Debayan Roy
Part 1 – The Festival Begins
The Chatterjee bari stood like an aging sentinel in the heart of north Kolkata, its moss-streaked pillars and wrought-iron balconies bearing the weight of two centuries. On any other day, it was a decaying mansion where pigeons nested in broken cornices and the smell of damp walls clung to the air like an old cough. But now, in the first week of autumn, the house seemed to breathe again. Lights hung from balconies, drums beat in the courtyard, and relatives filled the old rooms with chatter and anticipation. Durga Puja had arrived.
Arjun Chatterjee paused at the threshold of the inner courtyard, watching the idol-makers apply final touches of vermillion to the goddess’s lips. The clay shimmered under the pale September sun. The goddess’s eyes, freshly painted, held that unsettling intensity every Bengali knew—the moment of chokkhu daan, when the deity seemed to awaken and gaze straight into human hearts. For Arjun, it felt less like devotion and more like interrogation.
The courtyard echoed with the sound of conch shells and women’s ululations. Servants rushed about, carrying brass plates heaped with flowers. In a corner, his cousin Riddhi directed decorators, her voice sharp as the scissors in her hand. She turned to Arjun with mock irritation. “You’re late, as always. Come, help with the lights before Kakababu starts shouting.”
Arjun smiled faintly but didn’t move. He was twenty-six, an aspiring photographer who spent more time in Delhi than in Kolkata, but every Puja dragged him back home. The family expected it. And though he pretended otherwise, something about this crumbling mansion with its rituals older than the city itself always drew him in.
From the balcony, Uncle Pradip’s voice thundered. “These expenses are outrageous! Every year, it’s the same story. Who will pay for all this?” His bald head gleamed with sweat as he counted receipts, flinging them on a table. The family priest, a frail man in a saffron shawl, tried to calm him. “Remember, Chatterjee Mahashoy, it is not expense—it is offering. Where there is devotion, the goddess provides.”
Pradip snorted. “The goddess won’t pay the electricity bills.”
Arguments over money had become as much a ritual as the worship itself. Arjun’s late grandfather had once been a zamindar, but the estate had crumbled into lawsuits and debts. What remained was pride, a fading house, and the annual Durga Puja, maintained at any cost because abandoning it would mean dishonor.
Arjun wandered toward the thakur dalan—the sanctum where the idol now stood, guarded by ancestral portraits. The air was thick with incense. The priest noticed him lingering and beckoned. “Arjun-babu,” he said in a low voice, “do you know the old prophecy?”
Arjun frowned. “What prophecy?”
The priest’s eyes glinted behind thick spectacles. “It is said, the goddess will not stay where blood turns against blood. A house divided cannot hold her. Be watchful, for signs are already here.”
Arjun gave a polite nod, brushing it off as one of the priest’s endless superstitions. Yet something in the way the idol’s eyes shimmered made his chest tighten.
By evening, the house blazed with light. Neighbors crowded the gates, eager to glimpse the Chatterjee Puja that had once been famous across the city. Women in red-bordered saris carried plates of sweets, while men in kurta-pajamas argued about politics over tea. The beating of the dhak drums grew louder, stirring an ancient rhythm into the night.
Amidst the revelry, Arjun caught fragments of hushed conversations. His aunt whispered about a pending court case over the family’s last piece of land. Another cousin spoke of debts piling up from Pradip’s failing business. A murmur of dissatisfaction rippled through the house—everyone smiled for the goddess, but behind the smiles lay suspicion, jealousy, and unspoken resentments.
Later, as the sky darkened and the first aarti began, Arjun found himself standing beside Riddhi again. Her face glowed in the firelight, but her eyes seemed distracted. She gripped the brass lamp too tightly, her knuckles pale. “Everything feels different this year,” she muttered. “As if something is about to break.”
Arjun raised an eyebrow. “You mean Kakababu’s temper?”
She didn’t smile. Instead, she looked toward the idol, where the flames danced across the goddess’s painted face. “No,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Something else. Something we won’t be able to fix.”
The conch shells blew again, drowning her words. Smoke rose in spirals, mingling with the shadows on the thakur dalan’s walls. For a moment, Arjun thought he saw the idol’s eyes shift, following him. He blinked, shaken, then told himself it was just the firelight. But even as laughter and music filled the night, the priest’s warning echoed in his mind—the goddess will not stay where blood turns against blood.
When the ceremony ended, the family gathered for dinner in the long hall. Servants laid out steaming dishes of fish curry and fragrant rice. Glass chandeliers trembled overhead, their crystals catching the candlelight. Toasts were raised, old songs were sung. Yet beneath the surface of festivity, the house seemed to hum with unease.
Arjun excused himself early, wandering back to the courtyard. The idol loomed in silence, her face half in shadow. He lifted his camera and clicked, the shutter breaking the stillness. In the photograph that appeared, the goddess’s eyes seemed sharper than he remembered, almost alive, as though she knew the secrets that rattled within the Chatterjee walls.
Far above, the old clock in the hallway struck midnight. Its echo rolled through the empty corridors, sounding less like timekeeping and more like a warning.
The festival had begun. And with it, so had the unraveling.
Part 2 – The Vanishing Goddess
The morning of Mahasaptami dawned with the call of conch shells and the low rumble of dhak echoing through the narrow lanes. The city outside the Chatterjee bari seemed to come alive at once—tea stalls bubbling with gossip, rickshaw bells jangling, the sweet shops already selling trays of steaming luchi and syrup-soaked pantua. Inside the mansion, however, the household was unusually subdued.
Arjun woke to hushed voices drifting from the courtyard. He dressed quickly, pulling on a simple kurta, and stepped into the verandah. At once, he noticed it—the sanctum in the thakur dalan was empty. The idol of Maa Durga, which had stood tall and radiant only the night before, was gone.
For a moment, his mind refused to register what he was seeing. The backdrop of painted hills and demons was still there, the lights still twinkled, and the scent of incense still hung heavy in the air. But the centerpiece—the clay goddess with her ten arms and blazing eyes—was missing, as though she had risen in the night and walked away.
Riddhi was at the edge of the courtyard, her face pale, her hands trembling as she clutched the rail. “It’s gone,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “The idol… it’s gone.”
The house erupted in chaos. Aunts wailed, cousins shouted, and Pradip stormed in, his face red. “Impossible! How can an idol vanish from under our noses?” He turned on the guard at the gate, a scrawny man who looked ready to faint. “Were you sleeping all night?”
“I swear, sir,” the guard stammered, “the doors were locked, no one went in or out. I heard nothing.”
The police were called. Two officers arrived, their khaki uniforms ill-fitted and their manner bored. They examined the sanctum with cursory glances, asked a few questions, and scribbled notes that seemed more like excuses than records. One of them finally declared, “Most likely theft. These days, the black market for antique idols is thriving. Someone bribed your own men, carried it away before dawn.”
But the explanation sounded thin. The idol was not a lightweight trinket one could tuck under the arm. It was over six feet tall, heavy with clay and straw. Moving it would have required several men, a vehicle, and most of all—noise. Yet no one in the vast house had heard a thing.
Arjun felt the priest’s gaze upon him. The old man stood at the sanctum’s threshold, his saffron shawl wrapped tightly around his bony frame. His eyes gleamed strangely. “Do you see now, Arjun-babu?” he said softly. “The goddess does not stay where blood turns against blood.”
Arjun bristled. “You think she walked out of here on her own?”
The priest did not answer. Instead, he bent to pick up a handful of sindoor dust scattered near the pedestal. He let it run through his fingers, red grains staining his palm like dried blood. “This is not theft,” he murmured. “This is departure.”
The remark unsettled everyone. Some women began crying again, calling it a curse. Pradip exploded, demanding silence. “Enough of these superstitions! It’s criminals, not gods, who take idols. And we will find them.”
But the more they searched, the stranger the puzzle became. The gates had been locked, no wall was breached, and the verandah windows all barred. There were no cart marks, no footprints in the courtyard soil. It was as though the idol had dissolved into the night.
By afternoon, the news had spread through the neighborhood. Crowds gathered at the gate, whispering, mocking, pitying. For generations, the Chatterjee Puja had been a pride of north Kolkata, an echo of old aristocracy. Now the mansion had become a spectacle of shame.
Inside, tension thickened like humidity before a storm. At lunch, no one ate. Riddhi sat in silence, staring into her plate. Pradip snapped at servants. Arjun’s mother wrung her hands, muttering prayers. Finally, Arjun rose. “If the police won’t search properly, then I will,” he said.
“Don’t play detective,” Pradip retorted sharply. “Leave it to the authorities.”
But Arjun ignored him. He returned to the sanctum and examined every corner. The floor bore faint smudges of sindoor and traces of clay dust leading toward the east corridor. His photographer’s eye caught details others missed—a trail of red fingerprints along the pillar, almost wiped clean, and a tiny scrap of fabric snagged on a nail.
He pocketed the cloth and followed the corridor. It led to the abandoned east wing of the house, a place rarely entered. The wing had once been servants’ quarters, now crumbling and locked away. But the locks looked disturbed, and one door stood slightly ajar.
Arjun pushed it open, his heart hammering. The room inside was empty save for a faint smell of damp straw and incense, as though the idol had stood there recently. On the wall, streaks of vermillion formed strange patterns, half-smears, half-symbols, like someone had pressed a clay-smeared hand against the plaster.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked. Arjun spun around, but the corridor was deserted. Only the faint sound of chanting floated from the courtyard.
When he returned, the family had descended into argument again. Riddhi sat apart, her eyes red, as if she had been crying. He approached her quietly. “You knew something was wrong last night. What did you mean?”
She hesitated, her lips trembling. Then she whispered, “There’s more to this than theft. Someone in this house knows where the idol is. And they’ll do anything to keep it hidden.”
Arjun stared at her, the priest’s words echoing in his mind. The goddess does not stay where blood turns against blood.
As dusk fell over the mansion, the courtyard remained empty, the sanctum bare. The sound of dhak seemed hollow without the goddess’s presence. And in the flickering lamplight, Arjun could not shake the feeling that the idol had not simply been stolen but spirited away—its absence both an accusation and a warning.
The festival that had begun with pride had now turned into scandal. The Vanishing Goddess had made her first move.
Part 3 – The First Suspects
The house felt heavier the next morning, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the shame of the vanished goddess. The courtyard that once rang with laughter and chanting now stood silent, except for the cawing of crows that circled the rooftops. The neighbors still lingered at the gates, whispering, craning their necks for a glimpse of scandal. The police had promised to “investigate,” but no officers had returned.
Arjun sat in the verandah, staring at the empty sanctum, the hollow pedestal mocking him. His camera hung from his neck, unused. He had taken dozens of photographs of idols, festivals, and faces across India, but nothing felt more surreal than this blank space where the goddess should have been.
At breakfast, the tension was palpable. The long dining table, usually groaning under dishes, bore untouched food. Pradip thundered about police inefficiency, while Arjun’s mother dabbed her eyes with her sari. Riddhi sat with her gaze fixed downward, pushing her rice aimlessly.
Finally, Pradip slammed his hand on the table. “If the idol hasn’t left the house, then someone inside is hiding it. And I will not rest until I find who it is.”
The words dropped like a stone into a pond. All eyes turned suspicious. Servants shrank against the walls. Cousins exchanged quick, nervous glances. Arjun felt the priest’s calm stare upon him, unreadable.
Later, in the courtyard, Arjun approached Riddhi. “You said yesterday someone in this house knows. Who were you talking about?”
Riddhi shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said it. Forget it.”
But her trembling hands betrayed her. Before Arjun could press, a cousin interrupted—Aniket, a stout young man with restless eyes. “What are you whispering about?” he demanded. “If you know something, say it aloud. We’re all suspects now.”
The word—suspects—hung in the air.
That afternoon, Arjun began his own quiet inquiries. He visited the east wing again. Dust coated the floor, yet the faint sindoor smears remained, stubborn and accusing. He photographed them carefully, enlarging the images later on his camera screen. The patterns weren’t random—they seemed deliberate, as though someone had marked the wall intentionally.
Returning to the main wing, he overheard voices from the study. Pradip was speaking in hushed urgency to a visitor. Arjun paused at the door, listening.
“—debts are piling up,” Pradip was saying. “If this Puja collapses, the creditors will finish me. Do you understand? The goddess must be found, or at least replaced, quickly.”
The visitor murmured something Arjun couldn’t catch. But the implication was clear: Pradip’s financial troubles were deeper than the family admitted. Was the missing idol part of a desperate scheme?
In the evening, Arjun questioned the household staff. The old caretaker swore he had seen nothing unusual, though his eyes flickered nervously. The cook muttered about hearing footsteps in the corridor past midnight but assumed it was one of the cousins sneaking in.
Then came the guard at the gate. Under Arjun’s persistent questioning, the man admitted that during the small hours, he had heard a low rumble, like wheels on stone. But when he checked, the courtyard was empty. “Maybe my ears were tricking me,” he said, scratching his neck. “Or maybe… maybe the goddess left on her chariot.” He shivered as he spoke.
By nightfall, the family gathered in the drawing room. The chandelier above them trembled slightly, though no wind stirred. Pradip announced, “I have spoken to the police commissioner. If the idol is not found by tomorrow, they will bring in outsiders to search the house.”
A murmur of protest ran through the room. Outsiders trampling the sanctum, desecrating the Puja—it was unthinkable. Yet no one dared oppose Pradip openly.
Arjun stood, feeling the weight of everyone’s fear and suspicion. “Then let us speak openly,” he said. “Last night, someone entered the east wing. I found sindoor marks on the walls. I also found this.” He pulled the scrap of fabric from his pocket. The family leaned in as he held it up—a torn piece of a silk dupatta, deep maroon, the kind the women of the house often wore.
Eyes flickered immediately toward Riddhi. She stiffened, her face draining of color. “That’s not mine,” she said quickly. “Anyone could have dropped it.”
But the accusation had already taken root. Cousin Aniket sneered. “You’ve been acting strange for days. What are you hiding, Riddhi?”
“I’m hiding nothing!” she shot back, her voice cracking.
The priest raised his hand, silencing the quarrel. “Quarreling will not bring her back. Remember the prophecy—the goddess abandons a house divided. Already she is punishing us with shame.”
“Enough with your prophecy!” Pradip bellowed. “This is no curse, it is conspiracy. And if it is family conspiracy, then we will expose it.”
The room dissolved into chaos. Some defended Riddhi, others accused her. Old grievances surfaced—inheritance disputes, jealousies over marriages, quarrels about property. The goddess’s absence had become a mirror, reflecting every fracture in the family.
Through it all, Arjun watched Riddhi. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but there was something else too—fear. Not the fear of being falsely accused, but the fear of something she truly knew, something she could not bring herself to reveal.
Later, when the house quieted, Arjun found her alone in the verandah, staring into the darkness. He approached gently. “If you know something, tell me. I can help.”
She turned, her face pale in the lantern light. “Arjun,” she whispered, “if I speak, this house will burn. Some secrets are more dangerous than thieves. Promise me—you won’t dig too deep.”
But Arjun only shook his head. “The goddess is gone, Riddhi. If we don’t find her, we lose everything—faith, honor, even ourselves. I have no choice but to dig.”
A gust of wind extinguished the lantern, plunging them into shadow. Somewhere in the east wing, a door creaked softly, though no one was there.
Arjun felt it then—the mystery was no longer about theft. It was about betrayal, festering within these very walls. And until he unearthed it, the goddess would not return.
Part 4 – The Hidden Letter
The third night after the idol’s disappearance fell heavy on the Chatterjee bari, as if the house itself were holding its breath. The courtyard lay bare, the sanctum stripped of divinity, its emptiness glowing under weak lanterns. For the first time in living memory, Mahashtami passed without the goddess. No chanting, no flowers, no anjali. Only silence and suspicion.
Arjun wandered the corridors restlessly, unable to bear the accusing hush. The house felt like a maze, its rooms swelling with old portraits whose painted eyes followed him. Every corner whispered secrets. His camera hung useless at his side; there were some things too raw, too unsettled to capture.
He returned to the library, an old room that smelled of mildew and dust. Its wooden shelves sagged under the weight of brittle manuscripts and English law books from his grandfather’s time. The library had been locked for years, but Arjun had found the key on a hook behind the stairwell. He lit a hurricane lamp and began rifling through the shelves, searching for… he wasn’t sure what. Clues, perhaps, or even comfort.
It was then he noticed a leather-bound ledger that looked out of place. Unlike the others, it was wrapped in a torn red cloth, tucked behind a row of crumbling hymnals. When he pulled it free, a folded paper slipped out. Yellowed with age, the paper bore ink stains and jagged handwriting.
Arjun spread it open on the table. The letter was written in Bengali, the script shaky yet urgent:
“In times of danger, the goddess must be hidden in the chamber beneath the east wing. Let none outside the bloodline know of it. But beware, for betrayal lies within. Once, in the famine year, it was our own kin who sold her ornaments for survival. Since then, her eyes have watched us with anger. Should greed return, she will abandon us.”
Arjun’s pulse quickened. The east wing—the very place where he had found sindoor marks and the scent of straw. So the house did indeed contain a secret chamber, used long ago to conceal the idol from plunderers. The letter didn’t say how to access it, but it confirmed what he suspected: the idol hadn’t left the mansion. Someone was using the old hiding place.
He tucked the letter into his pocket just as the door creaked open. Riddhi stood there, her face pale, her eyes wide in the lamplight. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“Searching,” Arjun replied, his voice steady. “And I’ve found something. Look.” He showed her the letter.
She read quickly, her lips moving silently over the words. When she finished, she looked at him with something like dread. “You shouldn’t have found this, Arjun. Some secrets were meant to stay buried.”
“Buried secrets brought us here,” he said sharply. “The goddess is missing, Riddhi. This family is tearing itself apart. If the truth lies in that chamber, then I’ll find it.”
Riddhi’s eyes glistened. “And if what you find destroys us all?”
Before he could answer, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Pradip entered, his face flushed with anger. “So this is where you’ve been,” he snapped. “Digging through old junk while the rest of us face disgrace.” His gaze flicked to the letter in Arjun’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Family history,” Arjun replied evenly, folding the paper.
Pradip’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful, nephew. Curiosity is dangerous. Some things are better left untouched.”
He left as abruptly as he came, his footsteps reverberating like hammer blows.
When he was gone, Riddhi touched Arjun’s arm. “He knows,” she whispered. “Or at least suspects. Promise me you won’t go to the chamber alone.”
But Arjun had already decided. That night, while the family argued in the drawing room, he slipped into the east wing again. The corridors were cold, smelling of damp earth and abandonment. He carried the lamp high, scanning the cracked walls for signs. The letter had mentioned a chamber, but where?
At the far end, he found a section of wall slightly discolored, the plaster uneven. Kneeling, he tapped lightly—hollow. His fingers traced the outline of a concealed door. He searched until he found a tiny latch hidden beneath a rotting beam. With effort, he pulled it. The wall groaned open, revealing a narrow stairwell descending into darkness.
Arjun’s breath caught. The secret chamber.
The stairwell smelled of clay and incense long extinguished. He descended cautiously, lamp trembling in his hand. The passage led to a small underground room, its walls lined with soot. In the center lay straw scattered across the floor, flattened in a shape unmistakable. An idol had stood here recently.
But now, only traces remained—a few broken clay fragments, a smear of sindoor, and a brass trident half-buried in straw.
Arjun bent to pick up the trident, cold and heavy in his hands. As he lifted it, he felt a presence behind him. He turned sharply, but the stairwell was empty. Yet he was certain someone had been watching.
He stuffed the trident into his bag and climbed out, sealing the hidden door again. When he emerged into the corridor, Riddhi was waiting, pale with fear.
“You went in,” she breathed.
“I had to,” Arjun said. He showed her the trident. “Proof. The idol was there. Someone moved it.”
Riddhi’s hands shook as she touched the weapon. “Arjun, if you keep pushing, you’ll uncover things you can’t undo. Trust me—sometimes silence is the only way a family survives.”
But Arjun shook his head. “Not this time. The goddess isn’t just missing. She’s being moved, hidden, used. And until we know why, none of us are safe.”
From the courtyard, a shout rang out. They froze. Then another shout, louder, urgent. The sound of feet running.
Arjun and Riddhi hurried toward the noise. In the drawing room, cousins clustered around a servant, who looked terrified.
“What is it?” Arjun demanded.
The servant pointed to the wall. “I heard chanting,” he whispered, voice trembling. “From inside the house. Low voices, in the dead of night. But not from the courtyard—from the east wing. As if a secret Puja is being held… without us.”
A chill spread through the room. The goddess might have left the sanctum, but her worship was continuing somewhere in the shadows.
Part 5 – The Forbidden Affair
The east wing had become the heart of the mystery, a place of whispers and shadows. By now, the family no longer denied it—something was happening within those walls, something they could not explain. The servant’s trembling confession about secret chanting had ignited fresh terror. Pradip ordered the wing sealed off entirely, threatening dismissal to any servant who so much as lingered near it. Yet Arjun knew the barricades meant little; secrets had already seeped too deep.
That night, unable to sleep, Arjun wandered into the courtyard. The moon hung like a pale coin above the moss-darkened walls. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply, when he noticed Riddhi slipping through the verandah door, shawl pulled tight around her. She froze at the sight of him, eyes wide, then turned sharply toward the gate.
“Riddhi,” he called softly.
She hesitated, then walked faster. Arjun stubbed out his cigarette and followed. She slipped out of the side gate, the same one once used by servants, and crossed the narrow lane. Her steps were hurried, furtive. Arjun trailed at a distance, heart thudding.
She turned into a dim alley lined with shuttered shops. At the far end, a man waited in the shadows. Riddhi ran to him, and he caught her hand. Even in the weak moonlight, Arjun recognized the face—Sohail Rahman, son of the Rahman family, who lived two houses down.
The Rahmans and the Chatterjees had been rivals for generations. Once partners in trade, their bond had fractured during Partition, when betrayal over land and money turned them into enemies. The feud had simmered through decades—legal disputes, bitter words, even violence. For Riddhi to meet Sohail in secret was unthinkable.
Arjun drew back into the shadows, his chest tightening.
“Riddhi,” Sohail whispered, his voice urgent, “this is madness. You’re risking too much.”
“I had to see you,” she said, gripping his hand tightly. “The house is breaking apart. They think I’m guilty, Sohail. They’ll destroy me to save themselves.”
He touched her cheek. “Then leave with me. Come away from all this. We’ll go to Delhi, or further. None of this will matter.”
Her eyes brimmed with tears. “You don’t understand. The goddess… she’s missing. And I know they suspect me. If they find out about us, they’ll say I betrayed the family for you. They’ll never forgive.”
Arjun’s mind spun. Was this the truth Riddhi had feared to reveal? That she was meeting a man from the rival family in the dead of night? And worse—could the missing idol be linked to this forbidden love?
A sudden noise startled them. From behind a shuttered shop, a figure shifted. Riddhi gasped. Sohail pulled her close, scanning the alley. But the figure melted away before Arjun could glimpse clearly. Someone else had been watching.
Arjun withdrew silently, retreating to the shadows of the Chatterjee house. His thoughts raced. If the family learned of Riddhi’s affair, they would brand her a traitor. Worse, they might believe she had colluded with Sohail’s family to humiliate them by stealing the idol.
Back in the courtyard, he waited. Soon Riddhi returned, her shawl pulled tightly, her face pale. She nearly stumbled when she saw Arjun standing there.
“You followed me,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Arjun said quietly. “And now I know why you’ve been so afraid.”
Her lips trembled. “Please, Arjun. Don’t tell them. You don’t know what they’ll do.”
“I don’t want to tell them,” he said. “But you must tell me the truth. Do you—or Sohail—know anything about the idol?”
Riddhi shook her head fiercely. “No! I swear it. We would never… This is our only crime, Arjun. Loving each other. But if they find out, they’ll make it more.”
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor. They froze. It was Pradip, emerging with a lantern. His eyes narrowed. “Still awake, Arjun? And you, Riddhi? What are you whispering about?”
“Nothing,” Arjun said quickly.
But Pradip’s suspicion sharpened. He studied Riddhi, whose face was pale and drawn. “If you know something, you had better speak soon,” he said darkly. “This family won’t survive more betrayal.” He walked away, his lantern light swinging like an omen.
After he left, Riddhi gripped Arjun’s arm. “You see? They’re waiting for a reason. If they knew about Sohail…”
Arjun felt the weight of her words. He understood now: Riddhi’s love was dangerous, not because of what it was, but because of what it could be made to mean. And somewhere in the shadows, someone else already knew.
The next morning, the house buzzed with new rumors. A neighbor had claimed to see a stranger near the mansion at dawn, carrying a sack. Another swore he had heard the beat of drums from the east wing long after midnight. Pradip called the police again, demanding raids, but the officers were in no hurry.
Meanwhile, Arjun sat alone in the library, staring at the letter he had found. Betrayal lies within. The words gnawed at him. Was Riddhi’s love the betrayal the prophecy spoke of? Or was it merely a mask for something far darker?
He pulled the brass trident from his bag, placing it on the table. Its surface glimmered faintly in the morning light. He traced the engravings with his finger, noting how fresh the sindoor still looked. Somewhere, the goddess was still being worshipped. But by whom—and for what?
That evening, Arjun confronted Riddhi again in the verandah. “If you love Sohail, I won’t judge you,” he said. “But you must be honest. Did he or his family play any role in this? Did you tell him about the chamber?”
Her eyes widened with horror. “No! I would never betray the house like that. And Sohail… he would never touch something sacred.” She paused, then whispered, “But Arjun, someone followed us last night. Someone from here. If they know…” Her voice broke. “They’ll blame everything on me.”
Arjun placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then we’ll find out who watched you. Before they use it against you.”
From the far corner of the verandah, the priest’s voice floated softly, almost as if he had been listening all along. “Love is another form of worship, but it is also another form of fire. Be careful, children. Fire burns not just those who hold it, but all who stand near.”
Riddhi flinched. Arjun turned sharply, but the priest had already drifted back into the shadows.
In the silence that followed, a single thought chilled Arjun to the bone: love was not the only forbidden act in this house. Somewhere, someone was conducting their own Puja, and the missing goddess was at its center.
Part 6 – The Business Deal
The morning after Riddhi’s secret came to light for Arjun, the mansion seemed to awaken in a storm of fresh suspicion. Word had spread that Pradip was meeting creditors in secret, and whispers hissed through the verandahs like snakes. Every glance between family members carried accusation. Every silence sounded like guilt.
Arjun sat in the study, flipping through the old letter again. Once, in the famine year, it was our own kin who sold her ornaments for survival. The words gnawed at him. The goddess’s disappearance wasn’t just theft—it was a cycle repeating, betrayal echoing down generations.
At noon, he saw Pradip leaving the mansion, dressed in a pressed kurta, his face glistening with sweat though the air was cool. Arjun followed discreetly through the crowded bylanes until Pradip entered a rundown office above a sweet shop. Arjun lingered near the doorway, pretending to study a newspaper pasted to the wall, ears straining.
Inside, Pradip’s voice rang out, tense and sharp. “I told you, I’ll pay. The Puja must go on, and after Bijoya, I’ll have funds. Don’t push me now.”
A gravelly voice replied, low but firm. “You’ve been saying the same for months. The lenders are not patient men. Perhaps you should consider selling the goddess’s jewels. The market—”
“Never!” Pradip barked. “You think I would desecrate her ornaments? This house has already lost too much honor.”
There was silence, then the voice again: “Then you had better find another way. Or someone else will.”
Arjun’s pulse quickened. He leaned closer, but a clerk shooed him away from the doorway. By the time he circled back, Pradip had already emerged, face flushed, muttering curses under his breath.
Back at the mansion, Arjun cornered his uncle in the corridor. “Who were you meeting, Kakababu?” he asked evenly.
Pradip glared. “Don’t pry into matters you don’t understand.”
“I understand enough,” Arjun said. “Your debts are drowning you. Did you arrange for the idol to be hidden? To buy time? Or worse—sold?”
The slap came fast, sharp across Arjun’s cheek. “Watch your tongue,” Pradip hissed. “Accusing your elders is a greater sin than theft.” He stormed away, leaving Arjun with burning skin and a sharper resolve.
That evening, the family gathered in the dining hall, where the chandeliers swayed gently though no breeze stirred. Pradip announced, “The police will not act unless we show proof. I have therefore decided to hire private men. Strong men. They will search every corner of this house, every chest, every room. If the idol is here, it will be found.”
A murmur spread around the table. Some nodded in relief, others stiffened with unease. Riddhi shot Arjun a terrified glance. If her secret affair were exposed in such a search, her life would be ruined.
Arjun raised his voice carefully. “Strong men won’t help if the idol is hidden by one of us. This is not an outsider’s doing. It’s family.”
Pradip’s eyes narrowed. “Do you accuse me?”
Arjun didn’t flinch. “I accuse no one. But debts create desperation. And desperation breeds betrayal.”
The table fell silent. Even the clatter of spoons ceased. The priest, seated at the far end, finally spoke. “The boy is right. When hunger strikes, honor bends. We have seen it before in this very family.”
Pradip shot him a furious glare. “You dare lecture me? You live on our charity!”
The priest’s expression did not change. “I live on the goddess’s grace. And she is gone, Pradip-babu. Ask yourself why.”
The night grew heavier with every word unsaid. Arjun retreated to the library, head throbbing. He pulled out his camera and studied the enlarged images of the sindoor marks on the east wing wall. They seemed almost ritualistic—circles and arcs, faint but deliberate. Could someone be conducting a secret Puja underground, using the missing idol?
As he pondered, Riddhi slipped in. Her face was pale, her hands cold. “Arjun,” she whispered, “you must stop pressing Kakababu. He is dangerous when cornered. If he thinks you’ll expose him, he might…”
“He might what?” Arjun asked, though he already knew.
“Do anything,” she said simply. Her eyes brimmed with fear. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Arjun touched her hand lightly. “I can’t stop, Riddhi. The goddess is being used—for power, for money, maybe for worse. Until we know why, no one is safe.”
Suddenly, a commotion rose in the courtyard. They rushed out. One of the servants, trembling and pale, was being dragged before the family. He clutched a torn cloth bag, and inside glittered ornaments—necklaces, bangles, all belonging to the goddess.
“Thief!” Pradip roared. “Caught red-handed!”
The servant fell to his knees, weeping. “I swear, sahib, I found them in the storeroom. I was only hiding them to protect. I didn’t steal!”
The police were summoned again. The officers smirked knowingly, ready to close the case. “There you have it. The idol was dismantled, ornaments stolen. Your own man is guilty.”
But Arjun stepped forward. “No. Look closely. The ornaments are intact, unbroken. They weren’t removed in theft—they were left behind. Which means the idol was moved without them. Why would a thief abandon gold?”
The question silenced the room. Even the police shifted uneasily. Pradip barked for them to take the servant away, but Arjun’s words lingered.
Later that night, Arjun found the priest waiting in the verandah, his shawl pulled tight against the chill. “You see?” the old man said. “This is no theft. This is ritual. The goddess is being worshipped elsewhere. And someone in this house is the worshipper.”
Arjun’s stomach twisted. If the idol was not stolen but repurposed, then Pradip’s debts were not the whole truth. There was another layer, darker, concealed beneath the house’s crumbling pride.
He lay awake long after, the sounds of the city dying around him. From somewhere deep within the east wing, he thought he heard it again—a faint rhythm, like the beat of drums. Dhak drums, but muffled, as if played behind stone walls.
Arjun closed his eyes, dread seeping in. Someone was keeping the goddess alive in secret, even as her sanctum stood bare. And until he uncovered who, the family’s ruin would only deepen.
Part 7 – The Midnight Intruder
The night pressed heavy on the Chatterjee bari. A humid stillness clung to the verandahs, broken only by the rustle of neem leaves in the courtyard. By now the family had scattered into uneasy sleep, though lanterns burned in every corridor, their flicker betraying fear more than devotion. No one trusted the shadows anymore.
Arjun lay awake on his cot, staring at the cracked ceiling. The faint memory of muffled dhak beats haunted him still. He had heard them too clearly the night before to dismiss them as dream. Someone was worshipping in secret. Someone was using the goddess for reasons they dared not admit.
Close to midnight, the silence fractured. A faint creak, the sound of hinges moving in the east wing. Arjun rose at once, slipping into the corridor. He carried no lamp, only the small torch he kept for his camera work. His footsteps were soft, careful, as he crossed the courtyard and entered the abandoned wing.
The air inside was thick with damp and dust. The walls bore cobwebs, the floor smelled of mildew. Yet fresh footprints marked the corridor, faint imprints in the dust. Arjun’s pulse quickened. He followed them, his torch beam grazing cracked plaster until it struck movement ahead—a shadow shifting swiftly through an open door.
He crept closer, heart hammering. Inside the room, faint light flickered, not from a lamp but from earthen pradip arranged on the floor. The sindoor smears he had photographed now looked fresh, glowing red in the dimness. And in the center of the room lay straw flattened into a shape too familiar.
The idol had been here again. Recently.
Arjun crouched behind a pillar. From the stairwell that led to the secret chamber, a figure emerged, carrying something heavy wrapped in cloth. The man moved carefully, whispering under his breath words that sounded like prayer. Arjun strained his eyes, but the torch was too weak. Only when the man set the bundle down did the lamplight catch his face.
It was the priest.
The old man’s features looked sharper in the glow, his spectacles catching firelight. He placed the bundle—clay fragments, perhaps, or offerings—before the smeared wall and began chanting in a low, rhythmic voice. The words were old, Sanskrit syllables twisted into something harsher, almost guttural. Not the liturgy of Durga Puja, but something else. Something secret.
Arjun’s breath caught. He leaned forward instinctively, but the floorboard creaked beneath him. The priest froze. The chanting stopped. For a long moment, the room held its breath. Then the priest turned sharply, eyes glinting.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, voice suddenly powerful.
Arjun ducked back, heart racing. But the torch betrayed him—a faint beam spilled onto the floor. The priest’s footsteps echoed as he advanced.
Arjun bolted. He sprinted down the corridor, footsteps slamming, torch beam bouncing against walls. Behind him, the priest’s voice rang out, chilling and calm. “Curiosity will destroy you, Arjun-babu. Just as it destroyed your forefathers.”
He didn’t look back until he reached the courtyard, gasping for breath. The east wing loomed behind him, its windows dark, its secrets intact. When he turned again, the priest was gone.
The family stirred at the noise. Doors opened, sleepy faces peered out. Riddhi rushed forward, alarm etched across her face. “What happened?”
Arjun shook his head, forcing calm. “Nothing. Just rats in the east wing.”
But his eyes betrayed the truth. Riddhi gripped his wrist, whispering fiercely, “You saw something. Tell me.”
“Later,” he murmured. “Not here.”
The others muttered and returned to bed, dismissing the disturbance. Only the priest was absent from his quarters when checked. “He must be at his dawn prayers,” someone said, though it was hours before dawn.
Back in his room, Arjun collapsed on the cot, adrenaline still surging. He stared at the brass trident lying on his desk. He had seen the priest descend into that hidden chamber. He had heard the strange chants. But what ritual was being conducted, and why move the goddess from her sanctum into secrecy?
At dawn, Arjun finally spoke to Riddhi in private. “I saw him,” he confessed. “The priest. He was in the east wing, performing some ritual. Not Durga Puja—something darker.”
Her face blanched. “The priest? But he has served this family for forty years. My father trusted him like blood.”
“Blood is not the same as loyalty,” Arjun said grimly. “He knows about the chamber. He’s moving the idol in and out. And whatever he’s doing, it’s not sanctioned by tradition.”
Riddhi shivered. “If the others hear this, they’ll collapse. They cling to him as the only certainty. Without him, they’ll have nothing.”
Arjun looked toward the sanctum, empty and bare. “We already have nothing.”
Later that day, the priest returned, calm and unruffled, as if nothing had occurred. He conducted routine prayers before the vacant pedestal, chanting with the same composed rhythm. No one noticed the difference. Only Arjun watched him closely, searching for cracks in his mask.
But the priest never faltered. He was both shadow and guide, both servant and master. And Arjun realized with growing dread that if the priest was orchestrating this, then the missing idol was not a theft nor an accident—it was part of a plan.
That night, as the family gathered for dinner, Pradip announced that private men would begin their search of the mansion the next morning. His voice rang with false authority, but his eyes betrayed fear.
Arjun felt the priest’s gaze settle on him across the hall, calm, steady, almost mocking.
And in that gaze, Arjun understood: the goddess had not vanished. She had been hidden deliberately. And until the truth was forced into the open, the Chatterjee family would remain prisoners in their own crumbling home.
Part 8 – The Family Confrontation
The following morning, the mansion stirred with uneasy energy. Pradip’s hired men had arrived—three stout figures with rough hands and sharper eyes. They were not policemen, nor priests, but the kind of men who earned their living by entering houses like this and shaking out secrets. Their presence alone was an insult to the Chatterjee pride.
They wasted no time. The men searched trunks, overturned wardrobes, banged on walls to test for hollows. Dust rose like smoke as they moved through the house, opening doors that had been sealed for decades. Aunts protested, cousins bristled, but Pradip silenced them. “Do you want the goddess found or not?” he barked.
Arjun watched from the verandah, jaw tight. The priest stood nearby, his saffron shawl draped neatly, expression unreadable. His eyes never left the men as they moved from room to room, yet he said nothing. Only Arjun, who had seen him in the east wing, felt the weight of the silence.
By midday, frustration boiled over. Nothing had been found—no idol, no fragments, only dust and broken furniture. The hired men reported bluntly, “If she is here, she is buried deeper than your walls allow.”
Pradip exploded. “Then search deeper! Tear the floors if you must!”
His outburst cracked the brittle calm. Aniket slammed his fist on the table. “Why are you so desperate, Kakababu? Because you owe money? Did you pawn the idol yourself?”
Gasps rippled through the room. Pradip turned crimson. “How dare you! Insolent boy!”
Arjun stepped forward before Pradip could strike. “Aniket isn’t wrong to ask. You’ve hidden your debts from the family. You met your creditors in secret. Why should we trust you now?”
Pradip’s voice shook with rage. “Because I am the head of this house! Without me, you’d be nothing but beggars squatting in ruins.”
Riddhi spoke suddenly, her voice trembling yet clear. “And what has your headship given us? Empty rooms. Empty sanctum. Empty hearts. You’ve let greed rot this family, Kakababu.”
The words silenced the room. Riddhi had always been quiet, dutiful. For her to speak so openly was unthinkable. But her eyes glistened with fire.
Pradip’s face twisted. “You dare lecture me, girl? You, whose dupatta scrap was found in the east wing?”
All eyes swung to her. Riddhi’s breath hitched. “It wasn’t mine,” she said, voice cracking.
Aniket sneered. “Liar. You’ve been sneaking out nights. I’ve seen you slip past the verandah.”
Riddhi froze, her lips parting in shock. Arjun’s stomach lurched. Aniket didn’t know whom she was meeting—but the accusation was enough.
“That’s why she’s been crying,” another cousin murmured. “She betrayed us.”
“No!” Riddhi cried. “You don’t understand—”
Pradip slammed the table. “Confess! Did you steal the idol? Did you hand it to the Rahmans?”
The name struck like lightning. The old feud, the bitterness, the memory of land lost in Partition—it all rushed into the room. Aunts gasped, uncles muttered curses.
Arjun cut in sharply. “Enough! She is not guilty. If she were, why would the ornaments be left behind? Why would the idol be moved but not looted?”
But suspicion had already taken root. Faces hardened, voices rose. The hall erupted in a storm of accusation, the family tearing at itself like jackals.
Through the noise, the priest’s voice rose calmly, cutting across the chaos. “Do you see? The prophecy fulfills itself. The goddess abandons a house divided. Already you destroy yourselves with your tongues.”
The words fell like oil on fire. Pradip turned on him. “And you—what do you know of it? You live here, eat here, preach doom. But what service have you given us now?”
The priest met his gaze without flinching. “I serve the goddess, not your pride.”
The room fell into a tense hush. It was rare for the priest to challenge openly. His calm only deepened suspicion. Arjun studied him, remembering the midnight ritual, the guttural chants. But to accuse him now, without proof, would be suicide. The family would never believe.
Instead, Arjun turned to Riddhi. “Say nothing more,” he whispered, low enough only for her. “Let their anger burn out first. The truth will surface soon.”
But the truth was already boiling. That night, no one slept. Doors were locked, chests guarded, servants questioned again and again. Whispered conspiracies thickened the air. Every creak of wood, every gust of wind felt like intrusion.
Close to dawn, a scream ripped through the mansion. Everyone rushed to the courtyard. One of the hired men lay sprawled near the east wing door, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. He babbled incoherently about shadows moving, about hands pressing against the walls. He swore the idol had eyes that glowed in the dark.
The family recoiled, crossing themselves, muttering prayers. The priest alone remained still, his face unreadable. He murmured a single chant under his breath and turned away.
Arjun knelt by the trembling man. “What did you see?” he demanded.
The man clutched his shirt, sobbing. “She is here. The goddess is here. But not for you. She belongs to someone else now.”
The words chilled Arjun to the marrow.
Later, as the house slowly retreated into fearful silence, Arjun stood in the verandah, watching the east wing’s darkened windows. The goddess had not left. She had simply chosen a different place, a different worship.
And unless he revealed who was behind it, the family would tear itself apart completely.
Part 9 – The Revelation
By the ninth day, the Chatterjee bari no longer resembled a house of worship. It was a fortress of suspicion, its corridors echoing with locked doors, whispered quarrels, and footsteps that stopped abruptly when someone approached. The sanctum still stood empty, its pedestal bare and accusing, while the city outside rang with the sounds of Durga Puja in full bloom—dhak drums, conch shells, laughter, hymns. Inside the mansion, there was only silence and dread.
Arjun knew the truth had ripened to the point of bursting. The hired men refused to enter the east wing again after their comrade’s breakdown, muttering about curses. Pradip fumed, insisting on dragging them back, but his voice carried desperation more than authority. Riddhi stayed in her room, avoiding everyone. Aniket prowled like a watchdog, eyes gleaming with suspicion. The priest moved through the house with quiet certainty, unshaken by the chaos he seemed to almost welcome.
That night, Arjun resolved to end it. He returned to the east wing with his torch, his camera, and the brass trident he had found earlier. The corridor smelled faintly of incense. He found the concealed latch again and descended the narrow stairwell into the secret chamber.
What he saw made his breath catch.
The idol stood there—whole, resplendent, draped in fresh garlands, her clay body smeared with vermillion, her eyes blazing in the flicker of pradip. Before her lay offerings—rice, sweets, even bloodied flowers. And kneeling in the half-light, chanting in a voice low and fierce, was the priest.
Arjun’s camera clicked instinctively, the flash slicing the darkness. The priest turned, his eyes glinting behind thick spectacles, no longer frail but sharp, almost triumphant.
“So,” the priest said softly, “you have found her.”
Arjun’s hand trembled around the camera. “You moved her here. You hid her from the family. Why?”
The priest rose slowly, his shawl slipping from his shoulders to reveal sinewy arms. “Because she does not belong to your family anymore. The Chatterjees are broken—greedy, divided, faithless. They worship pride, not divinity. She would not stay among them. I brought her here, where she could be worshipped in purity.”
Arjun’s voice shook with anger. “Purity? You deceived us. You let them tear each other apart while you conducted your own rituals in secret. That isn’t purity—it’s betrayal.”
The priest’s eyes burned. “Sometimes betrayal is the only path to salvation. The goddess demanded separation. I only obeyed. Do you not see? She chose me. I am her voice now.”
Arjun stepped forward, his heart pounding. “No. You chose yourself. You turned her into a weapon to control this house. You wanted them divided, so you could stand above their ruin.”
The priest laughed softly, a chilling sound. “And yet you come here alone, with no one to defend you. Which of us truly controls this house, Arjun-babu?”
For a moment, the flickering lamps made the goddess’s painted eyes seem alive, gleaming with judgment. Arjun swallowed hard. “If you truly serve her, then why hide? Why not return her to the sanctum?”
The priest’s face twisted with disdain. “Because the sanctum is polluted. Lies, debts, forbidden love—it reeks of weakness. No deity stays where hearts rot. Better she remain here, in silence, than endure their false devotion.”
Arjun lifted the brass trident. “Then maybe she doesn’t belong here either. Maybe she belongs to none of us, and you are only another man clinging to power.”
The priest stiffened. For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed his face. But it passed quickly. He stepped closer, voice low and dangerous. “Careful, Arjun. The goddess punishes arrogance. You risk becoming the next casualty of this house’s curse.”
Arjun held his ground. “The curse is not hers. It’s ours. And you’ve fed it.”
The standoff hung heavy, broken only by the hiss of oil lamps. Arjun finally backed toward the stairwell, clutching the trident and his camera. “Tomorrow, I’ll show them proof. They’ll know who moved her, who played god in the name of the goddess.”
The priest did not follow. He only raised his hand in blessing—or perhaps warning—as Arjun climbed out of the chamber. “Remember, boy,” he said softly, “truth has a price. And when you pay it, you may not survive.”
Back in his room, Arjun studied the photographs his camera had captured. Grainy though they were, they showed the idol, the offerings, the priest’s unmistakable figure kneeling before her. Evidence. Proof.
But as dawn broke, doubt gnawed at him. If he revealed this, the family would fracture beyond repair. Pradip would rage, Aniket would accuse, Riddhi’s secret affair might be dragged into the open. The goddess would be returned, yes—but at the cost of exposing every hidden wound.
And yet, silence meant surrender—to the priest’s control, to endless shadows.
When the family gathered that morning in the drawing room, voices still sharp with suspicion, Arjun stood with the photographs in his hand. The moment of revelation had come.
Part 10 – The Return of the Goddess
The family gathered in the drawing room at dawn, faces drawn, eyes red from sleepless nights. The chandelier above swayed faintly, though no breeze stirred. Outside, the neighborhood bustled with puja celebrations—music, laughter, conch shells blowing—but inside the Chatterjee bari there was only dread.
Arjun stood at the head of the room, the photographs clutched in his hand. His voice was steady, though his chest thudded. “I know where the goddess is.”
A ripple spread instantly through the hall. Aunts clutched rosaries, cousins gasped, Pradip’s eyes widened with sudden fury. “What nonsense are you speaking?”
Arjun spread the photographs on the table. In the grainy images, the idol stood resplendent, draped in garlands, smeared with vermillion. And kneeling before her was the unmistakable figure of the priest.
A stunned silence followed. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, Aniket burst out. “You!” He pointed at the priest, who sat calm as stone. “You betrayed us! You stole her from the sanctum!”
The priest did not flinch. He adjusted his spectacles and looked around the room with quiet disdain. “I did not steal. I preserved. The goddess cannot dwell among liars, debtors, adulterers. She asked for purity. I obeyed.”
Gasps broke out, protests rising, but his voice cut through. “Your house is divided. Your greed poisons every ritual. Did she not warn you? Did the prophecy not say she would abandon blood turned against blood?”
Pradip lunged forward, veins bulging in his temples. “You dare lecture me after bringing ruin upon us? You wanted power. You wanted control of this family!”
The priest’s voice sharpened. “Better control than decay. Look at yourselves—squabbling like dogs, selling land, hiding affairs, pawning honor. You do not deserve her.”
All eyes flicked to Riddhi. Her face burned, her lips trembling. She turned to Arjun, silently pleading. But Pradip seized on the weakness, his finger stabbing the air. “Yes, affairs! Do you think we don’t know? You disgrace us with your Rahman lover! Perhaps you conspired with him to mock us!”
The room erupted again, accusations flying. Riddhi’s sobs tore through the din. Arjun stepped forward, fists clenched. “Stop! This isn’t about Riddhi. It isn’t about debts. It’s about one man using faith as a weapon. The goddess was hidden to turn us against each other.”
The priest rose now, his saffron shawl falling loose, his voice carrying the weight of thunder. “And yet it worked. Look at you—stripped bare. The goddess has revealed your true faces. That is her justice.”
For a moment, silence reigned. The family stared at him, their faith cracking under the revelation. Then Pradip roared, “Bring her back! Now!”
The priest’s eyes narrowed. “She will not return to a polluted sanctum.”
But Arjun lifted the brass trident from the table, the one he had found in the chamber. He held it high, his voice steady. “Then let her decide. We will bring her back, all of us, together. Not as heirs or rivals, but as family. If she leaves again, so be it. But we will not surrender her to secrecy.”
Something in his tone struck the room still. Even Pradip hesitated. Even Aniket lowered his fist. Riddhi wiped her tears, her face pale but resolute.
At last, the family moved as one. They followed Arjun through the corridors, into the east wing, down the hidden stairwell. The priest walked at the rear, his expression unreadable, his chants low and bitter.
And there she was.
The idol glowed in the dim chamber, her painted eyes alive with judgment, her form wreathed in garlands. The family gasped, some falling to their knees, others weeping openly. Arjun stepped forward and touched the pedestal. “Forgive us,” he whispered. “Come home.”
It took all of them—uncles, cousins, even servants—to lift her carefully, bearing her up the stairwell, through the east wing, into the courtyard. Neighbors gathered at the gates, watching in awe as the Chatterjees carried their goddess back to the sanctum. The conch shells blew, the dhak roared, and for the first time in days, the courtyard filled with sound.
They placed her gently upon the pedestal. The sanctum seemed to breathe again, its emptiness banished. The lamps burned brighter, the incense curled higher. The goddess had returned.
But the victory was bitter. The priest stood at the threshold, his face unreadable. “She will not stay,” he murmured. “Not while your hearts remain divided.”
Pradip turned on him. “Leave this house. Now. You are finished here.”
The priest smiled faintly, as though he had expected nothing less. He bowed once before the idol, then walked out without looking back. His footsteps faded into the city’s morning din.
That evening, the family gathered for sandhi puja. The goddess gleamed under the flames, her eyes fierce and unyielding. Yet Arjun could not shake the feeling that her gaze lingered on him, as if asking whether the priest had been entirely wrong.
When the rituals ended, the family tried to mend themselves—apologies murmured, quarrels softened, promises made. But the fractures remained, hairline cracks beneath the plaster.
Later, as the mansion settled into uneasy sleep, Arjun stood alone before the idol. Her eyes burned in the lamplight, alive with something he could not name.
Was she truly appeased? Or had she only returned to witness what would come next?
The wind rattled the shutters. The incense guttered. And in the silence, Arjun felt it—an unspoken truth. The goddess had not been stolen. She had not been betrayed by outsiders.
She had left to show them who they really were.
And though she stood in the sanctum once more, her eyes warned that she could leave again—forever.
