The jingling of anklets echoed through the night. It wasn’t one anklet – but a chorus, like a thousand anklets sang together. Shravya stood at the threshold, her feet wobbling, but her mind resolute.
“Let your mind relax. The inquisitive people look for answers, while the wise know when to stop.” She remembered her grandmother, Padmavati’s words.
At a distance, the temple’s dome shone in silver hues beneath the moonlight, deepening its mysterious aura.
“Ratnagudem Ammavaru cradles mysteries in her womb and guards them like a mother protecting her unborn child,” said Padmavati.
“There are no mysteries. Only answered questions,” she replied.
The temple that glowed with light and peace in the morning now stood cloaked in darkness. Burning torches mounted in the corners threw light on the interior. The walls harboured mysteries, dark and painful. The corner room with a huge padlock dangling against the door caught her attention.
“Stay away from that possessed room,” warned Padmavati.
“I want to see the ghosts,” she said, her eyes carrying the familiar gleam.
“Curiosity runs in your veins. But you must let some things just be,” Padmavati’s stern words failed to intimidate her.
The next morning, before the first ray of sunlight hit the ground, she sneaked into the temple, broke open the lock, and entered the room only to find a family of rats creating havoc. She had unlocked a secret, a mystery woven in a fabric of ignorance.
Faint murmurs disrupted the haunting silence. The anklets rattled, jingling louder as if someone were dancing over her head. The scriptures engraved on the pillars shone under a golden light, the source unseen. She was afraid her heart would claw its way out. Every step felt heavy, as if she were racing against a veiled power. The jingling grew louder, each note striking harder than the last.
“I’m here to publish an article about the temple,” she had informed, books forming a tapestry over their backyard.
“Ratnagudem Ammavaru is kind but fierce. Forget about the temple. Don’t let your curiosity consume you.” Padmvati’s words echoed in her ears.
She turned and began walking toward the exit. The temple suddenly turned dark, like a sky without the moon. Her phone slipped from her clammy hands as she tried to switch on the torch. She stepped forward, only to stumble against something. Her head hit against something sharp. Blood trickled down her face, smudging her shirt. Her head throbbed, the pain radiating to the knots twisting her stomach. Her hand stretched forward, hoping to find something to steady herself. She clutched something rough, its texture feeling like rope. Slowly, she stood up, leaned against a pillar, and rested her palm on it. A streak of light fell over the blood-stained mandala. The pillar rotated, and she fell on the ground. The place felt like a forbidden chamber, an abyss without escape. Through her blurry eyes, she saw women dance – their frail forms swaying aimlessly, blood dripping from their feet, iron chains tethering their waists to pillars. Men chanted incoherently. She lay still on the floor, an invisible force keeping her grounded. Fear gripped her. Maybe this was her end.
Suddenly, she saw a twinkle. The light turned brighter, shining like a thousand suns. It bent into a soft halo, and she saw a rope ladder hanging in the air. She gripped the rope and climbed. Once she was back in the temple, she ran, gasping, and stopped only when she reached home.
The next day, she alerted the police. The law enforcement freed the victims and arrested the men.
A week later, she wrote about the forbidden chamber. Her editor approved and published the article. It soon gained traction, and the temple swarmed with people.
“Publish an unconditional apology saying you were mistaken,” said Padmavati, her voice quivering.
“Did you see those women? They deserve justice,” she said, still shaken.
“That chamber within the temple is cursed. Unmarried women are held captive there. They dance each night to please the Goddess, seeking redemption,” said Padmavati, fear lingering in her eyes.
“I will not publish an apology,” she said.
“In that case, please leave immediately,” said Padmavati.
Back home, she found a letter tucked away among her clothes.
“Who helped you that night? What was the light that you witnessed? Where did it come from? Not everything needs to be explored. I will pray for your safety. But never return to Ratnagudem.” Love, Grandma.
Padmavati’s words left her in a trance. First, the life-threatening experience, fear, and then the thrill of solving the mystery, she had forgotten about the light. She closed her eyes and tried to remember. The harder she tried, the faster the memory faded. It appeared distant, as if it had happened in her previous life. Her head pounded. She took a pill, closed her eyes, and slept.
That night, as the city fell quiet, she danced to the tunes that existed only within her. Her legs ached, her body begged to stop, but she continued to dance like a puppet, her strings being pulled by an invisible master.
A year later, she continued to dance relentlessly, remaining a forever captive, her soul fettered by invisible tethers.
