Chapter 1 — The Brother with the Long Hair
The village of Devipuram was famous for its ancient Devi temple. Every year, during Navaratri, the entire village came alive with colorful decorations, devotional songs, traditional dances, and thousands of glowing oil lamps.
At the edge of the village stood a large ancestral house with a red-tiled roof and a spacious courtyard. Four siblings lived there: three sisters and their younger brother.
The eldest sister, Lakshmi, was responsible and protective. The second, Madhavi, was playful and loved teasing everyone. The youngest sister, Sravani, was imaginative, mischievous, and always searching for new ways to make family memories.
Their younger brother, Chinna, was twenty-two years old. Unlike most young men in the village, he had long, thick black hair that fell past his shoulders. His sisters had helped him grow it since childhood, and he had grown attached to its length.
“Chinna, if you keep growing your hair, one day people will mistake you for our fourth sister!” Madhavi joked whenever she combed it.
“Then you three will have to share your bangles with me,” he replied, making everyone laugh.
Chinna was comfortable around his sisters. He helped with cooking, decorating the house, collecting flowers, and preparing for festivals. He never considered these activities unusual. Their home was a place where nobody needed to pretend to be someone else.
But there was one thing his sisters had noticed. Whenever they dressed for a festival, Chinna would watch with quiet fascination as they arranged their sarees, braided their hair, selected bangles, and decorated their hands with mehendi. Sometimes, he would pick up a discarded ribbon or admire the patterns on a blouse before quickly putting it back.
His sisters never confronted him about it. They simply wondered what was going on in his mind.
Then came the announcement that would change everything. The village priest declared that this year's Devi festival would be especially grand. On the following morning, the goddess's procession would pass through the main street, and the four siblings planned to attend the early-morning darshan together.
That evening, their courtyard became a whirlwind of preparations. Sarees were ironed, jewellery was arranged, flowers were strung into garlands, and the fragrance of sandalwood filled the air.
Chinna had one important task: applying mehendi to his sisters' hands and feet. For hours, he sat on the floor, carefully drawing peacocks, flowers, vines, and traditional paisley patterns. Lakshmi received elaborate designs across both palms. Madhavi insisted on tiny flowers around her fingertips. Sravani requested matching patterns on her hands and feet.
“Don't move!” Chinna warned as Sravani giggled and nearly smudged a design.
By midnight, his back ached, his eyes were heavy, and the last cone of mehendi had been emptied.
“Finished! I am officially retiring from the mehendi business,” he announced.
He washed his hands, lay down on the long wooden cot in the courtyard, and fell asleep almost immediately. His long hair spread across the pillow, and the soft moonlight illuminated his peaceful face.
The three sisters exchanged glances. Madhavi smiled mischievously. “Now, whose turn is it?”
Sravani covered her mouth to suppress a laugh. Lakshmi hesitated. “He has worked so hard for us. Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?”
Madhavi lifted a fresh mehendi cone. “Tomorrow is Devi's festival. Our brother deserves a beautiful design too!”
They decided to decorate him gently while he slept, intending to reveal their handiwork in the morning. They promised each other that if he objected, they would apologize and never repeat the prank.
None of them knew that the patterns they drew that night would become the beginning of a secret none of them could have imagined.
And none noticed the old woman standing beyond the courtyard gate, watching the house with an expression of recognition. She whispered, “So the fourth child has finally come of age.” Then she disappeared into the darkness.
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