The rain outside slowly escalated into a steady, rhythmic downpour. Inside the old, elegant second-floor bedroom of that Ballygunge residence, a thick, uncomfortable silence held the air captive. The only illumination came from a small, dim blue nightlight in the corner of the room, casting long, mysterious shadows against the high walls.

I was huddled at the very edge of the vast bed, wearing a heavy, deep red Banarasi saree—something my uncle had hastily arranged for me at the last minute to uphold tradition once we returned home from the registry office. A large vermilion dot rested on my forehead, and the bangles on my wrists clinked softly with my uncontrollable trembling. My palms were slick with sweat, and my heart hammered wildly against my ribs. Downstairs, the faint hushed voices of the domestic help and distant relatives were still audible, accompanied by the eerie, occasional blow of a conch shell.