What Waits Beneath the Pala

An occult detective entry from Nimisha Ajaikumar

The Chottanikkara Temple has always been my sanctuary.

The moment I step through its gates, I feel the goddess’s protection wrap around me like a warm shawl. Every prayer I’ve whispered here has found its way to reality, and no matter what storms brew in my life, my faith in Her remains unshaken.

That was reason enough for me to request the temple authorities for an opportunity to feature a podcast episode on my favorite temple. Much to my disbelief, they agreed, perhaps after viewing my large following.

Naturally, before beginning my inquiries, I took a round of the Hindu temple — just like I always do. Being from Kochi, I consider it a blessing to visit whenever I wish. It’s when I see the endless queues of devotees, some from across the country, waiting patiently just to glimpse the goddess, that I truly grasp the magnitude of Her power.

As always, I began at Melekavu, the upper shrine. The moment I locked eyes with the metal idol of the goddess, cloaked in crimson silk and radiating fierce benevolence, I forgot all my troubles.

“Devi, hope this episode goes well,” I wished, and felt a familiar wave of calm settle over me. I was on a spiritual high by the time I stepped out — unbothered by the pressing crowd — until a piercing shriek jolted me.

No one else flinched, of course. At Chottanikkara, women shrieking during possessions, hair loose and wild, are hardly unusual. It’s part of the temple’s living rhythm.

After completing my three ritual circumambulations, I made my way toward Keezhkkaavu, the lower shrine — separated from Melekavu by a sacred pond, said to be where the goddess once washed off blood after slaying demons.

The energy here is starkly different. While Melekavu has the serenity of a typical Kerala temple, Keezhkkaavu pulses with something ancient and untamed.

Two large banyan trees flank the entrance; their trunks crowded with hundreds of dolls. These aren’t toys — they’re spirit vessels, nailed to the tree after dispossessions, holding entities too perilous to let free. I watched, both stunned and concerned, as tourists took selfies with them, oblivious to the dark energies they flirted with.

This shrine is steeped in tantric rituals and shadow magic. In older times, both animal and human sacrifices were offered here to appease the goddess. Nowadays, they say the blood is just red paint — or chicken blood, at worst.

I still remember the first time I visited Chottanikkara. I was only fifteen, eager and wide-eyed, drawn to the legendary temple known for its exorcisms.

“Amma, give me some chandanam too,” a short woman clad in a pristine mundu kasavu called out to my mother. Startled, Amma applied sandalwood paste to her forehead, hoping the woman would move on. But instead, she inquired, “Aren’t you doing the Guruthi pooja today?”

And then, without warning, she began dancing around the shrine, urging people to pray — frightening quite a few in the process. Her helpless husband could only watch. Suddenly, she collapsed into his arms. When she regained consciousness, she was someone else entirely — quiet, almost timid, and completely unaware of the possession that had just overtaken her.

“She was reminding us to do the Guruthi pooja,” I mouthed in awe. It had been part of our original plan when we drove to the temple, but we’d decided against it after seeing the long line.

“But why did she speak to me? She could have spoken to you too,” my mother said, still shaken.

“That’s because you’re wearing red,” a nearby devotee chimed in. “It’s the Devi’s color, you know.”

After that day, my mother never wore red to Chottanikkara again.

With grit and determination, I walked over to the shaantis — the temple priests — who were issuing tickets to devotees for various poojas scheduled throughout the day.

“I’m here for the podcast,” I announced, hoping someone would agree to an interview.

The Melshaanti—the head priest—was a fair, stout man with the sacred thread slung across his torso, indicating his superior birth. He perked up immediately. “Where’s your camera?” he questioned, clearly hoping to go viral.

“Uh, I’m a podcaster. Audio only,” I chuckled.

“Well then, Malavika, you can speak to Keshavan,” he replied with a swift wave, already returning to the temple rituals—far too busy to bother with anonymity.

I turned to face this so-called Keshavan — and promptly forgot how to breathe.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and disarmingly handsome, with chiseled muscles on full display. As was customary, he wore no shirt — just the sacred thread slung across his chest, marking him as a shaanti too. I was so accustomed to seeing pot-bellied uncles in temples, let alone among the Brahmin priesthood, that I probably made my interest embarrassingly obvious.

“Follow me,” Keshavan said, snapping me out of my daze.

And follow I did — eyes shamelessly lingering on the Shiva tattoo inked on his back, trying my best not to admire how his muscles shifted beneath his skin with every step. Was the goddess taunting me? I had prayed for love earlier today…

“What do you want to know?” he asked, settling on a rock and motioning for me to take the one across from him. We were surrounded by Pala trees, their shadows stretching across the ground as sunlight filtered faintly through the leaves. The hum of devotees felt distant, swallowed by the forest.

I clicked on my recorder. “I’m digging into the temple’s history—the tantric rituals, the exorcisms, all the supernatural stuff people only whisper about.”

On the way back, a half-finished corridor on the south wing caught my eye. “Is that new construction?” I examined, tilting my head toward it.

Keshavan glanced around, as if afraid someone might overhear. “Work’s paused.”

“That’s a shame. An alternate entrance could really help manage the crowds. Any plans to restart?”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Come, I’ll walk you to your car.”

But I was obviously undeterred.

The next day, after interviewing another shaanti about the history of the temple, I pretended to pack up my things—only to sneak back toward the abandoned corridor from the day before.

Two men were hastily wrapping up their construction gear.

“Not finishing the job?” I asked casually.

One of them, braver than the rest, folded his palms. “Madam, bad things started happening the moment we touched this corridor. Life’s worth more than the money.”

“What kind of bad things?”

Another worker cut in, pupils darting. “Our teammate Chandran vanished. We’re scared the same thing might happen to us.”

“I saw her,” one shuddered. “A woman in a white saree, standing on the roof last night, feet pointed backwards. Said we’d die if we kept building.”

They each had their own horror stories—fainting, vomiting, hallucinations. And this, from men who had worked on multiple corridors here before without incident. Something about this spot wasn’t right.

When I asked the Melshaanti about the mass walkout, he scoffed.

“They’re just lazy drunkards.”

“A man is missing,” I snapped. “There’s clearly a crime here and you’re brushing it off like a leaky pipe?”

He didn’t flinch. “Malavika, I think you’ve gathered enough data for your podcast. I’ll take your leave.”

As if.

The next day, I was back.

Keshavan spotted me instantly. “What are you doing here?”

“What, I can’t pray like a regular devotee?” I groaned, hands up in mock innocence.

He sighed and steered, back to handing out prasad and flicking holy water at bowed heads.

A group of teenage girls nearby giggled. “Sexy Shaanti.”

When no one was watching, I darted toward the mysterious corridor. As I’d predicted, the workers had abandoned the place, leaving it all to myself.

Inside, the unfinished space appeared rough—crude walls, scattered tools, and dust hanging in the air like it hadn’t been touched in days. I crept forward, the atmosphere oddly heavy.

Then—I heard footsteps.

I spun around.

Keshavan stood there, slightly out of breath, cheeks flushed like he had been running. Chasing me, maybe.

“Well, if it isn’t Sexy Shaanti turned Stalker Shaanti,” I grinned.

His scowl only made him look hotter. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

I breezed past the jab, pointing at something that caught the light—a strange fissure on the floor. Not the usual cracked stone, but something metallic, hidden beneath layers of dirt.

“What’s this?”

“No idea,” he mumbled, walking over. “Maybe the workers hit something while digging.” He knelt beside me, examining the hidden metal like it might answer everything.

I reached for a shovel, but he stopped me. “Let me,” he offered, already cracking his knuckles.

Therefore, I stepped aside, watching him dig — partly curious, partly wondering if this was chivalry or just another chance to flex those muscles. But then, without warning, a flurry of bats burst from the crack, wings slicing the air.

We both ducked instinctively, the musty smell of old stone and guano filling the corridor.

“Well,” I grumbled, brushing dust from my hair, “that’s never a good sign.”

I crouched down and peered into the fissure. Keshavan followed suit, his mouth gaping at the discovery of an underground chamber beneath his workplace. But nothing could match the fearful admiration in his gaze when he saw me tuck my cotton saree into my petticoat and prepare to leap down into the chamber. He didn’t stop me — but he didn’t follow me down either.

The underground space was covered in cobwebs, and bats huddled upside down, seemingly unfazed by the disturbance. The chamber was the size of a large room, and though I expected to find treasures — jewels, artifacts, something worth investigating — I found only weeds growing between the cracked stone. The ceiling was low— anyone the height of Keshavan would have had to crouch, if not crawl.

I took a step back, my foot finding something unfamiliar. I froze and prodded the ground with a fallen branch, my heart hammering. Then, I screamed.

“What happened?” Keshavan asked, landing next to me with a thud.

I could only point at the void beneath me, which turned out to be a well. Unlike the wells we have today, neatly lined with bricks, this one was just an open shaft. But it wasn’t the well that freaked me.

Staring into the depths of the water, Keshavan cried, backing away with his hand on his mouth, “That’s the missing guy, Chandran.”

I would have endured the same fate if I hadn’t been careful. Praise the goddess.

Chandran’s body was finally retrieved, and I was hailed as a hero—armed with a sensational new story for the podcast. But something didn’t sit right.

“Was he looking for jewels?” I asked Keshavan, who was applying chandanam on the temple elephant’s trunk.

He turned to me slowly, then stepped closer. His breath was warm on my face, and for a moment, I thought—no, I hoped—he might kiss me. I shut my eyelids without meaning to.

“That’s no ordinary well,” he said.

I blinked, stunned. “What do you mean?” I inquired, trying to hide my embarrassment.

“I used to think it was just a myth,” he began, ignoring my folly. “But centuries ago, the goddess bound a Yakshi to that well. She tormented the village—seducing men who traveled at night and killing them.”

In Kerala folklore, Yakshis are often described as beautiful women with long black hair, red lips, and burning eyes. They wear white sarees and appear near Pala trees, temples, or lonely paths, especially at night. Yakshis are believed to be the restless spirits of women who died unnaturally or were wronged. Robbed of salvation, they roam the earth, seeking revenge or simply feeding on human life force.

I let out a snort. “Well, those men should’ve kept it in their pants.”

He didn’t smile. “We had a ritual to keep her at rest. But after the pandemic, we stopped. Forgot, maybe. I think the underground chamber was keeping her contained, until the construction disturbed it. We had no clue where the well was, if it even existed.”

I raised an eyebrow, trying to cut the tension. “So, you’ll start the pooja now and everything’s good?”

“I hope so,” he muttered.

Two days later, I got a call from the police. “As the person who discovered Chandran’s body, we need you to come in.”

I doubted I had anything more to offer. My podcast episode was already published. Keshavan had revived the forgotten pooja to put the Yakshi back to sleep. The police had ruled Chandran’s death an accidental drowning.

But this wasn’t about Chandran.

One of the local lodge owners, Hari—who rented rooms to devotees—had been murdered. Torn apart, specifically. It happened in the same Pala forest clearing where Keshavan had taken me for his interview.

His limbs were scattered, blood soaking the grass. I couldn’t look. I pressed myself behind Keshavan, my stomach churning.

“Sir,” the temple sweeper disclosed, palms pressed together. “I heard screams, so I ran out to check. But by then, the man was already dead. All I could smell was Pala flowers. And I heard anklets walking away.”

The Melshaanti went pale. He nudged Keshavan. “I thought you performed the pooja to bind the Yakshi.”

Before Keshavan could respond, the police inspector cut in, voice brisk. “Enough of this supernatural talk. This is a murder. We’re treating it as such, and we’ll start identifying suspects immediately.” He turned to me.

“Malavika, we need a full statement. Tell us everything you saw when you found Chandran’s body. It’s possible the two cases are connected.”

I couldn’t think of any suspects, so they eventually let me go. But the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave me. If the Yakshi was real, she had finally escaped the well—and now, she was on a bloodlust. She needed to be stopped before she claimed more lives.

I prayed to the goddess, “Help us find a solution.”

I wasn’t stupid enough to hide in the forest at night, but I still sought answers. My Chottanikara podcast had taken off far better than my previous temple exploration episodes. So, I decided to set up a camera at dusk, while all the shaantis were busy with their preparations for the night pooja, the Guruthi.

But minutes after I wrapped the camera around a Pala tree, where Yakshis are known to perch, lightning struck, and my camera crashed to the ground—completely destroyed. There went last month’s salary.

Trying to avoid the torrential downpour and thunder, I began pacing back toward the temple. But then, I stepped on something slimy. Before I could react, it struck my leg, and I lost my balance, falling to the ground. It was a viper, baring its fangs at me, ready to strike again. I threw my shoe at it, hoping to scare it off.

But that only angered the rest of the vipers in the area. Hundreds of brown-scaled serpents slithered toward me, their bodies writhing in unison, threatening to attack. The first viper’s venom was already working its way through my system. My vision blurred, and within moments, I fell, unconscious.

****************************************************************

I woke up the next day in an unfamiliar room, the sharp scent of Ayurvedic herbs lingering in the air. My left foot was bandaged—impressive, considering I’d suffered a venomous snake bite. I sat up slowly and tiptoed toward the doorway, wincing at the dull throb in my foot. Someone was chanting nearby.

“Oh, thank god,” came a voice—his voice. Keshavan appeared in the doorway, shoulders sagging with relief. He pulled me into a fierce hug, arms trembling slightly, like he was worried I’d vanish if he let go. “I thought I’d lost you, Malu,” he whispered in my ear, making the hair on my neck stand up.

I had to focus and not fangirl over the nickname he gave me. “She is dangerous. We need to capture her for once and for all.”

“You’d make a fine Yakshi yourself,” Keshavan teased, unserious.

“Are you saying I’m scary?” I frowned, squinting.

“No, Malu,” he smirked. “I’m saying you could seduce anyone.”

“Is that working on you?” I challenged, ears reddening.

Before he could answer, his lips met mine.

I would have melted into his arms — the way his kiss made my knees weak — if it hadn’t been for the abrupt knock on the door. We jolted apart as the Melshaanti entered, grave faced.

“There’s been another attack,” he uttered. “A local was found unconscious under a Pala tree.”

In Kerala, the Pala is known for its intoxicatingly sweet flowers — said to lure snakes and malevolent spirits. My father, a staunch rationalist, always dismissed the Yakshi theories. “People die under that tree due to carbon dioxide build-up,” he’d claim. “Suffocation, not sorcery.”

Still, we packed up and rushed to the site. Sharath, a man in his twenties, lay lifeless. No wounds. No blood. Just the unmistakable scent of Pala flowers thick in the air, almost cloying.

“The original pooja wasn’t enough,” the Melshaanti surmised, already gathering the shaantis for the Guruthi. But before they could begin, we had to lure the Yakshi.

Hence, we returned to the spot where I’d been bitten — the clearing beneath the trees. I crouched low, phone in hand, hidden among the undergrowth. Keshavan walked alone deliberately, beneath the swaying branches, chanting the Devi’s mantras.

He was bait.

And she arrived.

Gliding between the trees, barefoot, clad in white, her long black hair cascading down like a curtain of shadow. Anklets chimed in the silence. Her eyes glowed — not red, but sorrowful, yet deadly.

“How can a handsome young man like you be all alone?” she questioned, gracefully pressing her fingers under his jaw, fondling his beard. She was a monster, but my jealousy couldn’t stand her touching every curve of his body like I dreamed to. She was more irresistible than I ever imagined.

I paled in comparison. His auburn eyes were open, but glassy. Her spell was working.

“Keshavan,” I hissed into the phone, my grip trembling as my battery suddenly died. “Please…”

He blinked, once. She leaned in, brushing her lips against his cheek.

“I see you carry the Gita,” she tittered. “Yet your mind is not where your mouth chants.”

“Don’t touch him!” I yelled.

She pivoted slowly, her expression almost bored. “Well, if it isn’t a jilted little girl trying to defend her man,” she alleged, grinning with a mouth full of fangs.

I stood my ground, chest heaving. “He’s not yours to touch.”

Her pupils gleamed with something critically close to pity. “I remember being like you once. Head over heels for a Brahmin boy with a voice like butter. Told me we’d run away together even though I was just a lowly servant.”

She paused, and I saw the flicker of something raw under all the vengeance.

“I told him I was pregnant,” she continued, eyelids brimming with tears threatening to spill. “Next morning, his entire family dragged me to the edge of the forest and burned me alive for defiling their lineage.”

I felt a cold shiver trail down my spine. Even Keshavan, still frozen mid-ritual, seemed visibly shaken.

The Yakshi cackled too loudly, like she was trying to silence her own grief. “Now I haunt the edges of temples and Pala trees, and I eat men who can’t control themselves.”

“That’s it, get her,” the Melshaanti bellowed, preparing to begin the Guruthi and bind the Yakshi back to the well. A couple of shaantis seized her by the wrists, ready to begin the ritual. But then I fainted.

****************************************************************

The Yakshi had possessed my Malu.

I couldn’t bear to watch the daredevil woman I had come to adore transform into a monster. And yet, part of me wanted to fall for it. The way she clung to me, her fingers tracing my skin—it was the same delicate body I coveted, the same lotus-petal eyes. But they lacked the tenderness I had seen in her since the day we met. Malu had never dared to touch me, even though I sensed her desire. Whereas this creature groped me with lust, not love.

All I could do was follow the crowd of shaantis dragging my beautiful girl to Keezhkkaavu for the Guruthi.

“What’s so funny?” the Melshaanti shouted as the Yakshi continued laughing—mocking us, reminding me she wasn’t Malu. He threw more ashes into the fire, and for a moment she recoiled. But then, she laughed even harder.

“How could you kill those innocent men?” he roared.

“Innocent?” she said flatly, no longer smiling. “Don’t equate men with innocence. All they’re capable of is lust and betrayal.”

Her squeals echoed through the stone walls of Keezhkkaavu. Ten of us struggled to contain her.

In that moment, I saw it clearly: we were repeating the same misogyny and casteism that had created her.

“Leave Malavika alone,” I growled. “She’s the woman I’m going to marry.”

All the priests froze. Even the fire seemed to still.

“Fibs,” the Yakshi yawned, unimpressed.

“If you destroy her, I’ll be the one you leave behind—the jilted lover, just like you. But if you choose to bless us instead… we could find happiness, despite our unusual backgrounds. And maybe, you could watch over us.”

She halted, face softening. For a moment, she wasn’t a Yakshi at all—just a young girl—frightened, betrayed, and dead.

I stepped closer, tenderly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I looked into her eyes, searching for the real Malu beneath the possession.

“I love you,” I declared in front of the holy goddess.

And just like that, Malu collapsed into my arms.

****************************************************************

The police had cracked the case.

“Sharath’s fingerprints were all over Hari’s body, confirming a scuffle between the two locals,” the inspector announced into the mic at the press conference. “They were stealing temple artefacts from a hidden chamber beneath the Chottanikkara Temple, aided by a construction worker named Chandran. After Chandran mysteriously drowned, it became every man for himself.”

He paused, letting the camera flashes burst around him.

“We’ve recovered the stolen artefacts—items even the temple authorities didn’t know existed—from Sharath’s house.”

Then, with a weary breath, he added, “The only part we still can’t explain is why Sharath left home at midnight to lie beneath the Pala tree—when he was meant to flee the country with stolen relics the very next morning.”

We could solve that mystery. The Yakshi—no longer buried in the darkness of the well, but bound to the banyan in a doll under the Devi’s eternal gaze—wasn’t done protecting the temple. She had merely changed where she waited.

Nimisha Ajaikumar is a researcher, mental health blogger, and writer. She can be found at Silence the Stigma.