Chapter 4: The Ghost Sister

When I saw Papa, I waved, "Papa, did you come to see me? Meera is a little hungry." I hopped from foot to foot, arms stretched out, hoping for a sign—a word, a look, anything.

"Did you bring anything for Meera?" My stomach growled with longing, the memory of kaju katli sharp on my tongue.

But as Papa drew closer, I saw the little girl in his arms and froze. She wore a yellow frock, a tiny red bindi, hair in two ponytails, cheeks smudged with biscuit crumbs. Her eyes were round and curious, gripping Papa’s shirt tightly, peering right through me.

She was about two years old. Her small finger pointed in my direction. "Papa, there’s a didi."

The sound echoed in my mind—‘Papa.’ It used to belong to me. Now it belonged to someone else.

Papa looked anxious, holding her close, not even glancing at my grave. He hurried past, eyes darting, not letting Riya’s feet touch the ground.

"Riya…" His voice was gentle, the same tone he used to use with me during bedtime stories. He patted her cheek, tucking a stray lock behind her ear.

So, in the third year after I died, Papa had a new daughter. I watched the care in his eyes, the love that used to be mine.

Papa shook his head, forcing a laugh, "Riya must be feverish and seeing things. How could there be a didi here at night?" His voice was too quick, too loud, trying to convince himself.

The aunty next door nudged him, her bangles clinking, her eyes darting to my grave. She whispered urgently, "Arre, Meera…"

At that moment, Papa frowned, looking in my direction. His eyes were cold, lips pressed tight, his displeasure sharp as a slap.

I reached out, "Papa, did Meera do something wrong?" My words trembled, my heart aching for the gentle father I remembered.

Papa turned away, gritting his teeth, "Every wrong has its cause, every debt its debtor. You died because your mother cut your wrists. If you come to bother Riya again, I won’t be so polite."

His words stung, each syllable a blow. The aunty pulled Riya close, whispering into her ear. A chill ran through me, the kind you feel when the power goes out during a storm.

I didn’t understand. I stared at my hands, wondering how I became a burden, a ghost in their new life. But soon, I did.

The world grew colder, shadows stretched longer. I saw the truth in Papa’s fear.

There was a hanging spirit following Riya—a woman in red, eyes wild, hair matted, her payal echoing through the night, never touching the ground.

The hanging spirit wore red and looked terrifying. Her sari was torn, bloodstained, her lips twisted in an unnatural smile. Her hair was loose, eyes glowing like Dadi’s ghost stories.

I rushed over and grabbed her arm, feeling a cold, sticky sensation. My hands shook, but I held tight. "You… Why are you following her?" I tried to sound brave, like Amma’s storybook heroes.

The spirit glared at me, hissing, "Who do you think you are? Where did this little ghost come from, poking her nose in other people’s business?" Her voice echoed in the empty lane, wind swirling dust around us.

My hands trembled, but I refused to let go. "It’s not poking my nose—she’s… she’s my little sister." The word felt strange, but I clung to it, needing to protect Riya.

The spirit laughed, cold and hollow. She circled me, her bare feet leaving no mark. "But the way they look at you, it’s like you’re their enemy."

Her words cut deep. "That’s because they misunderstood. They think it’s me following my little sister that made her sick." I tried to sound angry, but my voice cracked.

"Then why would they think that? Are you a bad child?" She folded her arms, disdainful. "Children don’t become ghosts for no reason."

"I… I’m not a bad child," I whispered, refusing to let my tears fall. Amma always said, 'Good girls don’t cry in front of strangers.'

She sneered, "Let go, or I’ll eat you in one bite, little ghost." Her lips parted, revealing jagged teeth.

But I still didn’t let go. No matter how she scratched or kicked me, I held on. The wind howled, scattering leaves.

She was furious. "It’s useless for you to protect her. Even if I don’t take her as a substitute, she won’t live past seven. She has a heavy shraap. If it’s not resolved, she won’t survive."

The word 'shraap' echoed—Dadi used to say such things happened when ancestors’ souls weren’t at peace.

"What shraap?" I begged, desperate to know.

The spirit smiled slyly. "Not telling you." She slipped away into the shadows, leaving me trembling, more frightened than ever.

But I would not give up. Even if the world forgot me, I would not let Riya go.