The Hourglass of Memory

In the heat of the summer, when the earth seemed to breathe a collective sigh, Radhika found herself standing in the attic of her grandmother's ancestral home in the small village of Haripad. The house, a crumbling relic of the Travancore architecture, had always been a place of mystery, with its faded wooden floors and peeling walls. It was as though the house itself was a museum of forgotten years, with every object in it holding a story no one dared to tell.

Radhika, however, had always been fascinated by those untold stories. Now, at twenty-eight, after years of living in the bustling chaos of Bangalore, she had returned to the house, seeking answers, seeking... something. She didn’t know what. But she felt it, like a whisper in her bones—something pulling her back to this place, to this family, to the legacy that felt incomplete.

Her grandmother, whom she called Muthassi, was old. Old in a way that felt eternal, as if she had always existed, perched in her corner of the house like a sentinel. Muthassi had never been the nurturing, doting type of grandmother; she was sharp, calculating, her silences often filled with a gravity that pressed down on Radhika’s young shoulders. But Muthassi had also been the keeper of family secrets—the kinds of secrets that made the villagers gossip and cross their hearts whenever they passed the house. The legends of the Palatt Tharavadu and their strange, disquieting ties to the past.

It was the attic that had always called to Radhika.

She had not been up there in years—since her childhood, in fact. Her parents had forbidden her from going up after an incident, but they never explained what had happened. Radhika suspected they had tried to forget.

Now, alone in the dusty space, she felt like she was trespassing, but the feeling was intoxicating, like the taste of something forbidden. The attic smelled of old wood, mothballs, and something faintly metallic, as if time itself had left its scent behind. Stacked boxes of old photographs, clothes, and books lined the walls, and a small window let in weak shafts of sunlight, casting a golden glow on the dust motes dancing in the air.

Then, she saw it. In the farthest corner of the room, beneath a heavy cloth, was something she hadn’t noticed before.

An hourglass

It was an odd, almost out-of-place thing. The wood was dark, polished, and the glass was cracked, though not shattered. The sand inside—if it could even be called sand—was strange. It shimmered like liquid gold, and Radhika was immediately transfixed by it.

She pulled the cloth away, revealing the full object. The moment her fingers brushed the glass, something inside her shifted. A dizzying sense of déjà vu overwhelmed her, like she had touched this object in another life, in another time. She jerked her hand back, but it was too late. The air around her seemed to pulse, thrum with an energy she couldn’t understand.

The door creaked behind her. Radhika turned around quickly, her heart pounding in her chest. Muthassi stood there, her ancient face as unreadable as ever, her eyes narrow with something resembling… fear?

“No,” Muthassi said, her voice thick with a strange emotion, “Do not touch that. It is not meant for you.”

Radhika stared at her grandmother, her pulse quickening. “What is it, Muthassi ? Why does it feel… like I’ve been waiting for this?”

“You have not,” Muthassi replied sharply, stepping into the room, her old hands trembling as she reached for the hourglass. “You should have left it alone. This house… this family… we are cursed. That hourglass holds the power to undo time—but at what cost?”

Radhika watched her grandmother, her mind racing. “Undo time? What do you mean? How can—”

Muthassi’s hand shot out, gripping Radhika’s wrist with surprising strength. “Listen to me, child. There are things in this world that should not be touched. And this hourglass… it is one of them.”

Before Radhika could protest, the ground beneath her feet seemed to shift. The room spun, and she felt herself being pulled, as though the fabric of time itself was stretching and warping around her. She gasped, the air growing colder, heavier. Her vision blurred.

Suddenly, everything stopped.

She blinked. And the attic was gone.

She was somewhere else.

A narrow alleyway. She was standing in the middle of it, staring at the walls of crumbling brick, the scent of burning incense in the air. People walked by, their faces drawn in a mix of urgency and fear. Radhika recognized none of them. The buildings around her were familiar yet unfamiliar—an ancient version of the village, perhaps, decades, maybe centuries, before she was born.

Radhika stumbled back, disoriented. A soft, familiar voice called her name from behind.

“Radhika, you came.” The voice was older, a woman’s voice, but unmistakably her own.

She whirled around. Standing in front of her was a version of herself—older, perhaps in her late forties, her face worn with lines of worry and sorrow, her eyes hollow with a quiet despair. This woman was not someone Radhika recognized, but she felt like her—like a shadow of the future.

“No,” the older Radhika said, her voice breaking, “It’s too late. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to see this.”

Before Radhika could speak, the older version of herself turned and walked down the alley, disappearing into the shadows. She felt a tug in her chest, a deep sense of loss. She ran after her, but when she reached the end of the alley, the world shifted again.

This time, she was standing in the same attic—the same house, but everything around her felt different. The air was heavier, as if the walls themselves were pressing in. The hourglass sat on the floor, but it was whole now, and its sand seemed to be moving in slow motion, drifting upward as if time were reversing.

And then, she saw her grandmother.

But not the grandmother she had known. This was a younger woman, filled with vitality, her face unmarked by the years. But there was something else in her eyes—a desperation, a terror that made Radhika’s heart tighten.

“Muthassi ?” she whispered, stepping forward.

The woman—the younger Muthassi —looked at her with wide, frightened eyes. “Don’t! Don’t touch it again, Radhika! It will destroy us.”

“But… I don’t understand,” Radhika stammered. “What is this? What is this place?”

“It’s not a place,” Muthassi said, her voice shaking, “It’s a fracture. A wound in time. The hourglass—it shows us what could have been, what might be, what will destroy everything we know.”

Radhika stared at the younger version of her grandmother. “But it’s already happening. I saw myself. I saw my future. It’s—”

“Do you know how many times I have tried to change it?” Muthassi cut in, her voice raw, her hands trembling. “How many times I’ve turned it over, hoping, praying to undo the past? But each time, it makes things worse. It traps us in loops, Radhika. The hourglass holds nothing but despair.”

Radhika felt her mind begin to break, the world around her crumbling like the fragile remnants of a dream. She reached for the hourglass, her fingers trembling, but before she could touch it, Muthassi lunged at her, a scream of agony tearing from her throat.

“No!” Muthassi cried. “You cannot change it. You cannot escape it.”

In that instant, Radhika understood. She understood everything. The curse was not just on her family, not just on the house. It was on her. Time had already claimed her. She was destined to be trapped in these endless cycles of past, present, and future, each version of herself a shadow, each attempt to change things a futile, crushing failure.

She looked down at the hourglass, and for the first time, she saw it for what it truly was—a prison, a torture device that would never let her go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, but the words didn’t feel like enough. They never could be.

And then, the world shifted again!

(c) Vipin.