The Last Hand of Amavasya

My grandfather, Harish, was a man of habit. Every Diwali, without fail, he would join his friends for a late-night card game, much to my grandmother’s dismay. She would mutter curses under her breath, wishing he would learn a lesson for once. But Harish was stubborn, and the cards held a magnetic pull. This particular Diwali, however, would be the last time he ever touched a deck.

The village of Ranakpur was draped in the deep darkness of Amavasya, the new moon night. The air was thick with the smell of marigolds and dying firecrackers, and an eerie stillness had settled over the lanes. Harish, with his bicycle rattling, was making his way home from his friend’s house, the oil lamp on his handlebar casting a weak, flickering glow. He had just crossed the old banyan tree when he saw a figure ahead.

It was a lean, elderly man, dressed in a frayed kurta and a worn-out skullcap. He was shuffling along the road, looking lost. ‘Beta, can you tell me the way to the local madrasa?’ the man asked, his voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the night’s silence. His eyes were deep-set, and in the lamplight, they seemed to hold no reflection. Harish, a bit startled, pointed towards the north. ‘It’s about two kilometres that way, just past the dried-up pond,’ he said.

The man nodded slowly, a thin smile on his lips. ‘Thank you, beta. But it’s so dark, and my eyes are not what they used to be. Would you mind walking me a little way? I am a stranger here, and I fear I might lose my way.’ Harish, despite his usual reluctance to help strangers, felt a strange compelling pity. He agreed, and they started walking along the road, Harish pushing his bicycle beside the man.

As they walked, the man began to speak. ‘You know, this night is special. Amavasya. The night when the barrier between worlds is thinnest. My master used to say that on such nights, the spirits gather to settle old scores.’ Harish felt a chill creep up his spine, but he dismissed it as the cool breeze. ‘Oh, I don’t believe in such superstitions,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

They soon reached the edge of the village, where a narrow path led through a grove of old peepal trees. The man stopped and pointed. ‘The madrasa is just ahead. But I have a small request. I am very thirsty. Could you fetch me some water from the well that I know is nearby?’ Harish, eager to be done with this, nodded and walked towards the well he remembered from childhood. It was a crumbling structure overgrown with weeds. He filled his small brass container and returned.

The man took the water, but instead of drinking, he poured it on the ground in a slow, deliberate circle. ‘For the thirsty souls,’ he murmured. Then, he looked at Harish directly, and Harish felt his blood run cold. The man’s eyes were now glowing with a faint, sickly light. ‘You have been kind to me, beta. For that, I will offer you a gift. Tonight, when you play your next card game, remember this: three cuts of the deck, and you will see what you are really playing against.’

Before Harish could react, the man turned and vanished into the darkness as if he had never been there. Harish stood there, shaken, a cold dread settling in his stomach. He quickly got on his bicycle and pedaled home, his mind racing. He told himself it was a trick of the light, the effect of the dark night.

But that night, unable to sleep, he recalled his friends had planned another game at a different house the following evening. Despite his fears, his pride wouldn’t let him miss it. He resolved to test the stranger’s words. He arrived at the house of his friend, Roshan, at nine PM. The room was lit with lanterns, the familiar sounds of shuffling cards and banter. Harish forced himself to join the game.

They played a few rounds, and the money exchanged hands. Then, in a moment he couldn’t explain, Harish decided to cut the deck three times. As he did, the room seemed to shift. The lanterns flickered, and the faces of his friends contorted. For a split second, they were not his friends but gaunt, hollow-eyed apparitions. Their jaws gaped open, and black liquid seeped from the corners of their mouths. A stench of decay filled the air, and Harish gagged.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the vision vanished. His friends were as normal as before, laughing and drinking, oblivious. Harish froze, his hands trembling. He saw that his own cards were not the ones he had been dealt, but were covered in a dark, sticky substance that smelled of burnt offerings. He dropped them and stumbled out of the room, his friends calling after him in confusion.

He ran home, drenched in cold sweat, and collapsed. That night, he had nightmares of the old man, who now appeared in shadows, whispering, ‘You saw them, didn’t you? They are always with you.’ In his dream, he saw the card room, but the players were grey and rotting, and the cards were the skin of the dead.

He woke with a scream, and then a fever gripped him for days. When he recovered, he never touched a card again. He also learned that on that same night, a man had been found dead near the old well, his eyes missing. The locals whispered of a tantrik who had been practising dark arts, and that he had been a stranger to the village.

My grandfather died years later, but he always told this story with a haunted look. He would end it with, ‘On Amavasya, kindness can cost you more than you know. I saw what lies behind the veil, and it’s not for the living.’ He kept the brass container he had used as a memento, but he always kept it sealed, saying it was a reminder of the night he learned the darkest lesson.

I only wish I had heeded his warning. Because this past Diwali, I, too, was walking home late, and I saw a frail old man in a skullcap asking for directions. And I, too, made the mistake of being kind.