yamraaj

“Karma’s Return: A Tale of Rebirth and Redemption”

In a narrow, sun-drenched lane somewhere in India, a group of children were lost in their daily cricket match, their voices echoing between the old, weathered houses. The game was reaching its climax when Bheem, the batsman, swung his bat with all his might. The ball flew high into the air, carrying the hopes of the fielders and the despair of the bowler. All eyes tracked the ball as it sailed through the sky — until a sudden crash shattered the excitement.

The ball had smashed through the window of the quiet, eerie house that stood on the corner of the lane. It was Devi’s house, a place the children rarely spoke about but never dared to approach. Everyone froze, waiting for the inevitable scolding or perhaps worse.

But no one came out. The lane grew still, and the silence felt heavy, almost unnatural. “Run!” Bheem whispered, his voice trembling, and in an instant, the children scattered like leaves in the wind, disappearing into doorways, behind parked scooters, anywhere they could hide. Only one figure remained—me, standing motionless, unable to shake the sense that something much larger than a broken window had just happened.

Moments later, the ball came tumbling out of the house, tossed gently back onto the lane. No anger, no reprimand—just quiet acceptance. Curiosity overtook fear, and I found myself stepping toward the house, its doors creaking in the warm breeze. The faded paint and worn wood gave the house a haunted appearance, as if it had been abandoned by time itself.

As I entered, a sudden gust of wind slammed the door behind me. The house was dim, filled with dust and cobwebs, its silence almost tangible. And then, from the shadows, an elderly woman appeared, her frail figure barely visible. “He’s gone,” she whispered, her voice brittle with sorrow. “My son, Tittu…”

Little did I know, the events unfolding were not just a series of coincidences—they were threads woven into the vast, unseen fabric of karma.