The Spell of Shadows

My friend Saukat Abbas, a gentle, dignified man with a spotless record as a government accountant, had just retired after thirty-five years of service. We had been friends for over two decades, ever since I moved to Bhubaneswar. After his retirement, he moved into a house just across the street from mine, at Laxmisagar. We were neighbours now — a comforting thought in the chillness of ageing. But I noticed something strange. Though Saukat was his usual warm self, a kind of restless sadness hovered around him, like a shadow that wouldn't go away. One quiet evening, we sat on a wooden bench beside a paan-shop, sipping tea. The dusk was soft, scented with burning incense from a nearby temple. After much persuasion, he finally broke the silence. “It’s my son,” he sighed. “Shahabaz. He’s in love.” “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” I smiled. “It would’ve been,” he said. “If only the lady in question wasn’t…25 years older than him.” My eyebrows arched. “She’s Usha Thomas, a tutor we had hired for English and General Studies. A Keralaite. Smart, beautiful, divorced… with a 13-year-old son. Seema, my wife, adored her. Fed her evening meals, treated her like family. But I should’ve seen it coming. That woman… she stirred something in the boy.” “But 48 and 23?” I muttered, stunned. He nodded, “Unlikely, but true. Seema lost her peace. They fought every other day. The boy argued back. Said age was irrelevant. Cited Emmanuel Macron and Brigitte. Claimed love was divine.” I was too stunned to speak. “She stopped coming home,” he continued. “But Shahabaz visits her every day. They’re planning court marriage.” Two weeks later, we met again at the same bench. The tale had darkened. Seema was nearly on the edge. Shahabaz’s studies had derailed, and his eyes had a strange gleam — like he was sleepwalking through life. He was slipping away. Just as we stood up to leave, an old man emerged from the Hanuman temple across the street. Dressed in white, barefoot, with rudraksha beads swinging from his wrist, he beckoned to us. “I’ve been watching you both,” he said. “You’re good souls. Listen to me carefully.” He pulled out a small ladoo, a plastic bottle of Gangajal, and a bael leaf wrapped in a red cloth. “That woman is practicing black magic. The boy is enchanted. His mind, his will—both clouded. This ladoo will break her spell. But he will resist. So first, make him drink this Gangajal. Keep the ladoo in his study tonight. You’ll see.” We stared, speechless. Later that evening, Saukat called me, voice trembling with awe. “Harish... he refuses to enter his study. Just says it feels strange. The ladoo is there.” They finally made him drink the Gangajal. He fell into deep sleep, and next morning, after much persuasion and protest, he ate half the ladoo. That afternoon, Usha — or Utkarsh, as her name was saved in his phone — called repeatedly. Shahabaz glanced at his phone but didn’t answer. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t sneak out. Later that evening, chaos erupted. Usha came storming to their house. Her voice echoed down the lane. “I’m pregnant with his child! I’ll go to the police!” Seema nearly fainted. The police were called. An old officer arrived, calm but stern. He looked Usha over, then shook his head. “You really look pregnant. Come with me.” A medical check-up followed. Hours later, news came. She was not pregnant. She had a 5-kg tumour growing in her abdomen — a massive fibroid, not a foetus. Shahabaz wept when he heard it. “She lied to me,” he whispered. Days passed. The charm was broken. He stopped visiting her. Seema smiled again. The boy resumed his studies. I often think of that mysterious temple man. Who was he? A priest? A wandering mystic? An incarnation? We never saw him again. But the shadow lifted, and peace returned — not by logic or argument, but perhaps by faith, destiny, or divine design.