The Beaded Chant

Mira and her husband, Arjun, had returned from the funeral of her beloved grandmother, Amma, two months ago. They lived in a modest flat on the third floor of an old building in the city, their living room facing a quiet street lined with ancient banyan trees. Since their return, Mira’s nights had been restless. She’d wake at odd hours, her body drenched in sweat, not from fear, but from a strange unease that clung to her like morning mist.

At first, the sounds were faint – a low murmur emanating from the living room, as if a group of people were engaged in quiet conversation. She’d lie in bed, listening, her heart thudding in her chest. Arjun, always a deep sleeper, remained oblivious. The first few nights, she dismissed it as the building’s old pipes or the wind. But the sounds grew more distinct, transforming into a rhythmic chant, the cadence of someone telling beads, a sound she intimately knew from her grandmother’s daily prayers.

Mira grew obsessed. She’d slip out of bed, careful not to wake Arjun, and creep to the hallway. The living room was always dark, but she felt an unseen presence, a crowd of them, whispering and chanting. They never acknowledged her, yet she felt watched. She mentioned it to Arjun, who shrugged it off. ‘It’s just your grief,’ he said, but his eyes held a flicker of doubt.

One night, unable to resist, she entered the living room. The darkness was absolute, but the chanting grew louder, urgent. She closed her eyes, and in her mind’s eye, she saw her grandmother’s face, but distorted, surrounded by a circle of figures. They were not her family, but faceless shapes, their mouths moving in unison. A cold dread seeped into her bones. She felt she was witnessing a ritual, something ancient and unfamiliar.

The next day, she confided in a neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Fernandes, who had lived in the building for decades. Mrs. Fernandes listened with a grave expression. ‘Your grandmother was a pious woman, but she died with unfinished business,’ she said cryptically. ‘Did you perform all the rituals properly?’ Mira recounted the obsequies, the prayers, the offering of pindas. Mrs. Fernandes nodded slowly. ‘But what about the pinda daan at Gaya? It is said that if not done, the soul lingers, seeking passage.’

Mira remembered her grandmother often spoke of Gaya, a pilgrimage site where offerings are made to the ancestors. She had never been. ‘I don’t think we did that,’ Mira whispered.

The next night, the chanting intensified. Now, she heard her grandmother’s voice among them, not clear, but like an echo in a cave. She felt a pull towards the living room, a compulsion she could not resist. Arjun tried to stop her, but she walked with a zombie’s gait. In the room, she felt hands – cold, papery hands – resting on her shoulders. She heard a whisper, ‘Gaya…’ It was her grandmother’s voice, pleading.

Terrified, Mira collapsed. When she came to, she was on the floor, Arjun kneeling beside her, his face pale. In his hands, he held an old photo of her grandmother, and on the floor lay her grandmother’s rosary, the beads glinting even in the dim light. Mira felt a sudden clarity. The ordeal was not a haunting, but a calling. Her grandmother’s soul was tethered, unable to move on because a crucial rite was left undone.

They booked a trip to Gaya. The moment they stepped into the temple town, Mira felt a change – the weight lifting, the chanting in her head fading to silence. At the riverbank, they performed the pinda daan under the guidance of a priest. As the offerings floated away, Mira felt a rush of warmth, and she saw, for a fleeting moment, her grandmother’s face, serene and smiling, before it vanished.

That night, for the first time in months, Mira slept through the night. When she woke, it was morning, and the house was quiet. The presence was gone. She realized that the departed don’t always leave; sometimes, they wait for the living to free them. And now, with the chants ended, she could grieve in peace, and remember her grandmother with love, not fear.