Chapter 9 - Chapter 9: The Fading Light

Vikram's map grew crowded now, dots linked by red lines snaking across Maharashtra like veins pulsing under skin. Each story freed a soul—Sulochna, the soldier, Lila—but the whispers never stopped, just shifted, growing urgent. Hurry. Time short. Priya noticed the shadows under his eyes, her touch gentle over breakfast. "Rao sounded bad last call. Go see him." Worry for the old pandit gnawed; he'd been father Vikram never had, teaching courage in quiet ways. He nodded, kissing her soft. "Today. Then home to you."Pandit Rao's lane felt lonelier, house door ajar like waiting. Inside, camphor smoke hung heavy, lamps flickering low. Rao lay on his cot, thin as paper, breath shallow but eyes sharp. "Beta," he rasped, smiling weak. "Knew you'd come." Vikram knelt, taking wrinkled hand. "Rest, panditji. Let me handle wells." Rao shook head slow. "No time. Heart well—Colaba, Mumbai. British plague pit, 1896. Where chain started. Go new moon. Take trident full, my blessing." He pressed brass trident into Vikram's palm, warm despite frailty.Tears stung. "You'll guide still?" Rao chuckled faint. "Always. Spirits see clear." Stories poured out—Rao's youth banishing djinns in Gujarat, losing wife to same curse Vikram fought. "Love anchors you. Hold Priya close." Vikram hugged careful, heart breaking. Driving away, tears blurred road. Rao's light dimmed, but wisdom burned bright. Phone buzzed—Priya: Safe drive. Love you. Anchor held.Colaba's bustle hit hard after quiet Ghats—Mumbai's sea tang, horns blaring, crowds endless. Vikram checked into cheap guesthouse, map pinpointing old plague cemetery near fort. Locals shunned it: "Bhootwalla jagah. Don't go night." Day visit first: chained gates, weeds thick, central pit covered concrete, humming faint. Pendant scorched hot. Child's whisper mixed soldier's now, chorus pleading. End it.New moon rose bloody-red over Arabian Sea. Vikram waited till midnight, slipping past chain with trident hidden. Fog rolled thick, graves glowing eerie green. Pit's concrete cracked slow under pressure, black water bubbling up. Voices swelled—dozens, hundreds: lovers, orphans, fighters, all chained here first. Center rose a woman—not Sulochna, older, regal in tattered colonial gown. "Matron Eliza," Vikram guessed from Rao's tales. Eyes hollow, voice thunder: "You free threads, not root."Memories crashed: 1896 plague, Eliza hoarding food, shoving poor into pit while rich fled ships. Guilt twisted her into guardian of curse, binding wells statewide. "Join or drown," she hissed, shadows lunging. Vikram chanted loud—Hanuman Chalisa blending Lila's lullaby, soldier's oath. Trident glowed brilliant, Rao's spirit fueling it. Water vortex spun wild, pulling Eliza close. Her rage cracked—face softening to regret. "Forgive... children..."Priya called mid-fight, voice steady: "Feel you fighting. Win." Strength surged. Vikram thrust trident deep. Light exploded, screams turning peaceful sighs. Vortex collapsed, pit sealing forever. Silence rang pure. Dawn broke clear; Colaba buzzed normal.Back in Pune, Rao waited smiling, gone peaceful in sleep. Vikram wept, but felt him near—breeze, warm. Funeral simple; Priya held tight. "He's free too." Map empty now, whispers gone. Stories complete online, fans thanking. Life bloomed: wedding plans, book deal whispers. Vikram touched pendant, final gift. Heart well silenced chain. But India breathed endless tales. When new ones called, he'd answer—stronger, loved, ready. Some lights never fade.