Raman woke with a start, his breath caught in his chest. Blinking rapidly, he cleared his blurred vision, and saw Sukku standing in front of him. He rubbed his eyes in panic, but when he looked again, it was Bishu.
"What is it?" Raman asked, though he could already see the bundle of chapattis in Bishu's hands.
"Meena Kaki sent these for you," Bishu replied, handing over the bundle. His tone lacked the enthusiasm he usually carried. Raman understood—it was hard for him, too. Sukku was his friend.
"How's your aunt? Is she alright?" Raman asked, his voice tight with concern.
"She is. But—" Bishu hesitated, eyes downcast.
"What?" Raman pressed, his worry rising.
"It's Birju Kaka. He hasn't eaten anything. Kaki says he might die. He refuses to go to the hospital with Hari Uncle. He insists he needs to give Sukku his birthday gift first."
Raman's chest tightened. "He'll get better," he said, though the words felt hollow even to him. "Everyone's there to help him. Don't worry."
But Bishu didn't respond. Instead, he said, "I should be going now. They must be waiting."
"Yes, of course," Raman muttered, though he felt a pang in his chest as he watched Bishu turn and leave.
The memory of what had happened that day lingered, haunting him.
"Don't you get it, Ramu?" his mother had said when they returned from Seema's check-up. "It's a bad omen. Him dying near our farm, on his own birthday. It's not a good sign, son. Not a good sign."
Raman had sighed. "There's nothing we can do about it, is there?"
"I asked the priest," his mother had replied, her voice softer. "He said a pilgrimage might help."
Raman had shaken his head. "Don't start with this again, Ma. You know what I think about all that."
She had tears in her eyes as she looked at him. "We've already lost our grandchild, Raman. Don't let us lose another one."
Against his better judgment, the constant tension had worn him down, and he had agreed. It took an entire week to prepare for their journey, time he should have spent harvesting. And now it would be five days before they returned. What had he done to deserve this? He hadn't harmed anyone. He had done his best. And yet, it felt like some cruel force had it out for him. Maybe it was a curse. The only thing left to do was hope that the pilgrimage would somehow resolve their troubles.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and darkness spread over the farm, Raman lit a lamp and washed his hands. The chapattis Meena Kaki had sent were still warm to the touch. He ate them slowly, his mind swirling with thoughts of his family, his farm, and his uncertain future. By the time he finished, he could barely stomach another bite.
He set the leftovers aside and stretched out on his cot, his mind racing with fears he couldn't shake. He wouldn't let it happen again. He couldn't. He closed his eyes, trying to find comfort in the quiet of the night. But even as he tried to relax, his thoughts kept returning—his worries, his guilt, and the growing sense that something was terribly wrong.
Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. Panic gripped him as his chest tightened. He shifted on his side, trying to ease the suffocating pressure, but it only worsened. He tried to shout, but no sound came out. The world seemed to blur around him as his vision darkened.
And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw someone standing near the tree. A figure, just out of reach, as if watching him. It looked familiar.
Sukku? His mind screamed. No, it can't be. He had seen Sukku buried only a week ago. Horror surged through him as the weight on his chest grew unbearable. He struggled to breathe, each gasp feeling like his last.
But then, just as quickly, the weight lifted. He could breathe again. His heart pounded in his chest as he lay there, drenched in sweat, wide-eyed in the dark. It had been a nightmare—sleep paralysis, nothing more. He had worked himself into a state, too much on his mind. The thoughts of his family, his farm, the looming pilgrimage had done this to him. He needed water.
He reached for the bottle beneath his cot, but in his panic, he knocked it over, spilling the last of the water. Great. Now he had no choice but to go to the well, all the way across the farm. He grabbed the lamp and his empty bottle and set off in the dark.
"It's just a dream," he told himself, trying to steady his racing thoughts. "Just get it over with."
The well loomed ahead, an impenetrable darkness swallowing it up. He threw the bucket in and heard the splash as it hit the water. Pulling at the rope, his heart skipped a beat as he imagined someone—or something—pushing him into the depths. His hands shook as he worked.
Finally, he had the bucket in his hands. He filled his bottle and drank deeply, the cool water easing the tightness in his throat. He splashed his shirt with water, feeling a little relief, but the night stretched out before him, endless and uncertain. Could he sleep now? He told himself he was being ridiculous, but the unease wouldn't leave him. The sounds of movement in the distance—likely just a dog or some other animal—only heightened his paranoia.
With the water bottle in hand, he started back toward his cot, his steps quickening as he neared the farm. But halfway there, he froze. There, crouched among the crops, was a figure.
For a long moment, he stood still, unable to move. Terror gripped him. Was he still dreaming? His mind raced, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. The figure remained still, just beyond the light of his lamp, too far to make out clearly. But the dread in his chest told him everything he needed to know.
Was it Sukku?