Dhampir of Kalika

২১.‌ the calm before the storm

To kill a child is to kill god.

****

It was a balmy afternoon when Maya reached the temple.

Today, the detective was unable to sense the purity of the ambience or the invisible flame of womanhood dancing in every corner. Instead, she felt the palpable tension in the air, striking at the chords of her heart to create a hauntingly high-pitched tune.

She went behind the temple and towards the mandapa where the devadasis were supposed to be living. Without an announcement, she barged inside, alerting the giggling ladies. Their gala time was put on hold as each stiffened at the sight of the astute lady of unlike eyes.

Flickering oil lamps imparted clinging shadows on the weathered walls, revealing cryptic inscriptions. A heavy silence lingered, broken only by the dreary breaths of the devadasis that hinted at hidden agendas and buried clues. Time seemed suspended in the air, inviting seekers to unravel the mysteries woven into the very fabric of Khatra's history.

In the dim glow of oil lamps stood Ritabhari, her eyes reflecting a profound fear. Adorned in vibrant silks, her intricate jewelry seemed to weigh heavy as she trembled, hands poised in a frozen dance posture. The swaying flames unveiled a story etched on her face—a tale of sacred performances haunted by an unseen specter from her pile of secrets. The rhythm of her heartbeat echoed in the hallowed space, as the dance floor bore witness to a dancer whose every step seemed to tread on the fragile boundary between tradition and an unsettling, hidden fear.

Ritabhari's ghoongroo jingled. She did the bhumi namaskara and then opened them, kept them aside and looked at Maya. Her amber eyes shone like a feline tigress' hunting gaze, even though Maya peered through that mask and unearthed the fear pumping through her. The other devadasis were by now cowering at the unwelcoming stance of Maya– the glare of her blue and brown eyes something they had never seen in all the years they spent travelling around India.

"You shouldn't come here unnanounced. We were practising."

Maya fixed a piercing glare upon Ritabhari, her eyes a reflection of unyielding determination. Dressed in a crisp saree, the detective's demeanor spoke of a relentless pursuit of truth. The dancer felt the weight of scrutiny as Maya circled her, seeking answers beneath the graceful facade. Shadows played on the detective's stern face, hinting at the mystery that lay at the intersection of tradition and a clandestine truth waiting to be exposed.

"I hope Mrinjay Babu has informed you about the closure of the case," Maya said tartly. "Hasn't he?"

Ritabhari's eyes widened. She gulped. The devadasis hid themselves in the darkness, as if wary of being caught as silent culprits who guarded the dirty secret.

"Why should I tell you what Mrinjay Babu has shared with me?"

"Oh my dear dancer," Maya leant in and whispered in her ears, "I am not fooled by your beauty. I am not a prey that you may use. I am here to find the truth, at any cost, even if it means death."

Ritabhari's eyes twitched. She twisted her lips and jerked her head away from Maya. "Mrinjay Babu had long suspected the doctor. To be honest you weren't even required. It was his poor father who needed confirmation."

"I think we are missing something out. I was needed here."

"You weren't. The murderer has been found and now the zamindars will do as they see fit."

"And the doctor shall do away with the murderers of the little girls. Fair deal, don't you agree?"

Fear etched deep lines on Ritabhari's face, her eyes widened in terror, mirroring the vulnerability of a soul gripped by an unseen menace. Taut skin and parted lips betrayed the shushed scream within, revealing a visceral reaction to an imminent threat. It was a moment frozen in sinister fright, where the language of fear spoke louder than any words could convey. "I-I... "