Echoes of the Past

Disclaimer: Adult Themes/Content

Aarti finally arrived at her old home! The drive was long from her dormitory, but that didn’t bother Aarti. She knew today was important, so it was worth the wait.

The evening air, thick, scent of marigolds and sandalwood lingered. Time had passed, the house had not. Just as she remembered: dusk-orange walls carved in Sanskrit, its courtyard bathed in flickering oil lamp light, even the rhythmic creaking of the old ceiling fan. Some things never change, she thought. Aarti took off her shoes as she stepped in, her feet planted on the cool, hard tiles. She touched the floor with her right hand, then stood up, folding her hands in prayer giving respect to this sacred home. She never did this anywhere else, only here. Only here did she know the customs embedded in her brain. You are home, Aarti.

Oṁ Jai Jagadīśa Hare. A melodic voice echoed from the halls, the voice of someone she had longed to see. Nani’s waiting. Aarti found her grandmother by the closet altar, doing her daily puja ritual. Instead of hanging clothes, she dedicated this room for worship. Some pictures, small statues of Hindu deities were displayed, draped around red and yellow cloth. She placed a thali in the center of them all which carried incense, a diya, and the gods’ offerings, ladoo and pitted dates. Also, a black and white picture of a young woman hung above, it’s frame ornated in a garland of fresh flowers. She was Nani’s late mother, her Amma.

Nani was sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, body swaying, lost in prayer. Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose braid, her hands folded over a string of prayer beads. The sight of her always made Aarti feel safe. Like she was still a little girl, barefoot and carefree, before she had left home for college. Oṁ Jai Jagadīśa Hare, Swami Jai Jagadīśa Hare. Aarti’s heart swelled listening to her grandmother’s voice. That hymn. It was the same hymn Nani used to sing when rocking her to sleep, the same one she had hummed while making chai in the mornings.

“Nani,” Aarti called softly. Nani’s ears swiveled. A familiar voice. She turned around but was deceived by her timeworn eyes.

 “Aarti beti?” Nani slowly responded.

“Yes Nani, it’s me.” Nani quickly opened her arms, Aarti knelt beside her. They embrace. She cried immensely, cupping her granddaughter’s face with frail, warm hands. “You’ve come home, beti. You came back.”

Aarti smiled. “Of course, Nani. I missed you.”

 “Oh, I missed you beti,” Nani replied . “I am lost here without you.” Caressing her granddaughter’s long black hair, she began humming the same song. Aarti reminisces the spiced chai, she joined in. Her voice, now weaving with her grandmother’s. One aged, seasoned by time, the other youthful but reverent. A symphony of love. This was home.

Then, something changed. Nani’s body stiffened. Her hand, once tender, fell away like dead weight. Her amber eyes glared at something just over Aarti’s shoulder. No, not something. Some-one. Aarti turned, and there stood Neil—tall, bearded man smiling hesitantly at the old woman.

"Nani, this is Neil, my boyfriend." she started, dragging Neil’s arm beside her. Nani’s expression had curdled into something distorted. Her lips trembled, her breath turned shallow, fingers clenched into fists. A faint whisper escaped her. A name? A curse? A memory. She stood up, her back faced to them. Continuing her puja, she picked up her silver thali circling the diya clockwise. Neil took a step back, laughing nervously. “Uh, namaste, Nani—”

Silence.

He could feel the tension thickening in the room like the incense smoke surrounding the altar. Nani didn’t move. She was mounted, staring deeply at her Amma’s photo, lips quivering. Why Amma, she thought. Aarti forced a chuckle, breaking the ice. "Nani, this is Neil. Remember? I told you about him."

She placed the thali back onto the altar, her hands steady despite the tremor in her breath. She turns around. Her gaze glinted toward Aarti. "Go wash your hands, beti."

Aarti hesitated. "Nani?"

"Now." She demanded. Something about the way she said it made Aarti obey. She gave Neil an apologetic glance before stepping out of the room.

Neil shifted awkwardly. "Uh, namaste, Nani," he tried again, pressing his palms together respectfully in greeting. Nani, cold, remained silent. "I know this is sudden, but Aarti really wanted me to meet you. She talks about you all the time."

"You should not be here."

Neil, confused. "Excuse me?"

"She should not have brought you here." Nani's voice was hardly above a whisper, yet it carried weight that settled deep in his bones.

Neil’s mouth went dry. "I—I don’t understand."

Nani exhaled sharply, looking past him. "They never understand."

A shiver traced the length of Neil’s spine. He turned his head slightly, following her gaze to the darkened hallway behind him. He could hear something echoing from beyond. Overhearing, Aarti rushed over. "Nani, everything okay?"

Nani's expression softened at the sight of her granddaughter. "Just wonderful Beti, come. It is time for dinner." Aarti, to Neil, “Sorry babe, she’s just old fashioned. Let’s go eat!”  

The dining table was laid out with all of Aarti’s childhood favorites. There was dal, some basmati rice, crisp bhindi, and warm rotis inside a traditional wooden box. Neil tried to shake off the uneasiness, sitting across from Nani. The meal smelled incredible, but the air was still thick with something unspoken.

As they ate, Neil couldn’t help but notice the way Nani’s eyes scanned at him. Sharp and assessing. He felt like an insect trapped under a glass.

"So, Neil," Aarti started, trying to cut the tension. "Did you know my grandmother was a survivor during the Partition?"

"Wow! Really?" Neil, suddenly intrigued.

“Yes she was! She never talked about it, too traumatic she says. Even through all that, she saved many women from those raids. Can you believe it?”

Neil grinning to Nani, “That’s remarkable, my grandparents were also survivors Nani. I would love to share stories with you before we go to bed—"

"He is not staying the night."

The words sliced through the conversation, halting Neil mid-sentence. Aarti’s smile faltered. "Nani—"

"You should leave."

Neil swallowed a mouthful of rice, forcing a chuckle. " I can crash at a hotel if it’s a problem Aarti—"

“No it’s okay Neil, you don’t have to—"

"It is not safe for you here." Nani uttered.

Aarti's face darkened. "Nani, stop it. You're being ridiculous."

Nani’s hand tightened around her spoon. "It is not safe for men like him."

Neil set his fork down. "Men like me?"

The room was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock. Nani’s voice was almost a whisper. "Men who always leave."

Neil startled, "Okay, this is getting weird."

Lights abruptly begin to flicker. Aarti frowned. "Sorry, the wiring in this house is old—"

But Neil wasn’t listening. A distant sound rose, echoing from somewhere deeper within the house. Neil’s skin prickled. It was the same song Nani had been singing earlier, but it wasn’t her voice. It sounded… layered. As if many voices were singing at once, some too deep, others too frail, some in a language Neil didn’t recognize.

Aarti heard it too. "Nani…?"

Nani was already standing. "Eat, beti. I will tend to it."

She moved with an eerie grace, her shadow stretching long and jagged against the wall as she disappeared down the hallway. The singing grew fainter.

Neil exhaled, shaking his head. "What the hell was that?"

Aarti tried to laugh it off, but her voice was tight. "It’s just an old house. Sounds travel weird."

Neil was not convinced.

Neil stares at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The old fan creaks, the house shifts with the wind, but that wasn’t keeping him awake. It was Nani.

Her words from dinner gnaw at him. "It is not safe for men like him." "Men that do not come home."

What did she mean?

Beside him, Aarti sleeps soundly, her breathing soft and steady. He doesn’t want to wake her, but his throat is dry. Water. That’ll help.

Slipping out of bed, Neil pads quietly toward the kitchen. The hallway is dim, moonlight filtering through the windows. He passes by the altar room, the faint of incense still lingering. Then, he notices something.

Nani’s door is slightly open.

Inside, she is sitting on the edge of her bed, the dim glow of a night lamp casting shadows across her wrinkled face. She isn’t praying. She isn’t asleep. She is holding something in her hands—a small, faded photograph.

Neil should keep walking. He knows this. But something about her expression roots him to the spot. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, now hollow.

Neil watches as a single tear slips down Nani’s cheek and onto the photo. She suddenly looks up. Directly at Neil.

“You shouldn’t be awake, beta,” she says, her voice unreadable.

 “I—just needed some water.”

She nods. “Drink, then go back to bed.”

Neil hesitates, his eyes flickering to the photo in her hands. But he doesn’t ask. Not yet.

 He pours himself a glass of water, but he can’t shake the feeling that whatever was in that photo... is the reason she didn’t want him here.

Neil couldn’t help but hear a faint echo as he walked back to Aarti’s room. He swore he could still hear that song. The words made no sense, yet the melody clung to the edges of his mind.

Walking through the hallway, a shadow shifted beneath the door frame of the closet. He reached for his phone, trembling, drastically finding the flashlight icon. Flash! There, he saw it. What was inside. Bones, brown and flaking. Nani was standing behind. He hadn’t heard her move, but she was there. Her lips moved, shaping the words of a prayer. No sound came out. Her eyes were locked on him, dark, endless. "Why did you leave, my jaan?" she whispered. "I won’t let you leave me again”

Neil, turned around. His breath is ragged, his mind struggling to make sense of the brittle bones, the prayer, and Nani’s cryptic words.

"Nani—what—what is this?" he stammers.

But Nani doesn't answer. She steps closer. Her frail body seems impossibly strong, as if the years have melted away, leaving behind a woman who has waited too long for justice.

"You look just like him," she murmurs, her voice a mixture of longing and grief.

Aarti stirs awake from the commotion, calling out from the bedroom. "Neil?"

But Neil can’t move. His feet feel rooted to the floor. The walls of the house groan as if waking up, the old ceiling fan creaking louder, the hymn growing distorted.

Then, the closet door slams open.

A pair of skeletal hands, thin, elongated with nails dark as ink emerge from the darkness. They grip Neil’s shoulders. Cold. So cold.

He tries to scream, but the breath is stolen from his lungs. His mind flashes with images of flames, train tracks, blood, and the wailing of abandoned souls. The Partition. The chaos. The people who never made it home.

Finally, he understands.

This house is a graveyard. A memorial to those who were left behind.

Nani’s husband was one of them. A man who fled, who never returned, who left her to fend for herself in a world that devoured women like her. Now, the house has claimed Neil. Another man.

Aarti bursts into the hallway just in time to see the hands drag Neil backward into the closet. His eyes meet hers, desperate, pleading—"Aarti!"—before the door slams shut with a deafening crack.

Silence.

The air is still. The hymn fades. Aarti rushes forward, yanking open the closet doors—but it’s empty.

No bones. No blood. No Neil.

Just the faint scent of sandalwood, and a whisper of a forgotten name on Nani’s lips.