B.S. 2081 Chaitra 30 – Nepali New Year's Eve
My grandmother used to say that names are cages. Jay, she'd mutter, grinding turmeric into paste for her evening puja. Such a small name for such a heavy legacy. She never explained what she meant. She died three monsoons ago, taking her riddles with her.
Now, standing in the cramped Kathmandu apartment I share with five engineering grads who smell like instant noodles and regret, I finally understand.
The walls are sweating. Monsoon hasn't come yet, but the air clings like a beggar's hand. My phone buzzes—another job rejection. Dear Mr. Giri, while your credentials are impressive… I don't finish reading. The Shankha mark on my wrist itches, a spiral of raised skin I've had since birth. I scratch absently, staring at the only decoration in our cockroach-kingdom: a faded calendar from 2079, its photo of Swayambhunath Stupa curling at the edges.
"Oi, Jay!" My roommate Rupa kicks open the door, her sari hitched up to avoid tripping on the pile of circuit boards we call a carpet. "You're still moping? It's New Year's Eve! The Kumari's procession starts in an hour!"
I groan. "You know I hate crowds."
"You hate everything." She tosses me a marigold garland. "Put this on. Your grandma's ghost will cry if you skip Indra Jatra again."
The garland smells like her—harsingar flowers and camphor. Durga Giri's face flashes in my mind: wrinkles like cracked riverbeds, eyes sharp enough to skin a mango without a knife. Family duty, she'd say, smacking my knuckles when I botched Sanskrit hymns. Even gods get bored of lazy boys.
Basantapur Durbar Square, 7:14 PM
The living goddess is nine years old and bored out of her mind.
I can tell by how she picks at the gold thread on her crimson gown as the palanquin sways past Hanuman Dhoka. The crowd roars—"Jai Kumari!"—but her third eye, a painted silver orb, stays closed. Rupa elbows me.
"Make a wish! Quick, before she looks away!"
"Wishes are for kids," I say, but my traitorous heart whispers: Immortality.
It's the same every year. The drums, the incense, the way my Shankha mark throbs when the Kumari passes. Tonight, it's worse. The mark burns like a live wire. I grit my teeth—
—and she looks at me.
Not the blank stare of a divine puppet, but a glare so ancient, my knees buckle. Her third eye flickers open—a flash of cosmic static—and suddenly, the square isn't a square.
The temples are layered.
Beneath the 17th-century pagodas, I see older structures: black stone ziggurats oozing primordial smoke, their steps stained with sacrifices no Veda mentions. The crowd? Half aren't human. A man with peacock feathers growing from his scalp haggles over marigolds. A woman whose sari floats inches above the ground, revealing hooves, buys jalebi from a vendor who has too many teeth.
And the Kumari…
Her palanquin floats six inches above the street. The bearers' feet don't touch the ground.
"Jay? Jay!" Rupa shakes me. The vision snaps. The square is just a square again, the Kumari a doll-faced kid picking her nose.
"You okay? You look like you saw Yamraj."
"I'm fine," I lie. My wrist is blistering now, the Shankha mark glowing faintly through my skin.
Giri Village, Nuwakot – 11:47 PM
I shouldn't be here.
The night bus dropped me at the dirt crossroads two hours ago. My phone nearly died somewhere after Trishuli. Now, hiking up the moonlit trail to my ancestral home, I count reasons this is a terrible idea:
Ma will kill me for skipping New Year's puja.
The last time I visited, Grandma's ghost haunted me for a week.
That dream.
Three nights straight, the same nightmare: Durga Giri kneeling in the gufa—the forbidden cellar—her hands pressed to a stone slab engraved with my name. He will open the Door, she weeps. Then the walls bleed, and something with too many eyes crawls out.
The village sleeps as I reach our farmhouse. No lights, just the Himalayas cutting starless silhouettes. The gufa's entrance is exactly where I remember—a half-rotten wooden hatch beneath the pomegranate tree. Padlocked.
"Stupid," I mutter, turning to leave.
The Shankha mark twists.
It's moving. The spiral unravels under my skin, tendrils of light snaking up my arm. The padlock glows red-hot and crumbles.
Oh.
This isn't normal.
The stairs are steep, smelling of wet earth and decades-old despair. My phone flashlight reveals walls carved with… not Devanagari. Older. Harappan? The symbols pulse faintly, responding to my mark.
At the bottom, the stone slab from my dream.
It's real.
My name—जय गिरी—is freshly carved, the grooves oozing black liquid that smells like lightning. Beneath it, the prophecy Grandma tried to drown:
When the Tree's roots wither
The Last Giri shall drink the Amrita
And walk the Fourteen Worlds
As both Key and Keeper
A drop of the black liquid falls onto my shoe. It hisses, burning through rubber.
"Amaratva," I whisper. The word tastes like a vow.
Above me, the farmhouse explodes.