Chai and Warnings
Rain wrapped the city in its loud, relentless shawl.
Mira shut the terrace shutters and pressed her back to the cool wood. The candle on her desk had nearly drowned itself in melted wax; its stub trembled whenever the wind found a crack. She wiped her face with the end of her dupatta, tasting the metal of the storm on her lips, and glanced again at the blue disc on the table.
The Nilchakra didn't glow now. It just sat there—silent, patient, watching. Yet she could not shake the feeling that it was listening. The spiral of etched eyes caught the candlelight and flung it back in tiny constellations, like a galaxy trapped in her palm.
Her phone lay black and wet where the rain had kissed it. She picked it up, turned it in her hand, and unlocked it. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the echo of that voice — sharp silk over static.
Midnight at Kedar Ghat.
That was what he'd said.
Three hours to decide whether to hand over the disc—or face whatever waited if she didn't.
Mira did what she always did when the world tilted and the past felt heavier than the present.
She called Arjun.
He answered on the third ring, his voice full of television chatter and the warmth of company.
> "Madam Historian! Why are you calling during prime-time drama? Did you finally admit my jokes are better than your manuscripts?"
"Arjun." Her voice cracked, and that was enough.
The noise in the background vanished. He must've muted the TV and stepped onto his balcony in one motion.
> "Where are you?"
"At the museum."
"Stay there. Five minutes."
"Arjun, it's raining like—"
"Like Kashi washing itself after centuries of tikka and incense? I know. Helmet. Scooter. Me. Five minutes."
"You'll drown."
"Never. Nani says I float because I'm full of hot air. Don't move."
The line clicked off.
Mira stared at the Nilchakra and then at the clock on the wall—still frozen at 7:07 p.m. Her phone read 9:12. Time had betrayed her again.
She wrapped the disc in a square of muslin from her manuscript drawer and slipped it into her satchel. The cloth darkened instantly, as if the blue were bleeding through. She told herself it was just damp.
By the time Arjun's horn chirped outside—a cheerful peep-peep entirely unsuited to the night—Mira had locked the museum, tucked the brass key inside her coat, and laced her shoes tight.
The lane outside was a thin river. The ghats below whispered and steamed.
Arjun straddled his battered blue scooter like a proud horseman in a water-logged parade. His helmet sat crooked, rain tracing silver lines down his face, and his grin flashed like a lighthouse.
> "Madam, your chariot."
She slid behind him, muttering, "You're insane."
"Madness is genetic. Hold tight."
The scooter coughed, then roared to life. They glided through lanes that had become ponds, Banaras shimmering in silver and shadow. Even the stray dogs seemed philosophical tonight.
"Talk," he said.
And so she did. About the parcel, the postman, the note in her mother's handwriting, the voice, the stopped clocks, the flame across the river. Her words tumbled faster with every turn, fear preferring motion to silence.
When she finished, Arjun gave a low whistle.
> "So: mysterious artifact, ominous caller, impossible deadline. And we have one scooter worth five thousand rupees. Perfect odds."
"Don't joke."
"I'm not joking. I'm budgeting. First stop: chai."
"Chai?"
"Chai is the national beverage of bad decisions that somehow turn out okay. Also, you're shaking like a tabla."
She wanted to argue, but her body voted otherwise. "One cup."
> "Famous last words," he said, steering toward a faint glow under a tin awning.
---
☕ The Chai and the Chime
They pulled up at Jai Maa Chai Bhandar, where steam curled in fragrant offerings and ginger perfumed the rain. A string of weak bulbs hummed bravely against the storm.
The chaiwala—a thin man with a generous moustache—looked up and smiled the way only old Banaras can: equal parts scolding and affection.
> "You two roam like cinema heroes. Sit, sit."
"Two cutting chai," Arjun said. "And three pakoras. Courage runs on oil."
Mira stood near the counter, scanning the stall. A peeling poster of a goddess, a transistor muttering old cricket scores, a brass bell by the kettle. The Nilchakra's weight pressed against her hip. Almost unconsciously, she touched it—a gentle reassurance that she wasn't imagining it all.
The chaiwala noticed. His smile thinned. His eyes sharpened.
> "Museum madam, today you carry something that doesn't like light."
Mira froze. "How do you—?"
"I've poured chai on these steps for twenty years," he said, pouring milk from a height that made it look like a ribbon of silk. "The city has moods. Tonight, you carry old rain."
Arjun leaned forward, grinning.
> "Bhaiya, if you start writing poetry, I'll be out of a job. Extra ginger, please."
The chai arrived—hot, strong, kind. It burned Mira's tongue in the right way, lit a small lamp in her chest. Arjun devoured a pakora like it was philosophy.
> "Bhaiya," Mira asked softly, "have you heard of the Nilchakra?"
The man's hand froze midair. The rain seemed to hush.
He set the kettle down carefully.
> "Didi," he said, voice carrying both respect and warning, "cover it. Even when you think no one's watching, something always is."
Her skin prickled. "What is it?"
"A thing that remembers how to open—and how to close."
He traced invisible patterns through the steam.
"My nani said the Guardians of the Blue Veil once protected it. When the clocks stop, the doors thin. And the Weaver—" He glanced toward the river. "—the Weaver listens for the song."
> "The song?" Arjun asked, half mocking, half nervous.
"Every city hums in a note," the chaiwala said. He rang the brass bell gently—its clear sound folded into the rain. "Kashi hums in E. Some voices make the Veil bend like bamboo. Some use it to protect. Some… to pull things through."
Mira's pulse skipped. "And the Weaver?"
> "The Weaver is hunger that waits," he said simply. "He eats what people offer—promises, secrets, names."
He wiped the counter. "Be careful with your price."
> "Our price for what?" Arjun asked lightly.
"For crossing at night."
He poured another cup. "Boatmen after eleven don't take money. They take memory."
Arjun snorted.
> "Fine, they can have my Class Nine maths trauma."
The chaiwala didn't smile.
"They take something sweet. Something you'll miss later. A kite. A fruit. Never a face. Never a voice."
---
The wind shoved rain under the awning. Lightning stitched and unstitched the ghats. Mira shivered, tea trembling in her hands.
> "Bhaiya," she asked, "if someone asked me to bring the Nilchakra to the stepwell at Kedar Ghat before midnight… would you go?"
The chaiwala turned to the river. His voice was almost lost in the storm.
> "Sometimes the only way is through."
"Through what?"
"Fear," he said. Then, after a pause: "Take a friend who jokes. Jokes tie you to this side when the other starts singing. And wear shoes with grip. Moss doesn't care about brave people."
> "Bhaiya," Arjun said, saluting with his glass, "I was born to joke and slip. We're covered."
The chaiwala slid them a fresh plate of pakoras.
> "On the house," he said. "Not a blessing. Just strategy. Monsters are slower when you've eaten."
Mira laughed—a small, startled sound that felt like sunlight in her throat.
A hooded man entered the stall, ordered nothing, and stood too still. Mira shifted her satchel closer. Arjun moved, subtly blocking the stranger's view.
The rain thickened again. The transistor gave up. Somewhere a dog sneezed mid-howl.
> "Plan?" Arjun murmured.
"Kedar Ghat," Mira said. The words made the choice real.
He checked his scratched old watch.
> "Plenty of time to make poor decisions properly."
He hesitated. "Mira… that note—it really was Amma's?"
She handed him the folded paper. He studied it with reverence.
> "Yes. The same loops. The same stubbornness in the ink. If she wrote this… she's alive?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But the voice—whoever it was—knew her."
Arjun nodded, finishing his chai like a vow.
> "Then we go. And we don't give away anything we can't afford to lose."
A soft chime broke the moment.
The brass bell rang once—though no one had touched it.
The hooded man was gone. Only the empty air he'd left behind seemed to watch them.
The chaiwala's hand rested gently on the bell.
> "Go by the back lanes," he said quietly. "The main steps have eyes that do not blink."
Arjun left a few rupees on the counter despite the "on the house."
> "Bad luck sticks to free food," he said.
The chaiwala tucked the money away and lifted his hand in a small blessing.
> "If a boatman offers a ride and asks for memory," he murmured, "bargain hard. The first price is always too high."
Mira hesitated. "What's a fair price for a memory?"
He thought, rain sliding down his face.
> "Not your firsts. Not your lasts. Something in the middle. Something that teaches you the cost of remembering. A kite, a mango, a song—but not a name."
The bell chimed again as they left—three notes that sounded almost like a heartbeat.
Write About Comment.....
If you were offered safe passage across the Ganga—but had to pay with one memory—what would you give up?
Who do you trust more in the storm — Mira's logic or Arjun's humor?
"Something is always watching." — What do you think the chaiwala truly meant?