The Locket of Salt

My aunt Amala, who lived in the sprawling family home in the village of Gopalpur, often told me about the house across the narrow lane. It was a crumbling zamindari mansion, almost as grand as theirs, but shrouded in a permanent gloom. That was the home of the Mukherjee family, known for their wealth but cursed with discord. The middle son, Bimal, was a storm waiting to break. He had a temper that could turn the brightest day into a threatening sky, and his wife, Shobha, bore the brunt of it. She was a quiet woman, her eyes always lowered, her voice a mere whisper.

In 2013, their daughters were little more than children: Rani, ten, with bright, curious eyes, and the toddler, Putul, barely a year and a half old. That summer was exceptionally hot. The air hung heavy with the smell of dust and mangoes, and the village was in the grip of a drought. The pond at the edge of their land had shrunk, revealing cracked mud. Even the ancient banyan tree, which usually provided a cool sanctuary, seemed to wilt.

One afternoon, the heat was unbearable. Amala was sitting on their verandah, trying to catch a breeze, when she heard the familiar, terrible sounds from the Mukherjee house: the sharp slap of palm on skin, the crash of a plate, and then, a piercing scream that was quickly muffled. She had heard such sounds before, and she tried to ignore them, as she always did. But then, there was a different sound, a frantic, high-pitched crying that was not the usual wailing. It was a child’s voice, but it was filled with such terror that it stopped Amala’s heart.

She stood and walked to the edge of her property, near the low wall that separated the two houses. Through a gap in the overgrown bougainvillea, she saw Bimal dragging Shobha by the hair across the courtyard. Rani was running after them, screaming, ‘Baba, please! Stop!’ Bimal turned, his face twisted in rage, and shoved Rani so hard she fell, hitting her head against the stone steps. She lay still, and for a moment, everything was silent. Then, Bimal turned back to Shobha and continued dragging her into the house. The toddler, Putul, who had been standing near the door, started crawling after them, a silver locket glinting on her threadbare frock.

Hours later, as dusk began to paint the sky in shades of blood, Amala saw Bimal emerge from the house, his clothes disheveled, his face blank. He looked around, then lit a beedi and sat on the verandah. Amala felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening. She waited for Shobha to come out, to check on her daughters, but no one came. The house was eerily silent.

The next morning, the village was abuzz with a different kind of gossip. Bimal’s elder brother, after seeing the scene, had finally called the police. They found Shobha in the kitchen, her head in the oven, gas turned on. It was ruled a suicide. The children were taken by relatives. Rani had a bruise on her forehead, but was otherwise unharmed. The toddler, Putul, was found in a corner of the courtyard, clutching her locket, unharmed. The Mukherjee children were sent to live with their aunt in a distant town.

But the tragedy was not over. A few weeks later, the relatives who had taken the children brought them back, because the children were crying day and night, saying that their mother was sitting on the edge of their beds, asking them to play. My aunt Amala, believing in the old ways, decided to investigate. She went to the Mukherjee house, which was now abandoned, and found that the gate was locked. But when she pressed her eye to the keyhole, she saw a faint, flickering light in the kitchen window, where Shobha had died.

That night, Amala had a dream. She saw Shobha standing at the foot of her bed, wearing the same saree she had died in, her hair disheveled, her eyes black as coal. She was holding the silver locket, the one Putul had worn. She opened it, and inside was not a picture of her children, but a tiny, dried fish. She said, in a voice that sounded like rustling leaves, ‘Salt is the only thing that binds. Give my locket back to Putul, or the salt will turn to ash.’

Amala woke in a cold sweat. She went to the village priest, who told her that the locket was a protective charm, given by a tantrik to Shobha to keep her safe from Bimal’s anger. But now, her spirit was bound to it, and if it were taken from her daughter, she would be restless forever. The priest’s advice was to perform a ritual and return the locket to the child.

Amala managed to track down the aunt who had taken the children. She was a stern woman, skeptical of such superstitions. But when she saw the locket, she reluctantly agreed to take it, but she also said that she had found something strange in Rani’s belongings: a diary, where Rani had written that her mother used to wake her up in the middle of the night, and take her to the kitchen, where she would make her swallow a pinch of salt, saying it would protect her from her father’s ‘gau’. She also wrote that her mother had made her promise to do the same for Putul, but she had forgotten.

When the aunt heard these words, she began to tremble. She told Amala that on the night of Shobha’s death, Putul had been wearing the locket, and it was gone. They had searched everywhere, but it was missing. Amala reached into her own pocket and pulled out the locket she had found under Shobha’s pillow. She held it out, and the aunt’s eyes widened. She took it, and as she did, the locket felt cold as ice.

The children were brought to the village, to the Mukherjee house, on the first full moon of the monsoon. The priest performed a ceremony in the courtyard, asking Shobha’s spirit to find peace. As the chants rose into the rain, the locket was placed back around Putul’s neck. The moment it touched her skin, the rain stopped, and a sudden silence fell over the house. Then, from the kitchen, came the sound of a stove being turned on, and the hiss of gas. The priest shouted, ‘Run!’ and everyone scrambled out of the house just as the kitchen exploded. The house was destroyed, but the children were safe.

But that was not the end. The children were placed in a government orphanage in a nearby city. Amala would visit them sometimes, and they seemed to be adjusting. But Rani was quiet, drawing strange pictures of a woman with fish scales on her face and a locket around her neck. Putul would talk to someone no one else could see, saying, ‘Ma is with me.’ And every night, before they slept, Amala would find a pinch of salt on their pillows, though no one had placed it there.

Years have passed. Amala fell into a decline after that, always feeling a cold presence. She left the village and never spoke of it again. But the last I heard from her, just before she passed,