With time, like every other household with cable television, the fight for remote became a commonplace. Despite this, we children somehow found time to watch TV together for our unusual interest in horror shows. Why not? In a household, where superstitions and conspiracy theories spread like wildfires this was fitting, not to mention the thousands of ghost stories our grandparents told us during bedtime. Thus, like every Sunday Evening, we glued ourselves to TV constantly switching between, X files and the Zee Horror show. As much as we showed our courage, the liver eating man of X files and the free willing hand that came to haunt in zee horror tested our threshold. We sat there nevertheless, with our legs crisscrossed, clenched fist, parched lips and dry mouth. By the time it was over, we even debated on who’d turn the TV off and who’d close down the open windows. My fright had escalated to the next level by the time I entered my room and missed the hostel days where we celebrated Friday the 13th with pride. I was startled by the knock on the door. It was my younger sister."Oys! didi sutnai sakina! ta mathi ko sofa ma sut na hai aja?" My sister gave me some hope. Putting my best oscar winning coat, I said, "kasto dar cheruwa haroo! La la ma aauchu!” I grabbed my blanket and the pillow and headed upstairs with a big smile on my face. Hesitantly I fell asleep on the sofa and Yes! Then I had the nightmare of my life. *********** The very same hand that had haunted the show, chased me from Handigaon to Sanepa, BhandarKhal to Kalopul, Chandol to Chabhel and back to the Gullis of Handigaon. I woke up panting and sweating like a fish. It took me a moment to realize where I was sleeping. The clock read 1:30 am. Suddenly, I felt something very cold on my chest. In the darkness, I used my left hand to probe the cold portion of the chest. An eerie chill ran down my spine. It was the very hand that had been chasing in my dreams! It was impossible. I grabbed the hand with my left and shouted at the top of my lungs, “DIDI! Maile haat samaten. Batti baal chado!” They jumped out of their beds and turned on the lights. I jumped off myself still holding the haunted hand. What a comedy of errors. I was holding my own right hand. Apparently, I had slept pressing against the right hand, perhaps pressed a little too hard to diminish its blood flow. The fear and panic turned into crazy hysteria, and then the laughter continued: throughout the night, into the morning and to my deepest fears, onto the Tangal bus stop. I sat by the “Chattre Ganesh” shocked and embarrassed. Here came the mob! My sister and her bunch of airheads. They showed me their hands and asked if it was the hand of my dreams. I constantly turned into a ripe tomato. From a little distance, Shivani came along with a set of her well-braided ponytails flapping on her shoulders. I gave a stern look at my sister to spare her of the drama. Why would she? She filled her in one breath. Shivani looked at me, shook her head exhibiting her exquisite ponytails and laughed out aloud. “Doosro ko kya kahe? Apno ne hi Marwadiya!!!” Life is built upon small things: Some to rejoice, some to cherish, and some to forget. I scorned at my parents because they were uncannily right about things. I should have listened to them. I should have waited till SLC. It didn’t feel like a distant horizon anymore— only half a decade away.