In Our Village, There Is a Custom: When a Man Dies, His Wife Is Treated Like a Possession—Passed Down to the Next Male Heir.

Our village is small, tucked beneath the shade of ancient banyan trees, where people live by traditions as old and unyielding as stone carvings. One such custom has always chilled me to the bone: when a man dies, his wife is considered an inherited belonging—passed on to the next male descendant in the family. No one dares defy this law, fearing the ancestral curse said to befall anyone who tries.

My sister, Lata, was beautiful—but also stubborn. She was hopelessly in love with Tarun, the most handsome young man in the village, with eyes that sparkled like stars and a smile that could melt the hardest heart. But Tarun didn’t love her. He kept his distance, often coldly rejecting the little gifts Lata offered him.

I tried to convince her to let go, reminding her that love cannot be forced. But she only smiled—that same cryptic smile, like moonlight on a misty night.

“You wouldn’t understand, Maya,” she said. “I have a way.”

That night, under the silvery glow of the full moon, I couldn’t sleep. Something felt off. Peeking through the window, I saw Lata, dressed in flowing white, silently slipping out of the house. Concerned, I followed her from a distance, making sure not to be seen.

She walked straight to Tarun’s home. But strangely, she didn’t enter his room. Instead, she turned toward the dark corner of the house, where his grandfather—old Baba Kavi—lay in his final days.

Baba Kavi was frail, barely able to move. I hid behind a neem tree, heart pounding, trying to understand what Lata was doing.

Through a gap in the wooden door, I saw her kneeling beside his bed, whispering something softly. Baba Kavi, though weak, nodded faintly. Then, Lata pulled a small vial from her pocket, poured a liquid into a cup of water, and handed it to him.

A cold chill ran down my spine. I didn’t dare move. Moments later, she left. Her white silhouette faded into the night.

By morning, the entire village buzzed with news: Baba Kavi had passed away peacefully in his sleep. No one suspected a thing. After all, he had been ill for months.

As per tradition, his widow would be “passed on” to the next male heir. But his wife had died years ago, and he had never remarried—until the night before.

The rumor spread like wildfire: before his death, Baba Kavi had performed a secret ritual… and married Lata.

I was stunned. Lata was now officially his wife. And by village law, she would be inherited by the next rightful heir—Tarun, Baba Kavi’s only grandson. Tarun couldn’t refuse. To do so would mean defying the ancestral curse.

That night, at the sacred ceremony, Tarun stood pale as a ghost. Lata, on the other hand, smiled with glinting eyes—like someone who had just conquered the world.

But the true twist came on their wedding night.

I quietly crept near Tarun’s home, hoping to catch a glimpse, hoping maybe—somehow—Lata would find happiness. But what I saw through the window shocked me.

She wasn’t in bed with Tarun. Instead, she sat before Baba Kavi’s old portrait at the altar, whispering to it under her breath.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the room. And I swear—I saw Baba Kavi’s spirit flicker into view, smiling at her.

Lata never loved Tarun.

She loved power. She loved control. She loved the spirit of Baba Kavi—the once-feared tantric priest of our village. A man she believed still had the power to bless… or to curse… from beyond the grave.

Lata didn’t just want Tarun.
She wanted the whole village.