Chapter 5: The Chulha and the Miracle of Salt

No farming, no weaving, no money—the family was almost out of food.

The kitchen shelf, once stacked with masalas and pickles, now held only a lonely jar of salt. Even the rats had given up. My stomach rumbled as I stared at the empty rice tin, counting the grains out loud: “Ek, do, teen…”

I glanced at the steel drum in the corner. After this meal, there’d be nothing left.

The hollow clang of the steel made my heart sink. I remembered how Ma would fill it with rice after harvest, then light a lamp to thank Lakshmi.

Might as well die together.

I thought of my sister in Mumbai, wondering if she was hungry too. If this was fate, I’d face it head-on.

That day, as I stoked the chulha, the wandering spirit burst in from who-knows-where.

His hair wild, eyes shining, hands blackened with soot. He barged in, nearly tripping over the threshold.

“Reeds… mil gaye!”

His shout made my head throb. I kept a good ten feet away.

After calming down, I saw him burning all the dry reeds we saved for the chulha.

Smoke filled the kitchen, making my eyes water. I coughed, covering my nose with my dupatta, watching him toss reed after reed into the flames, muttering under his breath. I heard Ma’s scolding in my mind: 'Lakdi zaya mat kar!' I even muttered it aloud, but he didn’t listen.

I wanted to stop him, but something in his eyes made me pause—he looked so hopeful.

After burning the reeds to ash, he added water to the bowl of ash.

He stirred with a broken spoon, chanting, “Ab dekhna, aaj kuch kamaal hone wala hai.” The mixture bubbled and frothed, the smell sharp and strange.

Was he just playing house like the village kids?

It looked just like our pretend games—mud rotis, imaginary tea. I almost smiled.

Then he tore up his own kurta to filter the water from the bowl…

My jaw dropped. His only decent kurta, sacrificed for this madness. I wanted to protest, but the words stuck in my throat.

After he finished, he ran over to me, bowl in hand, beaming.

“Beta, dekh, main tere liye khazana bana raha hoon!”

He held the bowl out like prasad, eyes sparkling. For a moment, I wondered if he’d truly lost his mind.

Terrified, I ran out and hid near the water drum, neighbors whispering behind half-closed doors.

Soon, thick smoke billowed from the kitchen, curling into the sky. Crows scattered. My mind raced—what if the thatch caught fire? Ma’s words echoed: 'Aag se khel mat kar!'

I dashed back to put out the fire.

Grabbing the old jhadu, I doused the flames, coughing as smoke stung my eyes. The kitchen was a mess, black and sooty.

After the flames were out, the water in the pot was scorched dry.

A black crust lined the bottom. I winced, imagining Ma’s anger at the ruined pot.

I frowned, ready to add water, but the spirit grabbed my hand—cold, firm, sending a jolt up my arm.

“Ruk ja! Yeh reed salt hai—main ne banaya!”

His eyes glinted with pride, thrusting the pot toward me. My heart pounded with fear and a strange curiosity.

I looked at my arm, still gripped in his hand, and shivered all over.