In 1947, the world was changing, but for Swarnabha Das, the ghosts of the past clung tighter than ever, whispering sweet promises of wealth and power. The grand feast of Independence had cast a shadow over his once-illustrious life, and the mansion that had been the center of his ambitions now stood as a relic of what could have been. As he paced through the opulent rooms filled with dusty furniture and memories, he could sense the decay encroaching upon his family, a slow rot that mirrored the mansion’s decline.
Swarnabha glanced over at his son, Rhitojit, who was playing in the corner with an old wooden toy, oblivious to the world that spiraled around him. Swarnabha's heart tightened at the sight of his son—so innocent, so full of potential—yet he felt the dark allure of greed clawing at him, an insatiable hunger that whispered for more.
“Rhitojit,” he called, kneeling to his son’s level, “it’s time for your training. We have a lot to learn about retrieving Hastar’s coins.”
The boy looked up with wide eyes, excitement mingling with a hint of fear. “Can we go to Meghrid today, Father?”
“Yes, but remember what I told you: no dough dolls. They’re dangerous,” Swarnabha warned, recalling the last time he had ventured into the womb, the memory of Mahman’s ferocity still fresh in his mind.
Despite his father’s warning, Rhitojit’s curiosity got the better of him, and he slipped a small dough doll into his pocket before they left. As they journeyed to Meghrid, the air thickened with unspoken tension. The dusty road seemed to whisper secrets of the past, echoing with the laughter and screams of those who had come before them—those who had succumbed to the greed that had once fueled their family’s rise.
Upon reaching the mansion, a chill crept up Swarnabha’s spine. The walls, once vibrant with life, now loomed ominously, casting long shadows across the ground. Rhitojit scampered ahead, excitement evident on his face. “Can we go inside?” he asked, glancing back at his father.
“Stay close to me,” Swarnabha commanded, his voice low and tense. As they stepped into the mansion, the air grew heavier, the stale scent of neglect wrapping around them like a shroud.
They descended the stairs to the womb, its entrance pulsating with an unnatural energy. Swarnabha took a deep breath, steeling himself for the horrors within. “This is where we’ll find the coins,” he said, trying to mask his fear. “But you must follow my lead. No games, no distractions.”
But as Rhitojit reached into his pocket, Swarnabha felt a cold knot of dread settle in his stomach. “Father, I brought the dough doll,” Rhitojit said, holding it aloft like a trophy.
“Why would you do that?” Swarnabha hissed, panic coursing through him. “Put it away!”
But it was too late. As the doll hit the ground, the familiar growl reverberated through the womb, and Mahman’s grotesque form began to materialize, eyes blazing with hunger. Swarnabha grabbed Rhitojit, pulling him back, but the creature lunged, its clawed hands reaching for them.
“Run!” Swarnabha shouted, and they bolted, narrowly escaping Mahman’s grasp. They darted through the winding corridors of the mansion, the sounds of the creature’s fury echoing behind them. They burst outside into the daylight, gasping for breath, but Swarnabha knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
“Did you see?” Rhitojit exclaimed, eyes wide with terror and excitement. “We almost got caught!”
“Not an adventure, boy! It’s a curse!” Swarnabha snapped, trying to shake the remnants of fear that clung to him. “We need to think, strategize. There’s a way to secure the gold.”
