The school bell of St. Clare's Girls' Academy sliced through the fish-market clamor. A sharp, metallic clang that echoed off Colony Heights' stained concrete. End of morning shift. Babin Hussain leaned against the peeling gatepost, scrolling through her phone while streams of starched pinafores flooded the pavement. Her vlog notifications screamed: "FAKE!" ... "SHOW THE NAGIN'S FACE!" ... "U GLOW LIKE ROTTEN FISH!" Babin's thumb hovered over delete.
A snicker cut through the digital noise. Twin shadows fell across Babin's screen. Neelampari and Champakali, St. Clare's self-crowned royalty strutted past, their identical braids swinging like metronomes. Neelampari tossed her head, nose scrunched. "Ugh, Colony Heights vibes," she stage-whispered, fluttering a hand as if swatting flies. Champakali giggled, high and brittle.
"So desperate for followers, no? Probably edits her 'ghosts' on that cracked phone." Their eyes large, and thickly lined with kohl rolled in perfect unison, slow and theatrical as anime villains. Babin didn't flinch. She'd seen their Instagram: endless reposts of Korean pop idols, desperate captions begging Japanese fans, "Konnichiwa, senpai! Notice us!". Their bio screamed ambition: "🌍 76/100 COUNTRIES! HELP US REACH 100 FRIENDS! 🌏 DM US IF U R NOT INDIAN!"
Champakali suddenly gasped, clutching Neelampari's arm. "Look! Uncle!" She pointed across the chaotic street. There, wedged between a rusted autorickshaw and a pyramid of betel nut sacks, sat their favorite bhelpuri vendor. His cart, a rickety wooden ark stained turmeric-yellow, gleamed under the noon sun.
Crisp puri mounds shimmered beside bowls of tangy tamarind chutney and diced potatoes. Champakali's eyes widened, momentarily forgetting Colony Heights. "Pinch, Neelu!" she hissed, fingers already digging into her sister's wrist. Neelampari winced, pulling back. "Ouch! Why?" Champakali leaned close, her breath smelling faintly of imported strawberry lip balm. "Because," she whispered, "Remember? Last Thursday? The extra sev?" Neelampari's irritation melted into a conspiratorial grin. "Cheap thrills," she murmured, smoothing her uniform. "But… yes. Let's."
They pushed through the crowd, elbows sharp as compass needles. The vendor a wiry man with skin like sun-cracked leather, beamed. "Kumari-sahibas!" Back so soon?" His cracked hands moved with practiced speed, scooping puri into rolled newspapers. Champakali pointed imperiously. "Extra onions. And extra green chutney. Like last time." Neelampari sniffed, surveying the street.
"But neem leaves today, Uncle? Really?" She gestured at the vendor beside him, whose cart overflowed with feathery neem branches. "So… green. Like desperate agriculture." Champakali giggled, twirling a braid. "Exactly. Politics of presentation. Everything's politics." She accepted her bhelpuri packet, steam fogging the cheap ink.
"Look at Colony Heights Babin," she added, jerking her chin toward Babin leaning sullenly against the gatepost. "Recording fish guts? Pathetic." Neelampari took a crunchy bite, flakes clinging to her glossed lips. "Total clout-chaser. Using ghosts? So transparent." She chewed slowly. "It's all politics, Didi. Even hauntings." Champakali nodded sagely. "Poor people's performance art."
A flicker danced in Neelampari's kohl-rimmed eyes. She leaned close, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "Remember? That fat neighbor girl? Dimple?" Champakali wrinkled her nose. "Ugh. Brain like soggy toast." Neelampari smirked. "Exactly! Ma almost gave away your pink cashmere sweater to her. Can you imagine? Dimple stuffed into it like dough in a tiny jar?" She mimed explosion with her hands. "All because Dimple's mother cried at Ma's kitty party—'Oh, I shop alone, life so hard!' Pathetic."
Champakali shuddered. "My sweater! Saved just in time." She flicked imaginary dust off her uniform sleeve. "Politics of pity." Neelampari's gaze slid slyly toward Colony Heights. "Remember what we did? Lift game?" Champakali's giggle was sharp, brittle. "Haha! Fourth floor. Lights off. 'Count thirteen floors!' we told her." She mimed pressing buttons. "Poor lump just stood there, blinking. Brain empty, belly full." Neelampari popped the last puri into her mouth. "Elevator politics. Teaches them their place."
Their giggles tangled high, cold bells clashing and a sudden stillness fell. The fish-market roar dampened. The air thickened, smelling unexpectedly of wet earth beneath Colony Heights' stale concrete. A ripple passed unseen through the crowd. For a heartbeat, Neelampari felt silk whisper against her ankle. A phantom slide, cool and sinuous. Champakali gasped, clutching her arm. "Did you—?" "Shh!" Neelampari hissed.
Between packed bodies, a narrow space opened momentarily, a sliver of damp pavement. Something seemed to glide there, a suggestion of coiled grace, a flicker of impossible scales catching the low sun before dissolving into steam rising from Kamal-bhai's tea urn. Neelampari shivered. "Nagin walks", the thought slithered unbidden. "Around us". Champakali's knuckles whitened. "Between us". The twins exchanged a startled glance.
The power died at precisely eight-fifteen. Colony Heights plunged into velvet silence, no humming fridges, no blaring TVs, just the startled cry of a baby echoing through the stairwell. Below, the neglected field became an island. Shadows pooled like spilled ink. Young bodies materialized from doorways, drawn by instinct or dread.
Flip-flops slapped concrete. Torch beams cut nervous swathes through the dark. Babin Hussain arrived first, her phone's dying glow illuminating the cracked plaster dust at her feet. She kicked at a stray brick. "Generator's kaput again. Molotov uncle snores through outages." Beside her, Rupa Mollick shivered, clutching a threadbare shawl. Her eyes scanned the shifting crowd. Bijoy Banerjee fiddling with a dead power bank, Rafiq's nephew Iqbal whispering urgently into his phone.
Azmon Khan emerged last, dragging two thick branches behind him. They scraped concrete, leaving pale scars. Sawdust clung to his jeans. Bijoy Banerjee spotted him, his round face brightening. "Azmon bhai! Genius!" Azmon dumped the branches near a patch of bare earth littered with cigarette butts. "Found 'em near Rafiq Chacha's pile," he grunted, pulling a cheap plastic lighter from his pocket. Its flame sputtered orange, revealing rough bark. Bijoy scrambled for smaller twigs, snapping them eagerly. "Fire! Proper fire! Forget generators!"
The flames caught slowly. Dry leaves curled, blackened, then vanished into thin smoke. The heat bloomed outward, pushing back the damp chill clinging to Colony Heights' walls. Faces leaned in, drawn like moths to a streetlamp. Bijoy Banerjee grinned, rubbing his hands above the crackling wood. "First joke! Why did the scarecrow win an award?" He paused dramatically. Rupa Mollick rolled her eyes. "Because he was outstanding in his field?" Bijoy deflated. "Aw, you ruined it, Rupa-di!" Rupa smirked, pulling her shawl tighter. "Your jokes are like stale muri, Bijoy. Predictable crunch."
Azmon Khan tuned his battered acoustic guitar beside the fire, fingers plucking hesitant notes that fought the crackle of burning branches. "Outstanding?" he muttered, strumming a dissonant chord. "Try terrifying." He launched into a folk tune, his voice rough as gravel roads. "O re piya, kaun aaya teri gali mein...". The melody, ancient and yearning, wrapped around the gathering.
Babin Hussain Khan lowered her phone, the blue light dimming. The flames flickered in her dark eyes. She hummed along, softly at first, then louder, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate the dust beneath their feet. Her voice tangled with Azmon's guitar, weaving through the smoke like incense.
Bijoy Banerjee bounced on his heels, torch beam jittering across Rupa Mollick's face. "Sing-along! Yes! Rupa-di, you know the words!" Rupa hugged her knees tighter, shawl pulled up to her nose. Her gaze stayed fixed on Colony Heights' silhouette. "Not tonight, Bijoy," she murmured, voice muffled. "That stain... it breathed in my footage."
Bijoy's grin faltered. "Ghosts don't breathe, Rupa-di. They... float! Or rattle chains!" He mimed wobbling specters. Rafiq's nephew, Iqbal, snorted from the shadows. "Tell that to Bhuiyan-uncle. Saw him today. Frozen by the wall. Like he saw..." He trailed off, rubbing his arms. The fire spat, throwing long, dancing shadows that licked the apartment blocks. Silence stretched, thick as tar. Only the hiss of damp wood spoke.
Azmon Khan's fingers slid across guitar strings, a low, humming chord that vibrated in chest bones. "Chandni raat mein, kaun rota hai..." Babin Hussain's voice rose, deep and resonant, twining with the notes. Not singing. Humming. A sound like earth shifting, roots groaning. Bijoy stopped bouncing. Even Iqbal leaned forward.
The humming wove through smoke, carrying the scent of wet clay and burnt sugar. Rupa Mollick shivered. Not from cold. The vibration crawled up her spine, familiar, a phantom coil tightening. Babin's eyes, reflecting the flames, held no pupil. Just twin pools of liquid amber. Bijoy whispered, "Didi... your voice..." Babin blinked. Normal brown eyes met his. "What?" she snapped, defensive. "Can't a girl hum?" Rupa stared hard. Had she imagined it? The flicker? The shine?
Bijoy Banerjee broke the tension with a nervous laugh. "Nothing! Just... your humming sounds like..." He floundered. "Like my grandma's pressure cooker before it whistles!" Babin snorted, tossing her braid. "Better than your jokes, Muri-man." She snatched Bijoy's phone torch, swinging the beam wildly across Colony Heights' stained facade. "Spotlight's on you now, storyteller! Scare us properly this time!"