🩸 Nau Mandi Ki Saazish
(The Conspiracy of the Ninth Market – A Psychological Horror)
By Faraz Parvez
Professor Dr. (Retired) Arshad Afzal
Retired Faculty Member, Umm Al-Qura University, Makkah, KSA
(Pseudonym of Professor Dr. Arshad Afzal)
Multan, 1993.
In the shadowed alleyways behind Ghanta Ghar Bazaar, whispered rumors spoke of a “ninth mandi”—an invisible market that appeared only once a month, during the twilight hour between Asr and Maghrib. It was said to be where the damned traded memories for relief, and grief for illusions.
Zeeshan, a young investigative journalist, laughed off these tales as Sufi folklore until he stumbled upon an old, unpublished column by his late grandfather—“Mandi No. 9 exists,” it read, “but only for those who’ve lost more than they can carry.”
One Friday evening, Zeeshan followed the trail.
He passed eight known mandis in the old city, each more crowded and chaotic than the last. But just as the azaan echoed faintly in the background, a dense fog rolled in near the abandoned Saraiki haveli. He turned a corner, and there it was:
A silent bazaar.
No voices. No buyers. No sellers.
Just stalls displaying forgotten toys, photographs with faces scratched out, vintage clocks ticking backward, and old wedding garlands, still fresh.
He walked past them, confused—until he saw a mirror stall. And in it, he saw his mother’s reflection, even though she had died three years ago.
She was smiling. Behind her, a boy played with a cricket bat. Himself. At age ten.
The vendor, an old woman with no eyes, whispered,
“Would you like to live in this memory, beta? Only one tear… that’s the price.”
Zeeshan didn’t remember crying. But the next morning, his friends found him unconscious in front of the locked haveli—his eyes wide open, smiling, but unblinking.
He hasn’t spoken since. But every Friday at sunset, he draws a map. It always ends at Mandi No. 9.
🕯️ Postlude: Memory, Madness, and Markets of the Mind
In every city, some doors stay locked for a reason. Some markets are never meant to be entered. At our blog, we unravel these psychological mazes, regional myths, and urban legends—stories that linger like whispers in your hallway.
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