Purnendu Dey
I
The road to Jhargram was lined with towering sal and mahua trees, their shadows stretching long in the golden light of late afternoon as the car carrying Arjun and Priya turned towards the palace gates. For both of them, this was supposed to be a moment of pride, of fulfillment—choosing a venue that not only reflected heritage and grandeur but also marked the beginning of their married life in an unforgettable way. Priya, who had spent years documenting old forts and mansions as part of her conservation projects, was brimming with excitement, her eyes darting between the crumbling stone archways, the intricate terracotta panels, and the long driveway that unfurled like a passage into history. Arjun, on the other hand, while supportive of her choice, felt a strange tightness in his chest as they approached the palace. The massive iron gates creaked open, revealing the red-bricked royal residence of Jhargram—its domes weathered yet imposing, its verandahs carved with fading grandeur, and its stillness unsettling in a way he couldn’t name. For Priya, it was history breathing; for Arjun, it was something else entirely, a silence too heavy for stone and air alone to carry.
They were greeted by Raja Saheb Rudranath Singh himself, a tall man with a neatly trimmed mustache and the polished manners of someone who knew how to balance tradition with modernity. He walked them through the wide marble-floored halls, pointing out where the mandap could be set, where the musicians could play, and how the palace lights could be draped in gold to make the evening shimmer. Priya listened with sparkling eyes, already imagining the photographs and the grandeur, while Arjun trailed a little behind, his gaze snagging on details others might miss: a damp patch on a high wall shaped like an open palm, a corridor where the air was inexplicably colder, and portraits of long-dead royals whose painted eyes seemed to follow him with an intensity that prickled the back of his neck. Their footsteps echoed in the high-ceilinged durbar hall, and for a moment Arjun thought he heard a whisper, faint and wet, like the dragging of fabric across stone. He shook it off, forcing a smile when Priya asked if he was alright, but something deep inside him told him this palace, for all its grandeur, carried shadows that were not just architectural.
It was outside, in the palace gardens, that the unease crystallized. The manicured lawns, dotted with flame-of-the-forest trees, sloped gently down towards a pond at the edge of the estate. The water was still, reflecting the amber sky, but the surface had a strange sheen to it, as though it were alive, breathing with the same quiet pulse that lingered in the palace walls. As they stood admiring the view, the caretaker Somnath appeared, carrying a brass pot filled with flowers. His skin was weathered, his eyes sunken yet sharp, and his hands trembled ever so slightly as he placed the flowers by the pond’s edge before stepping back as though afraid of going closer. Catching their curious glances, he muttered almost under his breath, “Don’t stay near the water when the moon rises. This is the pond that eats grooms.” Priya laughed nervously, nudging Arjun to lighten the mood, but the words clung to the air like damp mist. Arjun glanced at the pond again and felt his stomach tighten—something about its depth, its unnatural stillness, seemed to hide not just water but waiting. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the steps, and as they turned back towards the palace, Arjun couldn’t shake the feeling that the pond had been watching them, quietly, patiently, as if waiting for the right moment to reach out.
II
That evening, as the last of the decorators bustled about hanging strings of marigold and fairy lights across the durbar hall, the atmosphere of celebration still felt oddly subdued. Arjun and Priya found themselves sitting in a side verandah, joined by Professor Satyabrata Sen, an old family acquaintance and a scholar of folklore who had been invited as a guest. His eyes, framed by thick glasses, carried the weight of a man who had spent his life reading between the lines of history, and when Priya eagerly asked about the palace’s stories, he leaned forward with a gravity that immediately changed the tone of their gathering. “Every palace,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “has its glories and its ghosts. But Jhargram’s most enduring tale is that of Rajkumari Hemlata Devi.” The name itself seemed to stir the air; even the flickering lamp at their side sputtered faintly as though acknowledging it. Arjun shifted uneasily, but Priya listened intently, her chin resting on her palm. The professor spoke as if reading from a forgotten page, his words heavy with the cadence of old tragedy.
“Hemlata was the youngest daughter of the royal family in the early years of the twentieth century,” he continued, his gaze slipping momentarily into the past. “A woman known not just for her beauty but also for her will. She was promised in marriage to a powerful landlord’s son, a match arranged for political strength rather than affection. On the night of her wedding, dressed in crimson silk woven with gold, weighed down with ornaments meant to display her family’s wealth, she smiled through the rituals, but her heart was not in it. As the drums echoed in the halls and guests drank to her future, she slipped away, barefoot, her bridal anklets jingling faintly. Some say she walked straight to the palace pond, its waters black and deep beneath the moonlight, and without a sound, she waded in. The weight of her jewels pulled her under, and she was never seen alive again. No priest’s chant, no lantern search, no diver’s effort brought her back.” He paused, letting the silence settle before adding in a softer, grimmer tone, “But many believe she never left.”
The professor leaned closer, lowering his voice though no one else was near. “From that night onward, strange things began. Men heard anklets in empty corridors. Grooms who ventured too near the pond felt themselves pulled by unseen hands. Villagers claimed that on nights when the moon swells full, a drenched bride rises from the water—her face veiled, her eyes hollow, her arms outstretched as if searching. They say she seeks the groom she was denied, and that any wedding held too close to her resting place risks awakening her wrath.” Arjun gave a strained laugh, trying to dismiss the tale, but his fingers drummed nervously on the chair’s arm. Priya, fascinated, tried to rationalize it as folklore spun into fear, yet she couldn’t ignore the way Somnath, the caretaker, who had quietly appeared nearby, froze at the professor’s words, his head bowed as if in respect—or dread. The evening wind carried the scent of wet earth from the pond, and as the shadows lengthened across the palace lawns, Arjun thought again of the phrase whispered earlier: the pond that eats grooms. The story might have been legend, but in that moment it felt less like a tale of the past and more like a warning meant for the present.
III
The palace awoke the next morning in a flurry of color and sound as Maya Das swept in with her team, her phone pressed to one ear, a clipboard in her other hand, and a designer sari draped perfectly despite the chaos around her. “Darling, this is not just a wedding,” she announced to Priya, her bangles jingling as she pointed to the high arches of the durbar hall, “this is a spectacle. We’ll make Jhargram trend on Instagram!” She ordered fairy lights to be strung across balconies, chandeliers polished until they gleamed, and giant floral arches built at the entrance. Yet as her workers scurried to and fro, something unsettling began to ripple through the preparations. A massive gilt-framed mirror, meant to be placed at the hallway entrance, cracked from corner to corner just as two men lifted it, the shattering noise sharp and jarring in the empty hall. Maya clicked her tongue in irritation but brushed it off as clumsy handling. Hours later, as the mandap was being constructed in the gardens, the bamboo pillars suddenly buckled and collapsed with a loud crash, sending marigolds tumbling into the mud. Even the musicians, setting up their instruments for rehearsal, complained of odd distortions in sound—as though the palace itself was humming back a tune none of them could recognize.
Arjun grew visibly restless as these incidents stacked one after another, but Priya tried to remain rational, convincing herself that old palaces came with structural weaknesses, that wood rotted, and glass cracked in damp weather. Yet what shook them both was the trail of wet footprints they found that afternoon on the marble corridor leading from the pond toward the wedding hall. They were small, delicate, as though made by bare feet, but they left behind glistening puddles that vanished when touched. Maya, exasperated, accused one of the decorators of walking around carelessly after washing up, but when Somnath was summoned, he merely stared at the faint marks with grim resignation. He said nothing, but his silence unsettled Arjun far more than Maya’s flippant scolding. Later, when most of the guests had gone to rest, Somnath slipped quietly into the gardens carrying a brass plate of incense sticks, camphor, and red hibiscus flowers. Standing by the pond’s edge, he muttered prayers in a trembling voice, his body bent forward in reverence. Smoke drifted over the still waters, curling like pale hands reaching for the sky. He placed the offerings gently upon the surface, which accepted them without a ripple. When he turned to leave, his eyes darted uneasily at the shadows reflected on the water, as though something unseen stood behind him.
At dusk, the first drumbeat rehearsal began in the courtyard, echoing through the open verandahs. The dhols thundered, their rhythm meant to carry joy and festivity, but here they seemed to awaken something else. The beats reverberated unnaturally across the pond, bouncing back with a hollow, metallic undertone that none of the musicians recognized. The guests clapped along, but Arjun stiffened as he thought he heard another rhythm beneath the music, fainter yet unmistakable—the sound of anklets chiming in time with the drums. Priya, swept up in the moment, noticed his unease and tried to distract him with conversation, but the uneasiness had already settled in his bones. From where he sat, Arjun could see the palace pond glimmering in the distance, reflecting the first rising moon. Its surface trembled faintly with each beat of the drums, as if the water itself were listening. Deep within, something seemed to stir, waiting for the night when celebration and curse would collide.
IV
That night, as the palace halls settled into a hushed lull after the bustle of preparations, Priya was summoned by a servant to the inner quarters where the matriarch of the family, Rani Ma, resided. The corridors grew narrower and darker as she walked, the echoes of her footsteps muted by heavy carpets, the air scented faintly with incense and something older, more medicinal. When she entered, the room was dimly lit by dozens of oil lamps placed in niches and corners, their flames trembling against walls heavy with time. Rani Ma lay propped on silken pillows, her frail body shrunken with age but her eyes bright and alert, piercing Priya with the intensity of someone who saw beyond the present. With a voice soft yet unwavering, she beckoned the younger woman closer. “Child,” she whispered, her words carrying the weight of decades, “you must not marry here beneath the full moon. The pond is cursed. It remembers. And it waits.” Priya froze, the warning striking her with unexpected force. She forced a smile, trying to mask her unease, but Rani Ma’s thin, veined hand grasped hers with surprising strength, as if willing her to listen.
Priya tried to dismiss the words gently, insisting that she respected traditions but believed in celebrating love more than fearing old tales. Yet as her eyes adjusted to the flickering lamplight, she noticed what surrounded the old woman’s bed—an entire fortress of talismans and protective charms. Strings of rudraksha beads hung from the ceiling, brass plates filled with vermilion powder and salt stood at the corners, and near the headboard was a row of tiny clay figures smeared with turmeric, each shaped like a veiled bride. On a low table rested bundles of dried tulsi and neem leaves tied with red thread, and beside them, a small wooden box containing yellowed sketches. Priya’s curiosity got the better of her, and when Rani Ma gestured towards them, she reached for one. The drawing, though faded, was unmistakable: a woman in a bridal saree, her face veiled but her eyes hollow pits of shadow. Another sketch showed her standing by a pond, her jewelry drawn with heavy black strokes as if to emphasize their crushing weight. Priya’s skin prickled, the image resonating too strongly with the story Professor Sen had told earlier. Rani Ma’s voice quivered as she added, “I have seen her. Not once, not twice. She rises when the drums play, when the moon is round, when joy dares to echo near her resting place. She is not gone, child—she waits for what she was denied.”
Though Priya managed to keep her composure and murmur polite reassurances, the encounter left her deeply unsettled. As she walked back through the corridors, the palace felt heavier than before, its silence pressing upon her with unseen weight. The images of the hollow-eyed bride clung to her mind, refusing to fade. For the first time, the thought of marrying in the palace felt less like a dream and more like tempting something ancient and vengeful. When she returned to her room, she found Arjun pacing, his nerves still rattled by the day’s incidents, and though she wanted to share what she had heard, she stopped herself, fearing it would only deepen his unease. Instead, she lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant croak of frogs and the faint lapping of water from the pond. Somewhere beyond the walls, a night breeze stirred, carrying with it the faintest sound of anklets, so soft it could have been her imagination. Yet in the dim recess of her mind, Rani Ma’s words echoed: The pond is cursed. A bride must not marry here on a full moon.
V
The palace gardens glowed under the silver wash of the near-full moon, strings of fairy lights dangling from trees like fireflies caught mid-flight. Most of the guests had retired for the night, but Ria and Kabir, ever restless and eager for adventure, had slipped away from the bustle of the palace corridors with a camera slung around Kabir’s neck. The two cousins, known for their playful mischief, thought it would be fun to capture some “ghostly” photos by the pond, half to amuse themselves and half to post later as jokes on social media. “Imagine Priya’s face when she sees us posing like spirits,” Ria laughed, adjusting her lehenga as they stepped onto the stone embankment. The pond shimmered like black glass under the moonlight, unusually still, as though holding its breath. Kabir knelt to set up his tripod, teasing that the place looked cinematic, perfect for their late-night shoot. But as Ria prepared to strike a playful pose, a sudden sound cut through the silence—soft, deliberate, metallic. Anklets. The unmistakable chime of payals drifting through the night air. They froze, glancing at each other with wide eyes, their laughter dying instantly.
The water, which had been so still moments ago, began to ripple outward in concentric circles, though no wind stirred the trees and no pebble had been thrown. Ria clutched Kabir’s arm as the ripples grew stronger, their rhythm eerily in time with the faint jingling. Then, before their disbelieving eyes, the surface of the pond broke. A shape emerged, rising slowly as though the water itself was birthing her. She was draped in crimson silk, heavy jewelry clinging to her form, each piece dripping with water that fell in steady rivulets back into the pond. Her face was veiled, yet the weight of her gaze was palpable, suffocating. For a long, breathless moment, she stood at the edge of the water, her outline blurred by mist that seemed to rise from nowhere, the anklets around her ankles chiming faintly with each movement. Ria’s scream caught in her throat, her body trembling violently before her knees buckled and she collapsed unconscious onto the stone steps. Kabir staggered backward, his camera slipping from his hands, his breath shallow as he stared at the figure. He swore he saw her lift her head, the veil parting slightly to reveal hollow sockets where eyes should have been, dark voids filled with water. And then, as quickly as she had risen, she dissolved into the mist, leaving only the trembling ripples behind.
Kabir dragged Ria back toward the palace in a frenzy, shouting incoherently until servants rushed to help. By the time she was laid on a cot, pale and breathing weakly, she had no memory of what she had seen, only fragments of sound—anklets, water, whispers. Guests muttered that it was hysteria, perhaps the result of too much excitement, or that Kabir had imagined things in the moonlit haze. The elders dismissed it as youthful folly, warning the cousins not to wander near the pond at night again. But Somnath, standing silently in the corner, felt his knees weaken with dread. His face grew ashen as Kabir stammered through his description, for every detail matched the tales whispered across generations. He did not argue or dismiss. Instead, he retreated wordlessly to the gardens, his hands trembling as he lit more incense and offered hibiscus flowers to the pond, his prayers urgent and desperate. For Somnath knew what the others chose not to believe: the bride of Jhargram had stirred, and once awakened, she would not return to slumber so easily.
VI
The palace was alive with celebration, its ancient walls draped in fabric the colors of fire—reds, golds, and oranges. The mehendi ceremony spilled over into the grand courtyard, where women laughed as intricate patterns bloomed on their palms, while the sangeet unfolded with music and dance that reverberated across the marble floors. The air smelled of jasmine garlands and rosewater, mingling with the savory spices wafting from the kitchens. Yet beneath the revelry, there was a strange heaviness in the air, as if the palace itself listened, waiting. Professor Satyabrata Sen, seated quietly in a corner with a glass of sherbet in hand, leaned toward Arjun when the first drums began to beat. His voice was low but sharp, carrying a weight that cut through the joy around them. “The legend speaks clearly,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the distant pond beyond the walls. “It is the rhythm of wedding drums that calls her back. Every beat is a summons. She cannot resist it.” Arjun tried to brush it off, telling himself that the old professor was simply dramatizing, but his unease deepened with every strike of the dhol.
The musicians played with infectious energy, the dhol and tabla commanding dancers into a frenzy of swirling saris and flashing bangles. But with each rising note, the palace lights flickered unnaturally. At first, guests chuckled at the power fluctuations, assuming faulty wiring, but soon the chandeliers above began to sway as though caught in a phantom breeze. A chill rippled through the courtyard despite the warmth of the evening. The rhythm of bangles grew louder, but when Arjun glanced around, no dancer near him was moving their arms in time to that strange metallic jingle. His pulse quickened, and he reached instinctively for Priya’s hand, only to realize she was laughing among her cousins, oblivious to the undercurrent of dread. Then, as he scanned the crowd, he froze. Between the flashes of swirling color and the shadows cast by the swaying chandeliers, he saw her—someone draped in red silk, standing utterly still at the edge of the celebration. Her head was bowed, her veil obscuring her face, yet he felt the weight of her gaze piercing directly into him.
Arjun blinked, his breath caught in his throat, but when he looked again, she was gone. In her place, only a patch of darkness clung to the wall, as if the shadows themselves remembered her form. His hands shook, and he tried to convince himself it was a trick of the light, a figment of nerves heightened by the professor’s words. Yet even as he turned back toward the dancers, the strange accompaniment of unseen bangles continued, threading itself through the music like a sinister harmony. The professor, watching Arjun’s pale face, seemed to understand without needing words. “She is here,” he whispered gravely, “and she has been listening.” Outside, beyond the palace courtyard, the pond rippled though no wind touched its surface, and somewhere deep in its waters, anklets chimed faintly, keeping perfect time with the drums of the living.
VII
The morning after the sangeet, Arjun stood before the mirror in his chamber, adjusting the ivory sherwani he planned to wear for the haldi. His eyes lingered on a strange smear across the fabric near his chest—a faint but unmistakable handprint, damp as though pressed by waterlogged fingers. The impression glistened under the light before fading into the threads, leaving only a ghostly outline. He frowned, running his palm over the mark, certain he had not been near water since the ceremonies began. A servant passing by swore no one had touched the garment since it was laid out. Priya entered just then, teasing him about vanity, but her laughter stilled when he showed her. Though she tried to dismiss it as some careless accident—perhaps spilled rosewater or oil from a careless hand—her smile faltered at the thought of something unseen brushing against her fiancé. Arjun shrugged it off for her sake, but unease prickled at him all day, the handprint branded in his mind even after it had vanished from the cloth.
That night, exhaustion pulled him under quickly, but sleep offered no peace. In his dream, he stood at the edge of the palace pond, the moon glaring down like a watchful eye. The water, black and endless, pulsed with ripples as if it were alive. Then, without warning, cold fingers burst from the depths, seizing his wrists and ankles with crushing force. He thrashed, gasping, as the icy grip dragged him downward, the weight of the pond pressing against his lungs. He screamed for Priya, but his voice was swallowed by water rushing into his mouth, choking him. He saw a flash of crimson silk, a face veiled but unbearably close, and heard the faint chime of anklets echoing like a dirge. He clawed desperately, but the hands were relentless, tugging him into the abyss where hollow eyes gleamed with hunger. He jolted awake with a cry, his chest heaving, his skin clammy with sweat—yet as he reached up to wipe his face, his fingers brushed strands of dripping wet hair. For a terrifying moment he thought the dream had followed him fully into waking. Water pooled at his pillow, trailing onto the sheets, but when Priya lit the lamp, the bed was bone dry. Only Arjun’s hair glistened with dampness, the scent of pond water clinging to him.
Priya’s alarm grew as she touched his forehead, demanding to know what had happened, but Arjun forced a smile, insisting it was nothing more than stress, an overworked mind conjuring nightmares. He urged her not to worry, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. While Priya hovered uneasily by his side, elsewhere in the palace Rani Ma summoned Professor Sen to her chamber once more. Surrounded by her flickering lamps and the protective talismans, her face was grave, her words heavy with certainty. “It is him,” she said, her voice low and resigned. “Hemlata has chosen. The groom has been marked.” She told the Professor of her dreams, visions of the drowned bride reaching through water, her hand pressed against silk, her anklets echoing in time with Arjun’s heartbeat. The Professor listened in silence, his scholarly rationality crumbling under the weight of what he had already witnessed. The lore was no longer a story—it was unfolding, step by step, around them. And now the target was clear: the cursed bride had set her eyes upon Arjun, and nothing short of appeasement or sacrifice could sway her.
VIII
The morning of the wedding dawned under an ominous sky, the rare blood moon already a looming presence even before dusk. Its coppery hue seemed to stain the very air, and though priests muttered about ill omens, the families pressed forward with the ceremonies. The palace had never looked more resplendent—arches wrapped in marigold and jasmine, silken drapes fluttering in the evening breeze, and the courtyard transformed into a golden mandap shimmering under crystal chandeliers. Guests bustled in colorful attire, laughter and chatter trying to drown the undercurrent of unease that everyone felt but refused to voice. Arjun, regal in his groom’s attire, tried to steady his trembling hands while Priya, radiant in crimson and gold, hid her nervousness behind a shy smile. The rituals commenced with chanting, conch shells blowing, and the rhythmic beating of the dhol—each sound rolling like a heartbeat against the silent watch of the moon. Above them, the sky deepened into a shade of rust, casting the palace in a strange twilight that seemed neither night nor day, as though time itself held its breath.
As the priest guided the couple through the sacred fire rituals, the air grew heavier, as if pressing down on every chest. The moment of sindoor approached, and the guests leaned in, whispering and smiling, the joyous climax of the ceremony just steps away. Then, without warning, the palace plunged into suffocating blackness. The chandeliers extinguished with a sudden snap, fairy lights died one by one, and the hum of generators stilled as though an unseen hand had silenced everything. Gasps and shrieks echoed in the void as people clutched at each other, disoriented in the pitch-dark mandap. And then, cutting through the silence, came the unmistakable sound—soft yet chilling—the jingle of anklets. Not from the courtyard, not from the mandap, but from the shadowed corridors beyond, slowly approaching. Each delicate chime grew louder, deliberate, echoing against marble like the footsteps of someone who had walked this palace long before and now returned to claim her place. The musicians had fallen silent, the priest muttered prayers under his breath, and children began to cry as dread slithered into every corner of the hall.
When the lights returned with a harsh flicker, what the guests saw froze every soul in place. There, by the mandap, stood another bride—drenched, her crimson saree clinging to her body, jeweled ornaments rusted and dripping as water pooled at her feet. Her veil covered most of her face, but her lips, dark and smiling, curved in a way that promised no joy. Arjun’s heart thudded painfully as her hollow gaze fixed upon him, and for a moment he felt his own bride, Priya, fade into the background. Gasps turned into screams as panic erupted—chairs overturned, people stumbled over garlands, elders cried out for protection, while others fled blindly toward the exits. Priya’s hand clutched Arjun’s arm, but he stood transfixed, unable to tear his eyes from the apparition that now seemed almost part of him, as though she had always been written into his destiny. The chandeliers above swayed violently, droplets of water falling like rain though the air was dry, and in the chaos Rani Ma’s trembling voice rose above the din: “She has come for the groom.” The blood moon blazed through the palace windows, casting everything in its red light, as the drowned bride of Jhargram took her first step closer to the living.
IX
The mandap had erupted into pandemonium, but Priya, her bridal veil trembling as much as her breath, refused to flee with the others. Instead, she stepped forward, placing herself between Arjun and the soaked apparition that dripped water onto the marble floor. Her bangles jingled as she clasped her hands together in a desperate plea. “Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking but steady enough to carry across the hall, “he is my husband. Leave him be.” For an instant, the drowned bride tilted her head, the water running from her veil pooling at her feet like a spreading stain. The silence that followed was unbearable, as if the palace itself waited for an answer. Then, from beneath the veil, a sound escaped—a whisper in an ancient dialect, thick and bubbling like water rushing through a cracked pipe. No one but Professor Satyabrata recognized fragments of the old tongue, but the tone itself was unmistakable: a vow of possession, a bride claiming her groom. Each word dripped with bitterness, jealousy, and an anguish that had curdled into rage over centuries. She moved closer, her soaked anklets chiming with every step, the smell of rot and pond water thickening the air until the guests who had lingered gagged and stumbled back in horror.
The historian, shaking but resolute, tore open the bundle of manuscripts he always carried, reciting ancient verses meant to sever bonds between the living and the dead. His voice quavered at first, but as the drowned bride turned her hollow gaze toward him, he found strength, each syllable echoing like a prayer of defiance against her curse. The drowned bride flinched, her veil twitching as if stirred by an unseen wind, and the air cracked with the weight of something older than memory. Somnath, clutching a brass urn, suddenly strode forward, scattering handfuls of sacred ash into the air. The ash swirled like smoke, catching in the chandeliers’ light, forming a thin veil between the spirit and the living. The drowned bride hissed, the sound like air escaping from a waterlogged lung, and the pond outside responded with fury. Through the palace doors, everyone could hear it—water slamming against its stone walls, boiling and frothing as if the earth itself sought to vomit out the curse it had swallowed long ago. The smell of wet earth and decay seeped into every corner of the hall, while the fire at the mandap sputtered and threatened to die.
Then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, Hemlata Devi revealed herself fully. Her skeletal hand reached up, pulling the veil away, and the sight that emerged silenced even the screams. Her face was half-eaten by time, skin pale and rotting, lips darkened with decay, and eyes hollow caverns that gleamed with ghostly hunger. Water streamed continuously from her hair, her ornaments corroded and clinking faintly with each motion, as though time itself had drowned alongside her. Priya staggered back at the sight but did not retreat entirely. Tears spilled down her face, not only from terror but from pity. “You were a bride too,” she whispered hoarsely, as if appealing to the woman still buried within the spirit. But Hemlata only opened her mouth, and a stream of water poured out, flooding across the marble floor, rising steadily toward Arjun’s feet. The historian’s chants grew frantic, Somnath’s ash ran out, and the palace trembled under the wrath of a love betrayed. For the first time in decades, the drowned bride had risen fully—and she had no intention of returning to her watery grave without taking the groom with her.
X
The night had thickened into a suffocating silence as Arjun, trembling but resolute, was dragged toward the palace pond by hands unseen. The guests had scattered, leaving only the priest, Professor Sen, Somnath, Rani Ma, and Priya clinging desperately to him. The blood moon glared overhead, bathing the water in a red sheen that shimmered like liquid fire. The drowned bride, Hemlata, emerged fully from the pond, her dripping figure casting long shadows across the courtyard. Her hollow eyes fixed upon Arjun with terrifying certainty, her skeletal hands reaching, clawing, dragging him closer to her watery kingdom. His cries for help were muffled by the shrill laughter that escaped her ruined lips—a sound like waves breaking against rocks, ancient and merciless. Somnath scattered the last of his sacred ash, but the storm around the pond devoured it instantly, and the historian’s chants were drowned out by the hiss of the rising waters. Arjun fell to his knees at the water’s edge, his reflection already replaced by hers, crimson veil spreading across the ripples like a bloodstain on silk.
Priya’s scream cut through the chaos as she tore away the ornaments weighing her down and lunged forward. Without hesitation, she plunged into the pond after him, the water swallowing her bridal finery in an instant. The crowd gasped in horror, but Priya fought fiercely, her arms wrapping around Arjun’s as the drowned bride tried to claim him. Hemlata’s skeletal fingers clutched tightly, pulling them deeper, her voice bubbling in that ancient, guttural dialect, repeating vows long broken. The pond thrashed violently, waves crashing against its stone edges, spraying the courtyard with foul water. Priya, choking and struggling, screamed into the depths, not with fear but with defiance: “He is mine!” The words carried, fueled not by ritual but by love itself. Arjun clung to her, his own strength ignited by her refusal to let him go. In that moment, the air vibrated with a strange force—the weight of centuries meeting the raw power of living love. Hemlata shrieked, her voice tearing through the night as her form wavered, splitting into misty tendrils that struggled to hold together. The crimson saree unraveled like smoke, her jewels falling into the depths as her body dissolved, sinking into the abyss that had imprisoned her for so long.
The pond fell eerily still, the storm collapsing into silence. Priya and Arjun stumbled to the shore, drenched and gasping, their faces pale but their bond unbroken. The guests, slowly returning from their hiding places, whispered prayers of relief, while Rani Ma collapsed in tears, her frail hands lifted in gratitude to the heavens. The priest hurried to complete the rituals, his chants hurried but steady, and at last the sindoor was placed, sealing their union under the strange, bloodstained moon. Yet even in that moment of triumph, unease lingered. The water, now calm, reflected only the moonlight, but beneath its surface something seemed to stir faintly, like a shadow biding its time. The locals who watched from the palace gates began murmuring, their voices trembling with both awe and dread. They would tell the story for generations—that the drowned bride of Jhargram had been banished by the strength of true love, but only for a while. One day, when the blood moon rose again, they whispered, she would return to search once more—for her groom, for her revenge, for the life death had stolen. And in the hush of that courtyard, with the scent of pond water still clinging to the air, everyone knew the legend was far from over.
End
