver started the engine, the rumble weak against the quiet, and Shri leaned on the window, the fresh air now mixed with something scary, something that wouldn’t let go.