Shakuntala paled. “You… you’re not real.”
The old tamarind tree, Imli ka ped , still stood at the center of the dusty Mohalla, but its branches had grown twisted, its shade darker. For years, the women had whispered stories of Imli Bhabhi—the mysterious, tangy-tongued guardian who appeared when injustice curdled the air. This time, she was not just a myth. This time, she had a score to settle.
Rani lowered her eyes. But she had heard the stories. Her neighbor, Fatima Aapa, had once whispered: “When the tamarind tree sheds its leaves in summer, and the wind smells of sour earth, call for Imli Bhabhi. She comes for the greedy.”
“Why do you stare at it like a hungry crow?” sneered Shakuntala, her bony fingers gripping a rolling pin. “You think you deserve what’s inside? You, whose dowry was two goats and a rusty bicycle?”