Amrita Lakhani
Chapter 1 – Return to the Haveli
The late afternoon sun draped the Rajasthani landscape in molten gold as Meera Rathore’s jeep rolled through the dusty road leading to her ancestral village. The air was thick with the scent of dry earth and marigold garlands strung outside small houses in preparation for an upcoming festival. For Meera, a heritage researcher who had spent years in Jaipur’s archives and museums, this trip was meant to be purely academic — an opportunity to document traditional kathputli puppet-making in its most authentic form. Yet, as the outline of the Rathore haveli appeared in the distance, a sprawling structure of sandstone with ornate jharokhas and faded murals, an inexplicable heaviness settled in her chest. The haveli loomed like a relic from another time, beautiful yet shadowed by an unspoken melancholy. Standing at the main entrance was Arjun, her cousin, his simple white kurta and easy smile offering warmth against the building’s cold grandeur.
Inside, the haveli was a blend of fading opulence and stubborn resilience. The main courtyard still held a tulsi plant in its center, tended daily by the household’s elderly maid, Lata Bai. The walls were lined with dusty portraits of long-dead ancestors, their painted eyes seeming to follow Meera as she walked past. Over cups of steaming masala chai, Arjun caught her up on village gossip — crop disputes, a wedding in the next hamlet, a recent tiger sighting near the riverbed. When Meera casually mentioned her plan to explore the haveli’s south wing, his smile faltered. “That part hasn’t been opened in years,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a warning. “It’s just storage now… full of old junk.” But she noticed how his eyes flicked toward Lata Bai, who quickly busied herself with clearing the tea tray, her bangles clinking faster than before.
The villagers were no more welcoming of her intentions. Later that evening, she wandered through the small market, buying embroidered dupattas and asking the puppet sellers about older performance styles. Most answered politely, but when she mentioned the haveli’s south wing, conversations ended abruptly. A few even made the sign to ward off evil, muttering about “things better left alone.” The puppet makers spoke only of current designs — bright, cheerful characters for tourists — and seemed unwilling to discuss the darker, older tales. By the time she returned to the haveli, the sun had dipped low, and the air was thick with the scent of cooking fires. The grand halls echoed with quiet, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Somewhere deep in the building, a peacock cried — sharp, almost mournful.
That night, after everyone had retired, Meera sat at her desk in the guest room, jotting notes in her leather-bound journal. The silence of the haveli pressed against the windows, broken only by the distant rustle of wind through neem trees. Then, faintly, she heard it — a soft, rhythmic clack-clack, like wooden pieces knocking together. She froze, straining her ears. The sound came again, from the far end of the corridor… from behind the heavy teak door of the south wing’s locked storeroom. Her heart beat faster, each thud loud in her own ears. For a moment she told herself it was just rats, or the old building settling. But as she sat there in the half-dark, the sound grew clearer, almost deliberate — like the careful manipulation of strings over wood. She thought she caught the faintest jingle of tiny bells, the kind tied to a puppet’s costume. Rising slowly, she stepped toward her door, the stone floor cold under her bare feet. The corridor was shadowed, the air cooler there, and when she reached the storeroom, the clattering stopped. Only silence remained, thick and absolute. She pressed her ear to the wood, but the stillness on the other side was almost louder than the sound had been. Shivering, Meera backed away, telling herself she would get the keys from Arjun in the morning. Yet long after she lay down again, sleep eluded her, for in the depths of the haveli, she thought she heard — just once — the faint swish of strings being pulled.
Chapter 2 – The Dust-Covered Stage
The following morning, Meera wasted no time in seeking out Arjun. Over breakfast, she mentioned the strange noises from the south wing. He frowned but eventually relented, producing an old iron key from a wooden box. “Just be careful,” he murmured, handing it over. The corridor leading to the south wing felt different from the rest of the haveli — colder, with motes of dust swirling in beams of muted sunlight. The teak door groaned in protest as she unlocked it, releasing a wave of stale air thick with the scent of age and neglect. Inside, the room was cavernous and dim, its high ceiling supported by thick wooden beams from which cobwebs hung like abandoned curtains. Piles of furniture, rolled carpets, and crates crowded the space, all draped in heavy white cloth now yellowed with time. Her footsteps echoed as she made her way deeper in, trailing her fingers over the textured surfaces.
It was in the far corner, under a mound of fabric, that she found the small wooden stage. The outline of its carved edges drew her curiosity, and with some effort, she pulled away the dusty coverings. The stage was beautifully crafted, though time had dulled its colors — miniature arches and jharokhas adorned the top, echoing the architecture of the haveli itself. On its platform stood a neat row of kathputli puppets, each suspended from delicate strings still attached to wooden control bars. Meera’s breath caught when she brushed away the dust from the first puppet’s face. It was uncannily lifelike, the painted eyes deep and knowing, the contours of the cheeks and lips bearing an eerie resemblance to one of the old black-and-white portraits in the haveli’s hallway. She moved down the row, uncovering puppet after puppet, each one echoing the likeness of someone she had seen in those photographs — long-dead relatives, local villagers, even a young bride whose face seemed frozen in perpetual sorrow. The artistry was impeccable, but the effect was unsettling, as though these weren’t mere toys but preserved fragments of living souls.
Among the clutter, she found a narrow wooden box tucked behind the stage. Inside lay a bundle of papers bound with brittle twine. The top sheet bore an unmistakable signature: Bhairav Nath, the retired puppeteer the villagers had told her about. The pages were filled with neat Devanagari script, the ink faded to a soft brown. At first glance, it appeared to be a performance script, each section describing a scene — but the descriptions were unlike any kathputli play she had encountered. They were grim, filled with accounts of accusations, betrayals, and punishments delivered with chilling precision. The opening page carried a title in bold strokes: Nyay ka Naach — “The Dance of Justice.” It wasn’t the justice of courts or law; this was justice as vengeance, each act ending in the death of the guilty. The language was formal, almost ceremonial, as if each execution was part of a sacred ritual. Meera read with growing unease, her fingers brushing over phrases that seemed to echo darker chapters of her family’s history.
As she stood there in the dim light, a beam of sun broke through a crack in the boarded-up window, illuminating the stage. For a moment, she thought she saw the faint sway of one puppet — the old man with a crooked turban — though no wind stirred and she hadn’t touched the strings. The painted eyes seemed to follow her, their gaze unwavering. She stepped back, her heartbeat quickening, the script still in her hand. The room, moments ago just a dusty relic, now felt alive with quiet watching. Carefully, she replaced the cloth over the stage, though the puppets’ faces seemed to press through the fabric in her mind’s eye. Locking the door behind her, she carried the script with her, determined to speak with Bhairav Nath. Yet as she walked away, she could not shake the sense that she had, in uncovering the stage, also awakened something that had been waiting — patient, silent, and bound by strings that might soon begin to move again.
Chapter 3 – Bhairav Nath’s Warning
The path to Bhairav Nath’s dwelling wound through the far edge of the village, past thorn fences and fields gone brittle in the dry season. Arjun had told Meera that the old puppeteer lived alone in what used to be the servants’ quarters of a smaller haveli, now almost swallowed by creeping vines. The afternoon sun was mellow, but the closer she came, the heavier the air felt, as if the place itself disapproved of visitors. The door was ajar, revealing a dim interior scented faintly of sandalwood and something older — perhaps the must of decayed cloth. Inside, she found Bhairav Nath seated cross-legged on a jute mat, his milky eyes half-closed, fingers absently rolling a wooden mala. His turban was frayed, his kurta stained with turmeric and dust. Meera introduced herself and spoke of her interest in traditional kathputli performances. At her mention of the haveli’s south wing, his hands stilled on the beads, and a shadow crossed his expression. “There are many puppet shows, bitiya,” he said slowly. “Not all of them are meant for the living.”
When she produced the script and set it gently before him, his gaze flickered — almost fear, almost recognition — but he shook his head. “Old papers. Old lies,” he muttered, refusing to touch it. Meera, sensing his reluctance, reached into her satchel and withdrew one of the puppets she had wrapped carefully in cloth: the old man with the crooked turban. The moment its painted face caught the light, Bhairav’s breath hitched audibly. His hands trembled, and his voice cracked into a low growl. “Put it away!” he snapped, startling her. After a long pause, he leaned closer, his cataract-clouded eyes seeming to look straight through her. “You do not understand. Once the strings move, blood follows in its wake. The dance tells the order… and the order cannot be broken.” His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to echo in the still room. “They are not mere wood and cloth — they are debts. Each thread pulls a life into its ending.”
Meera tried to reason with him, telling him it was only an artifact, a remnant of old storytelling. Bhairav shook his head, chuckling dryly, though there was no humor in it. “Artifacts do not wait in silence for decades and still remember every step of their dance,” he said. “That stage is a court, bitiya, and the judge is very patient.” His words unsettled her, but her rational mind clung to the explanation of superstition. She thanked him, though he refused to bless her research and instead muttered a prayer under his breath as she left. Outside, the air felt brighter, but she couldn’t shake the image of his trembling hands, nor the way the puppet’s eyes had seemed more knowing in that dim light. On the walk back, she told herself it was simply an old man’s fear, fed by stories and grief. The Nyay ka Naach script was just a piece of cultural heritage — grim, yes, but nothing supernatural.
That night, after dinner, the haveli settled into its usual quiet. Meera sat in her guest room, sorting through her notes, when the faint jingle of tiny bells drifted through the corridor. Her first thought was of Lata Bai, but the sound was too delicate, too measured, like the steps of a dancer. Setting down her pen, she followed the sound toward the south wing. The key in her pocket felt heavy, though she wasn’t sure why she had brought it with her. Unlocking the storeroom, she was met with darkness, the air colder than it had been in the day. Then she saw it — the stage was uncovered, the puppets in a different arrangement, as if mid-performance. The crooked-turban puppet swayed gently, its strings taut though no one was there to pull them. One by one, the others moved — jerking, bowing, enacting some silent scene she could not yet understand. Frozen in the doorway, Meera watched until the movement slowed, the strings falling slack. Only the soft clack of wooden limbs settling remained. She closed the door slowly, locking it again, and walked back to her room with her pulse thundering in her ears. She told herself she would not think of Bhairav Nath’s warning. But as she lay in bed, her mind whispered the words anyway — the order cannot be broken.
Chapter 4 – First Blood
The next evening, Meera found herself once again drawn to the south wing. She told herself it was for research, to document the strange staging for her notes, but beneath that was a restless curiosity that had gnawed at her all day. Unlocking the storeroom, she stepped inside with her phone’s camera ready. The air felt charged, like the moment before a monsoon storm, and the faint scent of sandalwood clung to the space. The puppets were arranged differently again. Tonight, the stage seemed prepared for a single grim act. The crooked-turban puppet stood near a miniature wooden well, one arm raised. From the opposite side, another puppet approached — this one with a lean frame, a painted mustache, and a red scarf across its chest. Slowly, the first puppet drew a tiny dagger from its waist sash, the string movements deliberate and precise, and plunged it into the second puppet’s side. The victim puppet crumpled beside the well, its head tilting at an unnatural angle. There was no sound but the soft thud of wooden limbs. Meera stood frozen, camera forgotten, as the puppets stilled again.
She locked the door behind her and returned to her room, trying to shake the image from her mind. It was surely some old scene from the Nyay ka Naach, she reasoned, a symbolic punishment that coincidentally resembled real violence. Yet something about the staging unsettled her — it had been too slow, too deliberate, as though whoever controlled the strings wanted her to witness every detail. She stayed awake long into the night, rereading the corresponding section of the script. There it was: The thief, punished at the village well. A crime, a judgment, an execution. No names were given, but the location was described in detail. Meera tried to convince herself it was harmless historical theater, the way a historian might rationalize a disturbing painting. But when she finally drifted to sleep, she dreamt of the well — the dark water, the sound of dripping, and a faint ripple that spread outward like a heartbeat.
Two mornings later, the village woke to commotion. Word spread quickly: Chandan, a farmer from the northern fields, had been found dead at the old village well. Meera and Arjun arrived to find a crowd gathered, their murmurs a blend of shock and fear. The well was cordoned off, and two constables stood guard while Inspector Devendra Singh examined the scene. Chandan’s body lay on a stretcher, a clean stab wound visible just below the ribs. His clothes were soaked with blood, and his head lolled lifelessly to one side — just like the puppet’s had. Meera’s breath caught, her mind snapping back to the performance she had seen. She glanced at the well’s stone wall; the carved patterns matched the miniature one on the puppet stage almost exactly. Devendra Singh, tall and broad-shouldered in his crisp khaki uniform, looked up at her with sharp eyes. “You’re the one studying the haveli, yes? This is no ghost story. Someone did this — someone with a blade and a grudge.”
Back at the haveli, Meera avoided the south wing, but her thoughts refused to let the matter rest. The timing was impossible to ignore: the puppet show one night, the killing two days later, both in identical fashion. Arjun dismissed it as morbid coincidence, but Meera could see the unease in his eyes. Even Lata Bai muttered a prayer when she overheard the details. That night, Meera sat at her desk, staring at the locked door across the courtyard. Part of her wanted to throw the key into the deepest part of the well and be done with it. Yet another part — the same one that had brought her here to dig into the past — felt certain this was only the first act. She thought again of Bhairav Nath’s warning: Once the strings move, blood follows… and the order cannot be broken. Somewhere in the haveli, behind that locked door, the puppets were waiting for their next scene. And she feared she already knew what that meant.
Chapter 5 – Rani Sa’s Silence
The morning after Chandan’s murder, the haveli was unusually quiet. Even the usual clink of utensils from the kitchen seemed muffled, as though the air itself had been instructed to keep still. Meera found Rani Sa in her private sitting room, reclining on a low divan, the heavy curtains drawn to keep out the sun. The older woman’s presence carried the weight of authority, her silver hair neatly coiled, her silks uncreased despite the heat. Meera began cautiously, speaking of her research, the old south wing, and the kathputli set. Rani Sa listened without interrupting, her expression impassive. When Meera described the strange performances, a faint shadow passed over her face — not quite surprise, but recognition. “Some stories,” Rani Sa said at last, her voice low and clipped, “were meant to be buried for the family’s honour. You will do well, Meera, to leave them there.” The words were final, delivered not as advice but as a decree.
Still, Meera pressed, asking if she knew the origin of the puppets or of Bhairav Nath’s Nyay ka Naach. Rani Sa’s kohl-lined eyes hardened. “You think history is a toy you can wind up and watch? You do not understand what those strings can pull,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument. But as she spoke, Meera noticed something odd — a quick, almost involuntary glance toward the far wall, where a carved teak cabinet stood partially open. Inside, displayed like a keepsake, was one of the puppets she had seen in the south wing. It was the bride. Her wooden face was painted with delicate features, lips tinted red, eyes rimmed with kohl, a tiny crimson veil falling across her brow. Even frozen in stillness, she seemed heavy with sadness. Rani Sa quickly closed the cabinet door, but the momentary flicker of unease in her expression had already caught Meera’s attention.
Later that afternoon, Meera found Lata Bai in the courtyard, pounding spices with a stone pestle. The maid was usually cheerful, but today her eyes darted toward the shadows as if they might hold eavesdroppers. Meera mentioned the bridal puppet, casually at first, but Lata’s hands stilled. “That one,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “is not for playing.” Meera leaned closer, prompting her to explain. After a long pause, Lata spoke, glancing around nervously between sentences. “They say she is… was… a real bride. Long ago, before you were born. The wedding took place here, in this haveli. But before the night was over, she was dead. Some say it was an accident, others that it was… made to look like one. No one speaks her name anymore. Rani Sa would rather the tale vanish.” The maid’s hands resumed their work, more quickly now, as though the conversation had already lasted too long.
That night, Meera returned to her room, the image of the bridal puppet vivid in her mind. She could almost imagine the wooden figure standing on the miniature stage, veil fluttering in some invisible wind, the strings above her trembling in anticipation of movement. The thought brought with it a new, heavier question — if the puppets reenacted deaths from the past, whose turn was next? The script’s pages held no clear order she could discern, but Bhairav Nath’s warning rang in her ears: The order cannot be broken. She had tried to believe this was all elaborate coincidence, but with each day, the haveli’s secrets pressed closer. And in the midst of it all, that silent bride, forever trapped between ceremony and tragedy, seemed to be watching her, waiting for the dance to begin again.
Chapter 6 – The Second Death
The night air inside the south wing was heavy, almost suffocating, as Meera found herself once more drawn to the dusty stage. Despite the warnings and the eerie chain of events, her curiosity had grown into a need for answers she could not ignore. She unlocked the storeroom with trembling fingers and stepped inside, the flickering beam of her flashlight cutting through the darkness. The puppets stood arranged anew. This time, the scene was one of violent collapse — a finely carved balcony, miniature wooden pillars and railings delicately balanced on the stage, tilted as if moments from crumbling. In the center, a puppet with a stout frame and a turban was pinned beneath the fallen structure, his painted eyes wide with horror, limbs twisted unnaturally. Meera’s breath caught as the strings above jerked briefly, the puppets enacting the grim sequence with unnerving precision. It was as though the stage was alive, replaying a cruel tragedy frozen in time.
The next morning, Meera shared the scene with Arjun, hoping he might see reason and help her investigate. But Arjun, ever the skeptic, laughed it off, calling it coincidence and superstition. “A balcony collapsing? These old buildings aren’t safe. It could happen to anyone,” he said, trying to ease her growing anxiety. Yet as the sun rose higher, news from the village shattered their fragile denial. Hari Prakash, the local shopkeeper known for his jovial greetings and bright storefront, had been found crushed beneath the ruins of an old balcony on a derelict house near the market. The authorities were investigating structural failure, but Meera’s mind raced — the puppet’s reenactment, the earlier murder at the well — it was all too precise to be chance. The villagers whispered in fearful clusters, eyes darting nervously toward the haveli, as if its very presence summoned doom.
Inspector Devendra Singh came to the haveli that afternoon, his stern face unreadable. He listened as Meera explained her suspicions and the puppet performances, but his response was cautionary. “People are scared enough. We cannot let old stories stir panic. These are accidents and crimes, and we will deal with them through law and order.” His tone was firm, a reminder that superstition had no place in police work. Yet even he seemed troubled, glancing at the south wing with a faint shadow crossing his features. Meera left their conversation more resolved than ever. The puppets were not mere relics; they were harbingers, weaving a dark tapestry of vengeance that spanned decades. The question haunting her was who, or what, was pulling the strings.
That night, sleep was elusive. Meera sat by her window, the moon casting long silver shadows across the courtyard. Her thoughts circled back to Bhairav Nath’s warning — the order of deaths, the unbroken sequence. The bridal puppet still loomed in her mind, its silent vigil a chilling reminder of the past that refused to rest. Outside, the wind whispered through the neem trees, carrying faint echoes of wooden clicks and jingling bells. Somewhere deep within the haveli, the puppets waited for their next dance, their strings poised to drag another soul into the unfolding nightmare. And Meera knew that the story was far from over — the cursed performance had only just begun.
Chapter 7 – The Hidden Ledger
The following afternoon, Meera confided in Gopal, the sharp-eyed stable boy who had silently observed much of the haveli’s unrest. With a mixture of hesitation and resolve, Gopal agreed to help her uncover more about the mysteries shrouding the Rathore family and the haunted puppet show. Under the cover of a simmering sun and distracted household staff, Gopal slipped quietly away from his duties and made his way toward Rani Sa’s private quarters — a wing of the haveli usually barred to servants and guests alike. The heavy door stood slightly ajar, likely forgotten in the afternoon calm. Inside, the room was richly furnished, smelling faintly of sandalwood and aged paper. Among ornate desks and velvet drapes, a large wooden chest caught his attention, its surface marred by scratches but still sturdy. With trembling fingers, he lifted the heavy lid to reveal a thick ledger, its leather cover cracked and worn.
Gopal knew immediately that this was no ordinary book. The pages were filled with neat, meticulous handwriting — names, dates, and brief descriptions written in Hindi and old Rajasthani script. Flicking through, he found columns that detailed offenses and the corresponding “punishments” meted out by the Thakur family over generations. There were names of villagers, merchants, even some distant relatives, all marked with somber notes — some deaths attributed to accidents, others to unexplained disappearances or sudden illnesses. The ledger read like a grim record of retribution, a tally of scores settled in secrecy far from the eyes of the law. Gopal’s heart pounded as he realized that these entries bore chilling similarity to the puppet performances Meera had documented, each line almost a script cue for vengeance.
When Gopal showed the ledger to Meera later that evening, she was stunned into silence. Together, they cross-referenced the names and descriptions with the puppets’ faces and the Nyay ka Naach script Bhairav Nath had given her. Piece by piece, a horrifying pattern emerged: the puppet show was a chronological reenactment of the family’s dark history, a staged judgment passed down through wood and string. Each puppet was not merely a character but a condemned soul, their fate sealed by the Thakur’s legacy of secret justice. Meera’s mind raced, wondering who had orchestrated this macabre theater — and why it had begun performing again after decades of silence. Was it the will of some restless spirit, or had someone pulled the strings from the shadows all along?
Determined to find answers, Meera and Gopal discussed the risks of exposing such secrets. They knew confronting Rani Sa directly might provoke fierce resistance, but the ledger was proof that the murders were not random — they were deliberate acts tied to old grudges. The puppets, the ledger, the deaths — they formed a dark continuum that reached into the present. That night, as the haveli lay draped in moonlight and shadows, Meera stared out at the south wing with renewed dread. The puppets’ silent dance was far from over. Somewhere in the distance, a wooden click echoed faintly, as if reminding her that history’s grip was tightening, one string at a time.
Chapter 8 – Breaking the Sequence
After the chilling discovery of the ledger, Meera and Arjun felt the weight of urgency pressing upon them. They pored over the Nyay ka Naach script late into the night, searching desperately for clues about the next puppet’s scene. Their fears materialized when they found the detailed depiction of a young girl, her delicate wooden fingers clutching at a beaded necklace as her painted throat was constricted. The scene was haunting — a silent, suffocating tragedy frozen in mid-motion. The thought of an innocent life snuffed out in such a manner struck a nerve deep within Meera. This time, she resolved, they would not wait for fate to unfold. Armed with the knowledge of the impending death, they set out to warn the family of a girl named Meenakshi, a shy child who lived just beyond the village edge.
The family received their warning with a mixture of disbelief and fear. Meera and Arjun spoke with the parents, urging them to keep a close watch, to never let Meenakshi be alone or near any necklaces. The villagers whispered behind their backs, some calling Meera a meddler, others fearing the curse they themselves hardly understood. But the family did all they could — locking the girl’s room at night, removing her jewelry, even hiring a caretaker to keep watch. Yet despite their vigilance, tragedy struck on the third night after the warning. Meenakshi was found lifeless in her locked room, the delicate beads of her necklace strangling her pale neck. The window was securely shut, and no one had entered or left. The villagers shivered as the news spread — the curse was real, and even their efforts could not defy it.
Meera was devastated. She had believed that knowledge would be power, that forewarning could break the relentless sequence the puppets dictated. Instead, it seemed to confirm the terrifying truth: the order could not be changed. Arjun, usually steady and rational, looked shaken as well, his earlier dismissiveness replaced by grim acceptance. The police called the death a tragic accident, but Meera knew better. Standing once more before the locked door of the south wing, she stared at the puppets as if expecting them to confess the secrets they held. Her eyes lingered on the bridal puppet — the symbol of unfinished stories and silent pain. Every warning, every attempt to alter fate, seemed only to tighten the grip of the invisible strings. The puppets were not mere relics; they were agents of a merciless justice, indifferent to human will.
That night, Meera lay awake listening to the stillness, the dread settling over her like a suffocating cloak. The harsh reality weighed on her — the dance of death was not a performance she could stop or rewrite. It was a script long written, and she was only now learning to read it, too late to intervene. The thought of what might come next haunted her — which face would the puppets choose, whose life would flicker out in the shadows? The haveli around her seemed to pulse with a dark life, the very walls whispering secrets she wished she could unhear. As the moonlight traced ghostly patterns on the floor, the faintest sound echoed from the south wing — the unmistakable click of wooden limbs moving, the delicate jingle of beaded strings. The puppets were ready to dance again, and Meera was left to wonder if anyone could ever truly escape the fate bound by those puppet strings.
Chapter 9 – The Final Puppet
As the days grew heavier with dread, Meera found herself unable to look away from the south wing’s locked door. The murders had followed the puppets’ grim dance, each death marking a step closer to an ending she could neither escape nor alter. Among the faded puppets, only one remained untouched — the bridal figure, draped in crimson with a delicate veil framing her painted face. One afternoon, Meera convinced Arjun to help her examine the haveli’s archives for any clue about the mysterious bride. They scoured brittle letters and faded photographs, finally uncovering a striking portrait of her great-aunt, Kamala Rathore, a woman whose untimely death decades ago had been hushed in family whispers. The resemblance was unmistakable — the same delicate features, the same haunted eyes, and the bridal attire frozen in wood and paint. The puppet was no mere toy but a chilling likeness of a life cut short in shadows.
Yet, as Meera stared into the puppet’s face, a cold shiver ran down her spine. The painted features had subtly shifted in the flickering light, the expression now strikingly familiar — a reflection of her own face staring back at her from those glassy eyes. It was as if the puppet had absorbed the soul of the past and was reaching toward the present. Her fingers trembled as she touched the veil, and a whispered thought crept into her mind: was she the next in the deadly sequence? The ancient script, worn and fragile, bore a final line scrawled in Bhairav Nath’s unmistakable handwriting — “The bride must dance before the sun rises.” The words echoed in her ears, a prophecy both chilling and inexorable. There was no denying the pattern any longer; the play was reaching its tragic climax.
Determined to confront the legacy haunting her family, Meera sought out Rani Sa once more. The older woman met her with a sorrowful gaze, no longer stern but resigned. With a trembling voice, she revealed long-buried truths: Kamala had died on her wedding night under suspicious circumstances, her death blamed on a family feud and silenced to protect the Rathore name. The bridal puppet was crafted as both a remembrance and a warning — a symbol of unfinished justice that had now returned to claim its final act. Rani Sa’s silence had been born of fear, but now she urged Meera to heed the warnings, to accept the role fate had cast. The haveli itself, steeped in secrets and curses, waited for the final dance, the moment when past and present would collide in a deadly embrace.
That night, Meera sat alone in her room, the bridal puppet placed reverently on a small table beside her. The moonlight bathed the haveli in pale silver, casting long shadows that seemed to twitch with life. As the hours crawled toward dawn, she felt the weight of the script’s words pressing down on her — a dance she could not refuse, a fate she could not outrun. The quiet tick of the clock was soon joined by a faint, rhythmic sound from the south wing — the soft clack of wooden joints and the delicate jingling of tiny bells. The puppets had begun their final act. Meera’s breath caught as she rose, the veil of the bridal puppet slipping from her fingers, revealing eyes that seemed to gleam with silent invitation. Outside, the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon, and within the haveli’s ancient walls, the strings pulled taut, ready to draw her into the last, fatal dance.
Chapter 10 – Strings in the Dark
Determined to confront the dark legacy once and for all, Meera resolved to spend the final night in the south wing. Armed with a small lantern and a pair of scissors she’d brought from her room, she entered the locked storeroom just before dusk, the heavy door thudding shut behind her. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood and dust, but beneath that lay something more — a faint, almost metallic tang that made her skin prickle. The puppets stood poised on the stage, the bridal figure center stage, her glassy eyes catching the lantern’s flicker. Meera’s heart pounded, but she forced herself to remain steady. She whispered a silent vow to stop the cursed performance, to break the chain of deaths and silence the invisible puppeteer once and for all. As midnight approached, the silence around her deepened, every tick of the ancient clock in the haveli echoing like a heartbeat.
When the clock struck twelve, the room seemed to breathe, and then the impossible happened: the puppets began to move. Strings pulled taut, limbs jerking with eerie precision as though guided by unseen hands. Meera watched, mesmerized and terrified, as the puppets enacted the final act. The bridal puppet’s delicate veil fluttered despite the absence of any breeze, her tiny hands moving toward the puppet’s neck in a slow, torturous strangling motion. Every movement was chillingly lifelike, as if some spectral puppeteer was playing out a ritual from beyond. Desperation surged through Meera. Reaching into her satchel, she grabbed the scissors and, one by one, began snipping the strings that controlled the puppets’ limbs. Each cut was a defiance against fate, an attempt to sever the bond between past and present.
But as the strings fell slack, the room grew darker, shadows stretching and twisting like living things. Though the wooden puppets no longer moved, the performance continued in the darkness — a ghostly reenactment cast as flickering silhouettes on the peeling walls. In that eerie gloom, Meera saw her own reflection captured in the bridal puppet’s glassy eyes, as though her soul had been trapped inside the wooden body. The final lines of the ancient script whispered around her, promising no escape: “The bride must dance before the sun rises.” Her breath hitched as the shadowy dance unfolded silently, the puppets’ forms blurring and shifting until only the bridal figure remained, poised at the center of the stage with a haunting stillness.
When dawn’s first light finally seeped through the cracks of the boarded-up windows, the south wing was empty and silent once more. The door creaked open, revealing an abandoned room and a stage still dust-covered but eerily pristine. Meera was nowhere to be found. In her place sat a new puppet on the stage — delicate and beautifully carved, draped in a crimson veil with eyes that gleamed with unsettling life. The villagers whispered in hushed tones of Meera’s disappearance, some calling it a terrible curse, others a tragic mystery. Inspector Devendra Singh marked the case as a missing person, while the haveli’s walls seemed to hold their secrets tighter than ever. Somewhere, in the shadows between wood and string, the final dance awaited its next pull. The strings were never truly severed — they only found a new hand to guide their deadly performance in the dark.
End
