Aa..chu… Just One Sneeze

 When Change Outruns Superstition

In the midst of Diwali cleaning, a broken hookah’s chillam opens up a story that quietly connects the past and present of Kulahan village. How everyday beliefs like sneezing, the cawing of a crow, and bad omens, turn into walls in the path of a young person’s dreams, is what this story brings to light. As memories unfold layer by layer, they leave behind a question: where is the line drawn between tradition and superstition? In the end, the story turns toward a truth that gives new meaning to relationships, identity, and ways of thinking.

Read this story in Hindi

Even today, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, just the familiar hum of my mother’s cleaning. With Diwali approaching, the house was alive with the ritual of tidying and preparation. Early in the morning, everyone was absorbed in their tasks. Papa was preparing to leave for the hospital, while Maa packed his tiffin. Just then, Papa called out, “Reeva beta! Today I won’t take the car, I’ll go on the scooter. Go and bring it to the gate.”

I fetched the scooter and returned toward the house, when Maa’s voice reached me again: “The store room still needs cleaning. Go take care of it.”

After many days, I opened the store room and found it thick with spider webs, dust coating every surface. I began cleaning slowly, and then—“crash.” I spun around to see that, in the midst of tidying, my hand had struck the hookah’s chillam, and it had fallen to the ground, broken.

I began gathering the broken pieces. Amid the sharp edges pressing against my palms, my grandfather’s face suddenly emerged in my mind. The hookah had been his. Memories of rainy days returned, when the hearth would burn in the courtyard, thin trails of smoke drifting into the air, and Grandfather sitting with his friends, hookah in hand. His voice carried a deliberate calm, a rhythm all its own. Tall, with white hair and beard, a walking stick in hand, dressed neatly in kurta-pajama, just seeing him was a scene in itself. Often, I would sit quietly nearby and drift along with his words.

Whenever I think of him, a story he once told comes to mind, one that, for reasons I cannot explain, has stayed with me all this time. One evening, he was gathered with his friends, and I had gone there too. That day, the conversation was about a young man named Shaamu. I began to listen. Grandfather was saying that he was a resident of our own village, Kulahan, in Kangra district, Himachal Pradesh—a twenty-year-old youth who was keen on studying and went to college every day.

“I’m going to college, Dadi, Maa,” Shaamu said.

“Alright, go then, but return home on time. And bring fodder for the animals too,” Dadi’s voice replied.

Shaamu’s grandmother was an elderly woman deeply rooted in old beliefs, who maintained her authority over everyone at home. Ignoring her was not easy. Shaamu set off toward college with his friends. The moment he stepped onto the campus, his attention was drawn to the scattered scenes around him. Teachers conversed with students in one corner, groups of students stood with books in hand elsewhere. Watching it all, the same desire he had nurtured within himself for a long time arose once more. He often thought of the day when he too would stand like them, a teacher among students.

“Ha-ha-ha,” his friends laughed at him, saying, “You always live in a world of dreams. You’re young, enjoy your youth. Come on, let’s head to class; it’s time.”

“Tan-tan-tan”—the sound of the bell echoed, signaling the end of the day’s classes. Shaamu looked at his friends and said, “Alright, friends, all classes are done. I need to go home, have some work to do.”

On his way back from college, he followed the routine set by his grandmother and headed toward the fields. A heavy bundle of grass rested on his head. The sun was scorching, and as he walked, his breath grew labored. Muttering to himself, he said, “I wonder when I’ll ever be free of these endless household chores. First, this heavy load of grass on my head, and now the heat, my throat is parched too.”

As soon as he reached home, he called out loudly, “Hey, Maa! Maa, give me some water, please. I’m exhausted today.”

From the other side, Sheila replied, “Bhaiya, Maa isn’t home. She’s gone to the shop to get vegetables. I’ll sweep, you drink water.”

“Alright, go ahead,” Shaamu said.

Sheila was his younger sister. To her, the world of school was only as much as Shaamu described to her after returning home. Just then, their grandmother’s sharp voice rang across the courtyard: “You don’t have a scarf on your head. How do you sweep like that? Such a bad omen. Put a scarf on your head.”

Summoning courage, Sheila said, “Dadi, you always say the same thing. What will happen if I don’t wear it?”

“Quiet! You’re too talkative. Do exactly as I say,” Dadi snapped.

Shaamu sat in a corner of the courtyard, listening. In his mind, he thought about how their grandmother always scolded Sheila, and how hurt that must make her feel. Being a girl had become, in her eyes, almost a bad omen.

A little while later, their mother returned home with the vegetables. Shaamu went up to her and said, “Oh, Maa, you’re back! Wake me up early tomorrow, I need to study. My teacher recruitment exams are coming up.”

With a calm smile, she said, “Alright, no problem. I’ll wake you up.”

The next morning, sunlight spilled across the courtyard. Among the chirping of birds and the restless sounds of hungry animals, he suddenly opened his eyes. Glancing at the clock, he was shocked. “Oh no, it’s ten o’clock! God, how will I get my preparation done?”

Hurriedly washing his face, he called out in a loud voice, “Maa! Why didn’t you wake me up? How am I supposed to prepare if I sleep this late?”

“You’re always talking about exams. Don’t you realize the animals need fodder, and the fields need watering too?” Dadi’s sharp voice cut through the morning. “All day, you wander around under the pretense of studying.”

Without looking at her, Shaamu said, “Alright, enough, Dadi. I’ll wash my face and hands, then I’ll go. Nobody ever tells me to study, it’s only the household chores that matter.” His voice trailed off as he spoke.

Just then, a sudden sound of something falling echoed through the courtyard. Shaamu turned and saw his mother sitting on the ground, a bucket of milk tipped over, the white milk spreading across the soil. Alarmed, he rushed to her side. “Maa, are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked quickly.

Dadi’s voice rang out again. “Satyanash, you’re a bad omen! What have you done? You’ve spilled the milk first thing in the morning. Such a terrible omen. Who knows what disaster might follow now?”

“Leave it, Dadi. Let these things be. I have to submit my form for the teacher recruitment today. I need to reach there on time, and I still have to organize all the documents,” Shaamu said.

Then, looking at his mother, he added, “Alright, Maa, I’m going. I might come back a little late in the night.”

As he left, the sound of his footsteps gradually faded from the courtyard. Sheila, broom in hand, thought to herself that she should quickly finish sweeping, or else someone would scold her. She was just about to start when Dadi appeared before her. Grabbing her braid, Dadi scolded angrily, “Your brother has just left for an auspicious task, and here you are, sweeping. How many times have I told you, when someone leaves the house, we do not sweep? You were born only to bring bad luck. Come on, get out of here.”

Standing near the door, their mother watched silently. Seeing this treatment of Sheila shook her to the core. She wanted to say something, to intervene, but the words stuck in her throat. Never had she found the courage to speak, and no one had ever considered it necessary to ask for her opinion.

Suddenly, from the neighboring house, the sound of crying reached them. It was news that the son of Dadi’s neighbor and friend had passed away.

“Oh God, what has happened? Just yesterday he was fine,” Dadi cried.

It felt as if the ground had slipped beneath her feet. Clutching her chest, she went with the other women of the village to the neighbor’s house. The scene there was heavy with grief. The neighbor was completely devastated, surrounded by people trying to console her. Dadi sat beside her, embraced her, and said, “Do not cry, sister. Stay strong, trust in God. The one who has given this sorrow will also give the strength to overcome it.”

The neighbor and her daughter-in-law sat by the body, crying loudly. Over and over, they looked toward it, saying, “Where have you left us, all alone in this world?” The people standing nearby remained silent. Amid the tears and sobs, the atmosphere of the house grew heavy with grief.

Then the neighbor’s eyes suddenly fell on her daughter-in-law. Her expression changed. Pushing her roughly, she said, “You devoured my young son, you witch! And now here you are, shedding crocodile tears. Get out of my sight. I don’t even want to see your face.”

Trembling, the daughter-in-law spoke in a quivering voice, “What are you saying, Maa-ji? Along with your son, he was my husband too. I am just as grief-stricken as you. What fault of mine is there in this?”

Before she could finish, the neighbor and her friends seized her hands. One by one, her bangles broke, and the shards of glass cut her palms, leaving them bleeding. Meanwhile, the villagers lifted the body and began moving toward the cremation ground, chanting in unison, “Ram Naam Satya Hai.”

Both the neighbor and her daughter-in-law were inconsolable, crying uncontrollably. Dadi and the other women of the village helped dress the daughter-in-law in white garments. The women standing nearby whispered among themselves, “In the prime of her life, she lost her husband, what a wretched woman.”

Following the village customs, Dadi and the other women led her aside. Her hair was shorn, a ritual observed for generations, marking her loss. She remained seated in quiet resignation, tears streaking her cheeks, her eyes holding a deep, unspoken sorrow that spoke of grief far beyond words.

“Leave me, please… leave me. It hurts. Oh God, why have you written all this into my fate? I don’t know what I’m being punished for,” the neighbor’s daughter-in-law sobbed, her voice heavy with exhaustion and helplessness.

Five days had passed since the death of her husband. In that time, her life seemed to have been shoved into a single, unyielding direction. The neighbor, Dadi, and the other villagers had forced her out of the village. She was barred from taking part in any religious rites or auspicious events. She bore the changed behavior of her mother-in-law and the villagers in silence. Outwardly, she appeared calm, but inside, she was utterly shattered.

Shaamu had witnessed all of this closely. The events sank deep into his mind. He remained silent for many days, yet questions churned relentlessly within him. One day, he could no longer contain them and confronted Dadi, sparking a sharp confrontation.

“Dadi, how can you, as a woman, treat another woman so cruelly?” Shaamu asked. “Why did you join the villagers in punishing that woman, beaten by fate? Did your heart not shudder when you saw her suffering?”

“Quiet. You go around preaching all day. Every woman must make sacrifices,” Dadi said sternly. Her voice choked as she spoke. After a brief pause, she continued, “I remember when I was pregnant. My mother-in-law had called the midwife to check my womb. The moment the midwife looked, she said it was a girl. Hearing this, the in-laws killed the child in my womb. No one showed me any mercy. They took away my own flesh and blood. Could I have saved myself? Life brought so many hardships that, having survived them, these things no longer affect me.”

Shaamu stayed silent for a few moments, absorbing her words, trying to place her, understand her, but then he ended up saying, “Leave it, Dadi. Talking to you feels useless.”

Two weeks had passed since the death of the neighbor’s son. The village had returned to its daily rhythm. People were busy with their own work. Bathed in the reddish rays of the setting sun, Shaamu called out loudly to his mother from the courtyard.

“Why are you shouting so loudly?” his mother asked.

“Maa, I have my recruitment exam tomorrow, the one I’ve been waiting for a whole year. The exam center is thirty kilometers from the village, and the road is rough. But it’s okay. For a dream, I’ll endure these small hardships,” Shaamu replied.

“Yes, don’t worry. I’ll pack your food,” his mother said.

The next morning, the rising sun’s rays, the sweet chirping of birds, and the trees swaying in the breeze felt different to Shaamu. A strange happiness stirred within him.

“I should bathe in cool water. Cold or hot, it doesn’t matter, we’ll always find an excuse,” he hummed softly to himself while bathing.

After getting ready, he had breakfast, and his mother also gave him curd with sugar, as is considered auspicious, something that brings good luck. Perhaps, because curd cools the body and the mind and helps with nerves.

“Alright, Dadi, I’m leaving now. My exam is at three o’clock. Bless me, so I may return successful,” Shaamu said, touching her feet with reverence.

“May victory be yours,” Dadi said, placing her hand on his head.

Just then, a crow perched on the railing cawed loudly. Dadi glanced at it and said, “Ah, it seems we will have guests today. Looks like my sister-in-law is coming. Shaamu, you should greet her too. She’ll be pleased.”

“No, Dadi, I’ll be late. I need to reach on time,” Shaamu replied.

“It’s still early for your exam. What good will it do to go now? There’s plenty of time, wait a little,” Dadi said.

After a moment’s thought, Shaamu said, “Alright, I’ll wait a little.”

Suddenly, the household grew busier. The clatter of utensils echoed from the kitchen, and cleaning began in the courtyard. Time passed slowly, and before he realized it, it was twelve o’clock, but no one had arrived yet.

“Dadi, please let me go. No one is coming. I need to leave, I’ll be late,” Shaamu said impatiently.

He was about to step out when Sheila sneezed.

“Oh, misfortune! Can you not eat without bringing bad luck?” Dadi exclaimed immediately.

“What have I done now, Dadi?” Sheila asked timidly.

“Why did you sneeze? Come on, sneeze again. Until you do, Shaamu will not leave. One sneeze is already a terrible omen. Karma-bound, doomed!” Dadi said angrily.

It was already half past twelve, but Sheila still hadn’t sneezed. “Enough, Dadi, I have to go, or I’ll miss my bus,” Shaamu said impatiently.

He quickly grabbed his bag and started toward the lane, but his mother stopped him. In her hands were a lemon, a small piece of iron, and a red chili. She extended them toward him and said, “It will be night by the time you return. Evil eyes and spirits can scare you. Keep these with you.”

It was nearly one o’clock. Running through the village, Shaamu’s throat was parched. The rocky path of the village slowed his pace even further. Every step seemed to steal precious time.

“Thank God… I’ve made it to the bus stop,” he muttered under his breath.

He asked a nearby bike rider, “Brother, has the bus to the city left?”

“Yes, it left just five minutes ago,” the rider replied.

Shaamu’s face fell. Then, summoning courage, he said, “Brother, are you going toward the city? Could you take me with you? I’ll never forget this favor.”

“Yes, but I’ll go only up to seven kilometers from the city. You’ll have to continue from there,” the rider said.

“Thank you! You have no idea how much this helps me,” Shaamu said, breathing a sigh of relief.

Thanks to the bike, he had already covered twenty-three kilometers. Only seven kilometers remained. He asked the people around if any vehicle was going toward the exam center. They said no, since it was already half past two, there would be no transport.

They pointed him toward a short route to the center and advised him to go on foot. Time had almost run out, but Shaamu didn’t even consider stopping. Somehow, he reached the exam center. For a moment, he felt that all his effort was about to pay off. The destination was in sight.

He rushed toward the exam hall, but the invigilator stopped him. Explaining that he had arrived late, Shaamu was not allowed to enter and was asked to leave the room.

Shaamu stood there, bag in hand, and in his eyes was the dream for which he had run so far, chasing it tirelessly, only to be held just outside its reach.

Shaamu returned quietly. All along the way, a storm raged inside him. His feet kept moving forward, but the turmoil of regret and anger refused to settle. Again and again, the same thought struck him, if Dadi had not stopped him, he would have reached on time. That day, he should not have listened to anyone.

Carrying this unrest within him, he reached home. The moment she saw him, his mother asked, “Shaamu, your dream came true today, didn’t it?”

He did not reply. Without a word, he moved away. Sadness and anxiety about the future were clearly etched on his face. He went and sat in a corner, the light was off, and his mind was heavy with guilt.

After a while, Dadi came in. The moment he saw her, all the anger he had been holding back burst forth. Forgetting all restraint, he said, “Dadi, what is it? You are all-knowing, you claim to understand everything. Why didn’t you know today that stopping Shaamu would itself become the bad omen? If you hadn’t stopped me, I would have taken my exam. I wouldn’t have missed my bus, and I would have reached the exam center on time.”

As he spoke, his throat tightened. The words caught there, and in his eyes floated the dream he had been just about to hold in his hands.

“Your few minutes of superstition have washed away a year of my hard work. For my entire life, the sound of caws and sneezes will remind me how I, blinded by superstition, destroyed a year’s worth of my own effort,” Shaamu said, his voice heavy with anger.

“Quiet!” Dadi snapped sharply. “What are you even saying? All of this is the doing of your mother and sister. They are the ones constantly obsessed with bad omens. Sometimes they spill the milk, sometimes they start sweeping, and sometimes they sneeze. This is all their doing.”

Shaamu realized then that talking to Dadi was like banging his head against a wall. Words held no meaning there.

For many days, he remained submerged in guilt. Something inside him had broken, yet within that very fracture, he made a decision. He would no longer allow anyone like himself to be trapped by superstition. That day, he left behind the old Shaamu within him. From that moment on, neither sneezes nor crows’ caws would decide anyone’s fate in his household.

With time, Shaamu moved past this event and began a new chapter in life. He started teaching the village youth about the importance of education and the ways superstition can hold life back. He established a learning center in the village, where children received free education.

This incident had occurred fifty years ago. Time passed. Shaamu got married and had two children. He ensured that his son was enrolled in school on time and received the education he himself had been denied by fate.

Listening to this story, I finally asked, “Dadaji, what happened to Shaamu’s son?”

Dadaji smiled and said, “He has grown up to be a doctor. When your father comes this evening, you can ask him.”

I immediately said, “But my father is also a doctor.”

“Yes,” Dadaji chuckled, “and Shaamu is your grandfather too.”

Hearing this, they all burst into laughter, and it took me a few moments to realize that the Shaamu whose story I had been so deeply engrossed in… was none other than my own Dadaji.

Lost in thought, I didn’t even realize how far my mind had wandered. It had been only a few years since Dadaji’s passing, yet his absence was still felt in every corner of the house.

I was gathering the broken pieces of the chillum, as if collecting fragments of Dadaji’s past. Dadi’s hands may have once tangled in Sheila’s braid, but the truth was that Dadi herself had always been held tight by society, the same society that had burdened her with fear and superstition.

Today, I quietly made a decision. The cleaning would not be limited to the courtyard and rooms. Today, old fears would leave as well. I lifted the ash of the chillum in my palms and let it fall into the soil. That ash, which had once carried the weight of superstition, now held the seeds of new thought.

In that moment, I realized that cleaning is not just about spaces, it is just as necessary for the mind. Perhaps change itself is the true omen, born out of the story of bad luck.

Not every tradition is blind. Some beliefs arise from generations of experience, teaching caution and protecting life. But some are created to suppress women and uphold patriarchy. I decided to preserve the beliefs that carried understanding and care, and to leave behind in the soil those traditions that take away freedom.