The Curator of Hollow Halos

The summer of 2011 found me in the labyrinthine lanes of old Varanasi, a thousand kilometers from the ordered chaos of Mumbai. I’d traded the antiseptic corridors of my college for a cramped, mold-scented room above a spice shop, my new home for a research internship on the city’s dying arts. I was an atheist, a rationalist by upbringing, and the city’s relentless religiosity grated on me. Yet, Varanasi had its own rhythm, one I was determined to conquer.

My room was in a decaying haveli, a relic of a forgotten merchant prince, now divided into cheap lodgings. The landlady, a withered woman smelling of cardamom and old age, gave me a key that felt warm to the touch. She warned me, in a cracked whisper, ‘Don’t stay out after the last aarti, beta. The city belongs to the dead then.’ I laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. The dead, to me, were a metaphor, not a reality.

The first week was a blur of bookshops and artisans. I was documenting the last generation of boatmen who painted their oars with images of forgotten deities. But the Ganges, especially at dawn, seemed to hold a secret. A fog would roll in, thick as wool, and from it would come a sound—not the chanting of priests or the splash of oars, but a low, rhythmic creaking, like the groaning of a ship that has slipped its moorings, yet there was no ship visible. I dismissed it as the result of my overactive imagination, fueled by the landlady’s superstitious chatter.

Then the object appeared. On a humid evening, as I strolled along the Dashashwamedh Ghat, a glint of polished metal caught my eye. Half-hidden in the silt, it was a small brass ornament, a halved circle, smooth as a mirror, with a single hook on top. It was beautiful, almost hypnotic. I picked it up, wiped it clean, and slipped it into my pocket. That night, the creaking sound was louder, closer. It seemed to originate from the very walls of my room, and I swore I could feel a faint vibration through the floorboards.

Sleep was impossible. At 2:37 AM, I was jolted upright by a stench—a mix of stale river water, burning ghee, and something else, something sweetly foul, like rotting jasmine. The brass ornament lay on my bedside table, and in the dim light, it seemed to pulse, as if it were breathing. Then, I heard it again, but this time it was inside my head: a disembodied, sibilant whisper, not in Hindi or English, but a language older than both, yet I understood its command: ‘Return me.’

The next day, the world looked different. The vibrant colors of Varanasi seemed muted, as if a gray film had settled over everything. The boatmen I interviewed flinched when I spoke, and the old woman who sold marigolds crossed herself—a gesture foreign to this land—when she saw the pendant. I tried to get rid of it, tossing it into the Ganges, but by dawn it was back on my pillow, still warm. I was an atheist, but I began to pray to no one, to anything, to make it stop.

On the seventh night, I followed the creaking sound. It led me to a narrow, winding alley I’d never seen before, though I was sure I’d walked every street in the area. The air grew thicker, the lanterns flickered, and the alley ended at a stone well, its rim worn smooth by centuries of ropes. The creaking came from the well, a low, rhythmic groan. I peered over the edge. Far below, in the murky water, I saw not my reflection, but a pale, gaunt face with eyes like burnt holes, staring up at me. It spoke in that ancient whisper: ‘You have my soul, girl. Return it, or be bound to this well forever.’

My rational mind shattered. I screamed, but no sound came out. I stumbled back, tripping over a loose stone, and fell. When I hit the ground, the well was gone. I was kneeling in front of my own door, the brass ornament clutched in my hand, burning like a live coal. The sun was rising, but my room was still dark, and the creaking had stopped.

That morning, I packed my bags, left a note for the landlady, and took the first train out of Varanasi. But as the train pulled away, I saw the ornament sitting on the empty seat beside me, its hook glinting. I didn’t touch it. I didn’t even look at it. I just stared out the window at the receding ghats, and I realized I wasn’t escaping. I was taking the haunting with me, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I would spend the rest of my life listening for that creaking sound, waiting for the day when the well would come for me again.

And so, I never pray. But I also never sleep soundly. And I always, always check my pocket before I move—for the halved circle that once was mine, and now is my keeper.