Fifteen years had passed since that fateful night of screams and shadows, but the scars of loss and abandonment remained etched in Swarnabha's soul. Returning to Meghrid was a choice made in desperation, not out of nostalgia. Poverty gnawed at him, a relentless beast that left him with no choice but to seek out the old woman, chained and twisted beneath the tree that had grown from her body—a living monument to the cursed history of his family.
The village had changed since he was last there; the once vibrant homes now sagged under the weight of despair, and the whispers of his childhood felt like a distant echo. The old woman had not aged a day, though her features had become even more grotesque with time. The gnarled roots snaked out of her skin like the fingers of a dying god, and her eyes glinted with an unholy hunger.
“Swarnabha,” she croaked, her voice a mix of gravel and smoke. “You’ve returned to me.”
“I need your help,” he said, suppressing the tremor in his voice. “I need to escape this life of poverty.”
“Ah, but you seek the treasure of Surajit,” she hissed, her eyes narrowing. “I can help you, but only if you help me first. End my suffering, and I will reveal to you the secrets that lie within the mansion.”
Swarnabha nodded, his heart pounding. The thought of riches stirred something primal within him, blinding him to the horror of what he was about to undertake. “Tell me what to do.”
“Follow me,” she rasped, gesturing with a skeletal hand. He felt a chill run down his spine as he stepped closer.
They made their way to Surajit’s mansion, a crumbling relic of opulence now shrouded in vines and shadows. The air grew thick with the scent of dampness and decay as they approached a hidden door, partially obscured by overgrown weeds. The old woman reached for the door, and it creaked open to reveal a dark stairwell leading deep underground.
“Down there lies the womb of the goddess,” she whispered. “Mahman dwells within, eternally hungry for what he has been denied. Lure him with the flour dough doll, and use the circle of flour to protect yourself.”
Swarnabha’s heart raced as he descended the stairs, a heavy dread settling in his gut. The walls were slick with moisture, and the air grew colder with each step. Finally, he reached the bottom, where a vast chamber opened before him, lit by a faint, unnatural glow. The ground was covered in a layer of gray dust, and in the center, a massive womb-like structure pulsed rhythmically, its surface slick and glistening, as if alive.
Swarnabha drew a circle in the dust with flour, his hands shaking as he did so. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. From his pocket, he pulled out the dough doll, its simplistic form representing the goddess's grain—a bait for the insatiable Mahman.
With a trembling hand, he called out, “Mahman! Come forth!”
The silence that followed was deafening, stretching the moments into an eternity. Then, a deep, rumbling growl echoed through the chamber, sending vibrations through the ground. From the depths of the womb, a figure began to emerge, grotesque and bloated, the essence of greed personified. Mahman’s face was a mask of hunger, eyes wide and ravenous, dripping with the hunger of eons.
Swarnabha’s breath hitched in his throat as he held the doll out, trembling. “Look! Food!”
Mahman’s attention snapped to the doll, his grotesque features contorting into a savage grin. The creature reached out, clawed hands stretching toward the offering, and as he moved closer, Swarnabha felt a rush of adrenaline.
Now!
In one swift motion, Swarnabha lunged into the folds of Mahman’s loincloth, fingers fumbling for the gold coins that glinted like promises in the darkness. Mahman was distracted, lost in the promise of the doll, and Swarnabha felt his heart race with triumph as his hands closed around the cold metal.
But as he pulled away, a flicker of awareness ignited in Mahman’s eyes. The creature roared, a sound that shook the very foundations of the womb, and in that moment, Swarnabha understood the true horror of his actions. He had awakened a beast that had slumbered for too long, one that was not content to be fooled.
Swarnabha dashed back to the safety of the flour circle, heart pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. Mahman lunged, but the circle held, the protective barrier shimmering faintly in the dim light. With every ounce of will, he held his ground, clutching the stolen gold to his chest as the beast thrashed against the barrier.
“Let me out! Let me out!” he shouted, panic rising like bile in his throat. But there was no escape yet; he had to wait until Mahman grew weary, until he was no longer a threat.
In that dark womb, Swarnabha felt the weight of his choices suffocating him. He was a thief, a coward hiding behind flour and tricks, and Mahman was the embodiment of everything he feared—the insatiable hunger of greed, the despair of never being enough.
Minutes felt like hours as the creature growled and clawed at the barrier, and Swarnabha could feel his resolve wavering. With every roar, he felt the essence of Mahman seep into the chamber, a malevolence that clawed at his sanity.
Finally, Mahman’s growls turned to desperate whimpers. Swarnabha’s heart raced as the creature collapsed, exhaustion overcoming its insatiable hunger. The stillness that followed was palpable, suffocating. The chamber was filled with an eerie silence, as if the world outside had come to a standstill.
Swarnabha took a breath, wiping the sweat from his brow, and made his way to the exit, dragging the heavy bag of coins behind him. He was victorious—but at what cost?
Emerging from the womb, he turned to see the old woman waiting for him, her gnarled hands clenching the earth as if it were her lifeline. “You’ve done well, Swarnabha,” she croaked, a twisted smile spreading across her face. “But Mahman was merely the beginning.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, breathless.
“The greed that fed him also feeds me,” she hissed, stepping closer. “And now that you have tasted wealth, it will be your curse. You will return to me, again and again, to fill the void you’ve awakened. You cannot escape it.”
“No,” he whispered, stepping back. “I did what you asked!”
The old woman’s laughter echoed in the dark, an unsettling sound that sent chills racing down his spine. “You will find no peace, Swarnabha. The cycle has begun.”
Desperation gripped him as he fled from the mansion, the weight of the coins burning against his skin. As he ran toward Pune, the shadows lengthened behind him, whispering secrets of greed and despair. The memories of Mahman’s hunger, the old woman’s curse, and the insatiable desire for wealth wrapped around him like a noose.
Swarnabha had sought fortune, but in doing so, he had awakened the darkness that lurked within him. As he raced toward the fading light, he knew there would be no escape from the womb of despair. The hunger had begun, and soon it would claim him, body and soul.
