𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡'𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐭𝐢

“आपद्ग्रस्तं यो मनुष्यो नरेन्द्र न जहाति यः।आपदं तस्य नश्यन्ति यथा पङ्कं महोदधेः॥”

Aapadgrastam yo manushyo narendra na jahaati yah,Aapadam tasya nashyanti yatha pankam mahodadheh.

(He who does not abandon a person in distress, O king—His troubles vanish like mud dissolving in the great ocean.)

— Mahabharata

AARADHYA

Banaras, Assi Ghat4:00 AM

The city is still dreaming when I step onto the ghats.

Mist hangs over the Ganga like a veil drawn across the face of God. The stone steps are slick with dew, cold enough to make my bare feet ache. I clutch my small brassthaliclose to my chest—inside it, a broken coconut, a handful of stolen marigolds, two incense sticks, a clay diya, and one rupee coin. The only rupee Babuji didn’t find.

My ribs throb with each breath.

The bruise on my left shoulder is three days old—purple fading to yellow at the edges. The one on my side is fresh from last night. I felt something crack when he shoved me against the door frame. Not broken. Just... bent. Like everything else about me.

I pull my dupatta tighter, making sure it covers the marks. Silence and shadow—that’s how I survive.

The lanes behind me are waking slowly. A rooster crows somewhere in the distance. A bicycle bell rings, tinny and lonely. The smell of burning cow dung cakes drifts from a nearby house—someone starting theirchulhaearly. Mixed with it is the scent of wet earth, incense, and the river. The ancient, endless river.

Ganga Maiya.

She has seen everything. She knows everything.

I wonder if she knows how tired I am.

I descend the steps carefully, counting each one under my breath—ek, do, teen, chaar—a rhythm that keeps my mind from wandering to dangerous places. Like hope. Like escape. Like tomorrow.

At the bottom, tucked between two larger temples, is the small Ganesh mandir. The walls are painted orange, but the color is peeling, exposing the old brick underneath. The dome is cracked. The brass bell hanging from a rusted chain sways slightly in the morning breeze, making a sound like a whisper.

Ting... ting...

Ganeshji sits behind iron bars, garlanded with wilting jasmine from yesterday’s offerings. His trunk curves gently to the left—Vaamatrundan, they call it. Auspicious. His painted eyes are wide, kind. When I look at Him, I don’t feel small. I feel... seen.

I kneel on the stone platform, wincing as my bruised ribs protest. My hands tremble as I set the thali down and light the incense sticks with a single match. The flame flickers twice before catching, casting dancing shadows across Ganeshji’s face.

"Ganpati Bappa..."

My voice cracks. I pause. Swallow. Try again.

"Pranaam." (Lord Ganesha... I bow to you.)

I touch my forehead to the cold stone—once, twice, three times. Each time, I press harder, as if I can push all my pain into the earth and leave it there.

When I sit back up, tears are already sliding down my cheeks. I don’t remember when they started. They just come now, unbidden, like monsoon rains.

I ring the temple bell.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

The sound echoes across the ghat, across the water, across the space between heaven and earth. It’s the only sound I’m allowed to make loudly. The only time no one tells me to be quiet. To disappear.

I pick up my small brasslota—filled at the handpump three lanes away—and pour water over Ganeshji’s feet. The water runs clear, washing away yesterday’s kumkum and turmeric. I do this slowly, reverently, like washing the feet of someone I love.

Because I do love Him. Ganeshji has never raised His hand to me.

"Vakratunda mahaakaaya..." I begin, my voice barely a whisper threading through the mist.

"Suryakoti samaprabha...Nirvighnam kurume deva...Sarva-kaaryeshu sarvadaa."

(O Lord with the curved trunk and massive body, whose brilliance equals millions of suns—please remove all obstacles from my life, always, in all my endeavors.)

Nirvighnam.Without obstacles.

What must that feel like? To live one day without fear sitting on your chest like a stone. To sleep one night without wondering if you’ll wake to the sound of breaking glass and your father’s curses.

I place the marigolds at His feet one by one. Their orange is too bright against the grey stone, the grey mist, the grey of my life. But I press my thumbs into the petals anyway, smearing their color onto my fingertips like borrowed sunshine.

There’s a smudge of turmeric in the corner of the platform—leftover from someone’s morning prayer. I dip my ring finger into it and press a smalltilakon my forehead, right above the half-healed cut from two nights ago. The turmeric burns against the wound.

Good. Pain means I’m still here.

I light the diya next. The cotton wick catches quickly, the flame small but steady. I cup my palm around it to protect it from the wind and lift it in slow circles before Ganeshji—ek, do, teen, chaar, paanch, chheh, saat.Seven circles. Theaarti.

"Jai Ganesh, Jai Ganesh, Jai Ganesh deva...Mata jaaki Parvati, pita Mahadeva..."

(Glory to Ganesha, glory to Ganesha, glory to Lord Ganesha... Whose mother is Parvati, whose father is the great Lord Shiva...)

My voice steadies as I sing. Here, I am not afraid. Here, my voice doesn’t shake.

The sky is shifting from black to deep blue now. Behind me, thechaiwaalalights his coal stove—whoosh—and the smell of cardamom and ginger fills the air. A bullock cart creaks past on the upper lane, its wooden wheels scraping stone.Krrr-krrr-krrr.The rhythm is almost soothing.

"Ek dant dayaavant, char bhuja dhaari...Mathe par tilak sohe, muse ki savaari..."

(The one-tusked compassionate lord, holder of four arms... With a tilak shining on his forehead, riding on a mouse...)

I break the coconut against the stone edge—crack—and place half of it before the murti. The white flesh gleams. My stomach clenches with hunger, but I ignore it. He gets His share first. Always.

I unwrap the small packet ofmodak prasadI bought three days ago—two rupees I should have given Babuji—and place one small ladoo at Ganeshji’s feet. It’s hard, slightly stale. But it’s all I have.

It’s all I am. Slightly stale. Hard enough to survive.

"Ganpati Bappa Morya..."

I close my eyes. The tears come harder now, hotter.

I press my palms together until my knuckles turn white.

"Bappa... suno." (Ganeshji... please listen.)

My voice drops to something raw, scraped from the bottom of my chest with a dull blade.

"Bas ek din. Bas ek din meri raksha karen." (Just one day. Just one day, protect me.)

"Bas ek din... dar na lage. Bas ek din... koi haath na uthaaye." (Just one day... let me not be afraid. Just one day... let no one raise their hand.)

"Main bohot thak gayi hoon, Ganeshji. Bohot." (I’m so tired, Ganeshji. So very tired.)

My shoulders shake. I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper. If I cry too loud, someone will hear. Someone will ask questions. Someone will tell Babuji his daughter was wasting time again, praying like prayers pay debts.

I open my eyes. Through the blur of tears, Ganeshji’s painted face seems to glow in the diya light.

For one moment—just one—I feel like He’s looking back. Not through me, like everyone else, butatme. Seeing the girl beneath the bruises. The girl who used to laugh. The girl who still believes, despite everything, that maybe... maybe...

I ring the bell one last time.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

The sound fills everything. And then fades.

I sit back on my heels, exhausted. My ribs scream. My shoulder aches. But my heart feels lighter. Just enough to survive another day.

I break off a piece of coconut and put it in my mouth. It tastes like sweetness I don’t deserve. I close my eyes and let it melt on my tongue.

Behind me, the ghat is waking. Footsteps on stone. A priest’s voice begins the morning chant somewhere upriver:

"Om Namah Shivaaya... Om Namah Shivaaya..."

The sound rolls across the water like distant thunder.

I gather my thali and stand slowly. My legs are unsteady. I pull my dupatta over my head, covering the bruises, the marks, the evidence.

I take one last look at Ganeshji.

"Agli baar phir aayenge." (I’ll come again.)

I always do.

RAAJVARDHAN

Devgarh, Shiva Temple4:30 AM

The temple courtyard is silent except for the sound of water.

I stand waist-deep in the sacredkund, bare-chested, the cold biting into my skin like teeth. The water is dark—almost black in the pre-dawn light. Above me, the temple’s white stone spire cuts into the sky like a blade. The marble Shivling stands at the center of the sanctum, draped in bilva leaves and fresh marigolds, the abhishek already prepared by the priests.

But I don’t let anyone else perform myRudra Abhishek.

This is between Mahadev and me.

I climb out of the kund, water streaming off my shoulders, my chest, pooling at my feet. Mydhoticlings to my legs. The Rudraksha mala around my neck is heavy, each bead cold against my skin. I don’t remove it. Ever.

"Sarpanch ji," Pandit Vishwanath’s voice is soft, reverent. He’s been the temple priest since my grandfather’s time. White-haired, thin as a stick, but his voice can shake the walls when he chants. ”Sab tayyar hai." (Everything is ready.)

I nod once and step into the sanctum.

The air here is thick with incense and camphor. Diyas flicker in every corner, casting long shadows. The marble floor is cold beneath my feet. At the center, the Shivling rises—smooth, black stone, ancient beyond memory. Garlanded. Anointed. Waiting.

I kneel before it.

My hands are steady as I pour the first offering—jalfrom the Ganga, carried here in a brasskalash. The water runs over the Shivling in silver streams, pooling in theyoni peethabelow.

"Om Namah Shivaaya..."

My voice is low. Controlled. But inside, something cracks.

I pour milk next. White against black. The scent is clean, pure.

"Om Tryambakam Yajamahe, Sugandhim Pushtivardhanam..."

(We worship the three-eyed One, who is fragrant and nourishes all beings...)

My father used to chant this. Every morning, before the sun rose, he would stand here—right here—and perform abhishek. I was twelve when I first joined him. He placed my small hands on the kalash and guided me through the ritual.

"Shiv tumhe sab samajh dete hain, beta," he’d said, his voice deep, certain. ”Tum bas sacche mann se maango. Woh jaroor sunte hain." (Shiv understands everything, son. You just ask with a true heart. He always listens.)

I was fifteen when they found his body in the river.

“Accident,” they said. “Slipped on the ghat steps,” they said.

Liars. All of them.

I pour honey over the Shivling. It drips slowly, golden, thick. My jaw clenches.

"Urvaarukamiva Bandhanaan, Mrityor Muksheeya Maamritaat..."

(Liberate me from death for the sake of immortality, like a ripe cucumber is separated from its vine...)

Baba.If you’re listening—if you’re anywhere in this vast, indifferent universe—tell me who did this. Tell me who took you from me. Tell me how to burn them down.

I pourdahinext. Yogurt, white and cool. Thenghee. Thenshahad. Thenpanchamrit—a mixture of all five, sacred and ancient.

My hands move on instinct. I’ve done this a thousand times. Ten thousand. Muscle memory. Soul memory.

"Om Namah Shivaaya... Om Namah Shivaaya... Om Namah Shivaaya..."

Each chant is a hammer strike against the silence.

I pour water again to cleanse the offerings. Then I drape fresh bilva leaves over the Shivling—ek, do, teen—three leaves on each stem, the way Mahadev prefers. I place marigold garlands. I light camphor in the brassaarti thali. The flame leaps high, blue-white, fierce.

I lift the thali and begin theaarti, moving it in slow circles. The smoke curls upward, thick and fragrant.

"Jai Shiv Omkara, Har Shiv Omkara...Brahma Vishnu Sadashiv, Ardhangi Dhaara..."

(Glory to Shiva, the embodiment of Om... Brahma, Vishnu, and the eternal Shiva, with the goddess as his half...)

My voice rises now, filling the sanctum. The walls seem to hum with it. The diyas flicker wildly.

Outside, I hear my men shifting. Rajan. Bhairav. Suresh. All waiting in the courtyard, heads bowed, hands folded. They know better than to interrupt.

I complete the aarti and set the thali down. My breathing is heavier now, my chest rising and falling. Sweat mixes with the sacred water still dripping from my hair.

I press my forehead to the cold marble floor.

"Mahadev," I whisper. ”Mujhe shakti do. Mujhe nyaay dilwaao. Jinke haathon se Baba gaye... unhe meri aakhon ke saamne laao. Main tumse yahi maangta hoon. Bas yahi."

(Mahadev, give me strength. Grant me justice. Those by whose hands I lost Baba... bring them before my eyes. This is all I ask of you. Just this.)

Silence.

The diyas flicker. The incense smoke curls.

I stay there, forehead pressed to stone, waiting for something—anything—a sign, a whisper, a crack in the universe.

Nothing comes.

It never does.

I stand slowly, my knees stiff, my chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to grief. But I don’t let it rise. I crush it down, bury it deep where it can’t touch me.

Grief is a luxury I can’t afford.

I drape a fresh angavastram over my shoulder and step out of the sanctum.

Pandit Vishwanath is waiting, his hands folded, his eyes soft with something that looks like concern.

"Sarpanch ji," he says quietly. ”Aaj aapki aarti mein alag hi prabhav tha." (Today, your aarti had a different power.)

I don’t respond. I move toward the courtyard where my men wait.

"Sarpanch ji—"

I stop. Turn slightly. ”Kya hai, Pandit ji?" (What is it?)

He hesitates, then steps closer, his voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial.

"Shiv–Shakti ka milan hoga. Tumhari raah aa rahi hai." (The union of Shiv and Shakti will happen. Your path is coming.)

I stare at him. ”Kis raah ki baat kar rahe ho aap?" (What path are you talking about?)

He smiles—gentle, knowing, infuriating. ”Jo tumhara adhoora hai, woh poora hoga. Jo tumhare paas nahi hai, woh aayega. Mahadev ne suna hai tumhari prarthna. Jawab denge. Apne tarike se."

(That which is incomplete in you will be completed. That which you don’t have will come. Mahadev has heard your prayer. He will answer. In his own way.)

I feel a muscle tick in my jaw. ”Main insaaf maang raha hoon, Pandit ji. Aur kuch nahi." (I’m asking for justice, Pandit ji. Nothing else.)

"Insaaf aayega, Sarpanch ji. Lekin uske saath aur bhi bohot kuch aayega." (Justice will come, Sarpanch ji. But along with it, much more will come too.)

I turn fully now, my voice hardening. ”Mujhe aapki pehliyan nahi chahiye. Mujhe sirf sach chahiye." (I don’t need your riddles. I only need the truth.)

He bows his head slightly. ”Shiv ka sach kabhi seedha nahi hota, beta. Woh ghumaakar aata hai. Aur jab aata hai... sab badal deta hai."

(Shiv’s truth is never straightforward, son. It comes in circles. And when it comes... it changes everything.)

I exhale sharply through my nose and walk away before I say something I’ll regret. Pandit Vishwanath has known me since I was born. He held me when I was named. He performed Baba’s last rites.

But sometimes, I think grief has made him half-mad.

Shiv-Shakti. Milan. Raah.

Nonsense.

I stride across the courtyard where Rajan straightens immediately, his face respectful but alert.

"Sarpanch ji, gaadi tayyar hai." (Sarpanch ji, the car is ready.)

"Haan. Chalo." (Yes. Let’s go.)

We move through the temple gates—tall, carved wood, older than Devgarh itself. Outside, the Ambassador is parked under the banyan tree, its white paint glowing faintly in the early light. Bhairav stands by the driver’s door, keys in hand. Suresh leans against the hood, arms crossed.

They all straighten when I approach.

I don’t acknowledge it. I simply slide into the back seat, the door closing with a heavythunk.

Through the window, I see the temple courtyard one last time. The Shivling inside, still wet from abhishek. The diyas still burning. The smoke still rising.

Shiv-Shakti ka milan hoga.

I close my eyes and lean back against the seat.

Ridiculous.

The only thing I need is the name of the man who killed my father. Everything else is just noise.

"Haveli chalein, Sarpanch ji?" Bhairav asks. (Shall we head to the haveli, Sarpanch ji?)

"Haan," I say without opening my eyes. (Yes.)

The engine rumbles to life. The car pulls away from the temple, wheels crunching over gravel.

I don’t look back.

AUTHOR

Banaras and Devgarh — Same Dawn, Different Worlds

She kneels before Ganesh, whispering prayers with a voice that trembles like a candle flame in the wind.

He stands before Shiv, chanting mantras with a voice that could command storms.

She is twenty, broken by a world that sees her as currency.

He is thirty, hardened by a loss that sees the world as a battleground.

She asks for one day without fear.

He asks for a lifetime of vengeance.

She is surrounded by mist and silence.

He is surrounded by power and loyalty.

They are miles apart.

They are worlds apart.

And yet—

“Door hoke bhi paas hain. Raahen alag hain, manzil ek hai.”

(Even while distant, they are near. The paths are different, the destination is one.)

The gods, it seems, have a sense of poetry.

AARADHYA

Back to Banaras, 5:15 AM

I climb the ghat steps slowly, my thali pressed to my chest, my bare feet slapping softly against wet stone. The sky is brighter now—streaks of pink and gold bleeding into the blue. The city is fully awake. Bicycle bells ring in the lanes above. Vendors call out their morning wares. Thedoodhwalarattles past on his cycle.

"Doodh le lo! Taaza doodh!" (Get your milk! Fresh milk!)

I pull my dupatta lower and walk faster. I don’t want anyone to see my face. Not today. Not when the tears are still fresh.

I turn into the narrow lane that leads to thekua, needing water before heading home. But as I approach, I hear voices—women already gathered, chattering like sparrows.

I slow my steps.

"...suna tumne? Sarpanch ji subah-subah mandir gaye the." (...did you hear? Sarpanch ji went to the temple early this morning.)

My feet stop.

"Haan haan, Shiv mandir. Rudra Abhishek karte hain woh khud. Koi pandit nahi." (Yes yes, Shiv temple. He performs Rudra Abhishek himself. No priest.)

"Arre, unke jaisa vyakti kahin nahi milega. Itni shakti, itna dharm, itna nyaay..." (Oh, you won’t find a person like him anywhere. So much strength, so much righteousness, so much justice...)

"Lekin gussa bhi usi ke barabar aata hai." someone adds, voice dropping. (But his anger also matches all of that.)

A few women laugh nervously.

I hover at the edge of the group, unsure whether to approach. My hands tighten on my thali.

"Dekho dekho, Aaradhya aayi," Savitri Mausi notices me and waves. (Look look, Aaradhya is here.)

I force a small smile and move forward, setting my thali down to pick up the empty matka.

"Subah-subah mandir gayi thi?" she asks gently. (Went to the temple early morning?)

"Ji, Mausi." (Yes, Mausi.)

She studies my face—too carefully. Her eyes linger on my cheek, where I know the old bruise is still visible despite my attempts to hide it.

But she doesn’t ask. She never does. None of them do.

That’s the thing about small towns. Everyone knows. No one speaks.

I wait my turn at the pump, listening to the women chatter about the Sarpanch, about village politics, about whose daughter is getting married and whose son got a government job.

Normal lives. Simple lives.

Lives I will never have.

When my turn comes, I fill the matka quickly, the water splashing cold against my hands. I lift it carefully, balancing it on my head. The weight settles onto my skull, pressing down on my neck, my spine.

I’ve carried water like this since I was eight years old.

I turn to leave—

And that’s when I see them.

At the far end of the lane, where it opens onto the main road, a white Ambassador is parked. Three men stand beside it—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing cream kurtas and stern expressions. Village guards. Maybe. Or maybe something more.

And then the back door opens.

A man steps out.

Even from this distance—even through the haze of morning mist and the weight of water on my head—I can feel the shift in the air. The way the lane goes quieter. The way the women’s voices drop to whispers.

He’s tall. Very tall. White kurta, broad shoulders, hair slightly long. He moves with the kind of certainty that comes from never having to ask permission for anything.

I can’t see his face clearly. But I don’t need to.

Sarpanch ji.

The name hovers in my mind like a prayer I’m not supposed to speak.

He says something to one of the men. His voice is too low to hear, but it carries weight. Authority. The men nod immediately, moving to flank him as he walks toward the lane—toward us.

My heart kicks against my ribs.

I don’t know why. I don’t know him. I’ve never even seen him up close.

But something in my chest tightens like a fist.

"Arre, Sarpanch ji aa rahe hain," someone whispers urgently. (Oh, Sarpanch ji is coming.)

The women immediately straighten, adjusting their dupattas, smoothing their hair. Respect. Fear. Reverence. All mixed together.

I should move. I should walk away. But my feet won’t listen.

He’s closer now. Twenty feet. Fifteen.

The mist shifts, and for just a moment—one moment—his face comes into view.

Sharp jawline. Dark eyes. A thin scar on his forearm, visible below his rolled sleeve. A Rudraksha mala around his neck.

And an expression like stone.

Our eyes meet.

I don’t breathe.

The world narrows to just that—his gaze and mine, locked across the morning mist, across the space between his world and mine.

His steps slow. Just slightly. His brow furrows, as if he’s trying to place me, as if something about me is familiar even though we’ve never met.

My heart is hammering now, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.

And then—

"Aaradhya!" Meera’s voice breaks the moment. She grabs my elbow, tugging me backward. ”Chal na, der ho rahi hai!" (Come on, it’s getting late!)

I stumble, the matka wobbling dangerously on my head. I catch it just in time, water sloshing over the rim, cold against my neck.

When I look back—

He’s already walking past, his men flanking him, his face turned away.

But something in my chest is still trembling.

"Kya hua tujhe?" Meera hisses, her eyes wide. ”Sarpanch ji ko aise ghoorne lagi? Pagal hai kya?" (What’s wrong with you? Staring at Sarpanch ji like that? Are you crazy?)

"Main... main nahi..." (I... I wasn’t...)

But I was.

I was staring.

And he was staring back.

"Chal, chal," Meera pulls me away, practically dragging me down the lane. (Come, come.)

I follow, my legs unsteady, the matka heavy on my head, my heart heavier still.

I don’t look back.

But I feel it—like heat against my spine—the weight of his gaze, even after he’s gone.

By the time I reach home, the sun is fully risen. Golden light spills into the narrow lanes, painting everything in shades of amber and dust.

I push open the broken door, and the smell of stale alcohol hits me like a fist.

Babuji is awake.

And he’s already drunk.

"Aaradhya!" His voice is a slurred roar. ”Kahaan thi?! Subah-subah gayab ho jaati hai!"

(Aaradhya! Where were you?! You disappear early in the morning!)

I lower the matka carefully, my hands shaking. ”Babuji, paani laane gayi thi—" (Babuji, I went to get water—)

"Jhooth!" He staggers toward me. ”Mandir gayi thi! Wahaan baith ke pooja karti hai, jab ghar mein kaam pada hai!"

(Lies! You went to the temple! Sitting there doing prayers when there’s work to be done at home!)

"Babuji please—"

The slap comes without warning.

CRACK.

My head snaps to the side. Pain explodes across my cheek, white-hot, blinding. I taste copper. Blood.

"Nikammi!" he spits. (Useless!)

I press my hand to my burning cheek and bite down on the sob rising in my throat.

Ganeshji,I think desperately.Bas ek din. Please.

But the prayer feels empty now.

Because I know the truth.

There will be no day without this.

There will be no escape.

There is only survival.

And even that, some days, feels like too much to ask.

END OF CHAPTER 1

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