The night had seemed to darken much later over the village like some kind of half-whispered mantra, light breaking through the banyan trees in golden threads that patterned a saga of shadow and brightness. Mannn stood at the edge of the grove, his breath clouding in the cool morning air, the rudraksha mala painfully heavy about his wrist. From behind him, the temple bell faintly rang, a single ding hanging like a question in the air, drifting away to mingle with the sparrow chatter and the dulling moo of a cow somewhere far. The kurta he wore clung cold against his sweaty skin, still a reminder of the wildly sensual dream that had shattered him awake—the woman, her hands filled with lotuses, her voice like a river flowing back, calling his name: Mannn. The lotus scent was chased away with dawn, though the memories lingered on him, a sugandh laced with a delicate yearning and discomfort.
With the stone chill against his back, he had lain as an unsettled mass on a straw mat in the temple. Cool air resonated with the ache in his heart: a Medusa lie on a forty-watt filament, heavy and blurry, with Meera's visage hovering in the backdrop, her laughter fading into that of the divine woman. He could hardly tell the one echo from the other. "Yeh kaun si awaaz hai?" he whispered into the dark, fingers gripping the locket that felt warm in his hand like she was pulsing within it. Could that have been Meera, reaching from beyond the veil, or was it Devi, the goddess, testing him in ways for which he was not ready? The elf-like old man's warning of the previous night found its way into his heart: Jo dil se dil tak pyar karte hain, unhe van apna bana leta hai; every step toward the grove was pricked by doubt's thorn.
Over many miles, there came to him an unmistakable stirring in the other direction toward the grove, some silent call that drew his heart like the tide. Mustard patches glimmered neat and conspicuous under the morning sun, their yellow heads nodding in respect to the woods beyond. A woman whisked past, her crimson sari streaking forth, effortlessly balancing a clay pot on her hip. She cast a glance at him with a curious, restrained gaze, and then offered a nod. "Van mein jao, par sambhal ke," she whispered softly. Go to the grove, but be careful. Her words, mild yet heavy, rang the bells of caution echoed by the old man. Mannn's throat tightened. "Shukriya," he mumbled, voice hoarse, well behind her as the tinkling of her bangles droned softly along; faintly reminding Mannn of a distant aarti.
He traversed into the grove; the air changed as he walked through the corridor of trees that carried a chill more than dense with the fragrance of moss and wild jasmine; the Banyaan trees stood taller, their roots sprawling like ancient yogis stuck in penance. Their leaves swayed amidst the breeze, a sargam of secrets that almost murmured his name. Mannn's sandals sunk into the soft soil; with every step he took, he seemed to pray; with every breath, he surrendered to the unknown. The grove whispered life back at him beneath his feet: a pulse in sync with his own heartbeats. He felt welcomed yet observed, as if the trees were sentinels, shadows watching his worth.
The pathway grew finer, deeper into the heart of the forest, fading the sounds of the village: children laughing, clattering pots-soothing hums now. Sunlight came filtering through the foliage, splitting into patches of vibrant hues on the floor, an ever-changing movie play of light and shadow. Mannn had lifted a finger to caress a banyan root: cool and leathery to the touch, faintly carved. He knelt and traced the faint outlines-the outlines of two lovers embracing in forms long-forgotten. Their handsard entangled in a gesture signifying eternal union. Over their shoulders, a lotus bloomed. Petals carved so delicately they seemed to breathe life into him. He gasped, triggered to recall a memory of Meera holding his hand in the city park; her laughter echoed through, irritatingly teasing and sweet, as she traced his palm with her finger, "Yeh lakeer, Mannn, yeh humari kahaani hai." This line, Mannn, this is our story.
A shard that gouged through the calm waters he tried to manifest: a scream from within. Slowly withdrawing his hand, he coughed out words that clawed at his heart: "Tum kyun chali gayi, Meera?" Why did you leave me? The grove seemed to answer, the rustling leaves raucous, the whispers in a language he could not fathom. He rose, eyes sweeping the trees, looking for something, anything—any sign, any presence, the woman of his dream. The heaviness in the air collided with the sharper accents of jasmine and something earthier, drifting somewhere across the veil of consciousness like sandalwood in the aftermath of rain, human heartbeats racing, synchronizing with the drumming of the grove upon which she now deigned with a weight, an envelope of warmth across peeping skin.
He stood there trembling in the stillness, eyes closed, chanting ayah sarvabhuteshu Vishnu-Maya Rupena Samsthita- the Sanskrit verse from the Devi Mahatmyam begging for clarity. O Devi, who resides in all beings as the power of Vishnu's illusion. The words supplied him with a kind of steadiness; the very cadence pulling him back to life, but with the whispers of the grove growing louder-Mannn, Mannn- syllables he almost understood. He froze, and shallow breathing had just added to the tightening upon his fingers clutching the rudraksha mala. "Kaun ho tum?" he breathed, the Hindi a challenge to the unseen. Who are you? The grove fell silent, as if holding its breath, and for a moment, he was left alone in the weight of his question.
Then he saw it: a shadow, fleeting and human-shaped, moving between the banyans with edges blurred in dappled light. His heart gave a leap-mixed with fear and hope-and he moved ahead, the snap of a twig underfoot from his sandal. "Ruko!" he called, voice once again slicing the stillness. Wait! The shadow halted, turned slightly, and for a heartbeat, he saw a silhouette-aflame behind a veil of woman's form, equally known and unknown. The eyes (his or hers?)—it appeared that their glances had crossed though shadows obscured her face like a blur in a dream. Then she was gone, disappearing into the trees, with only a ripple in the atmosphere, a remnant aroma of lotus that intertwined with him like a lover's sigh.
Mannn lurched forth, breath ragged, desperately grasping for where she had been. "Wapas aao," he begged, his voice breaking. Come back! Yet again, the grove had become silent, not a leaf stirred in the morning light, and fireflies had long been banished. He sank down to his knees, the ground very soft beneath him, and pressed his palms to the earth, feeling its pulse, its warmth. "Yeh sach hai ya maya?" he murmured, a conflict of awe and doubt in his voice. Is this real or illusion? The carvings loomed above him, the lovers' embrace a silent reply, their lotus glowing faintly, as if sustained with the very light of the grove.
He would have sat back, his kurta stuck all over his body now; his fingers quivering, searching the pocket for the locket. Meera flashed through his mind-Her eyes, bright as kohl-lined stars, her laughter like a breaking monsoon. They had met in a poetry class where her voice had rung out boldly as she critiqued his work, but that smile softened the sting. "Tum shabdon se pyar karte ho, Mannn, par dil se bhi jeena seekho," she said, her words igniting his world. You love words, Mannn, but learn to live from the heart too. They would spend such evenings at the river, her head on his shoulder, his poems whispered into the night. The fever rose suddenly, taking her away in days, leaving him with only the locket, her hair, and a pleading: "Prakaash, Mannn. Usse dhoondh." The light, Mannn. Find it.
Standing in the grove, that light seemed close again and far away. The divine woman: was she an echo of Meera, a goddess, or just a figment of his grief? He opened the notebook, its pages weathered with travel. With a twig, he wrote a poem in soil, words spilling like tears: Within the shade of banyan, whispers call, lotus blooms dim where shadow falls. Is this thy voice, my heart's own flame, Or Devi's dance, with none to name?
He stared at those words with his chest choking and swept them off-hand in a wave, dirt scattering like ashes. "Yeh koi khel nahi hai," he became angrier at his weakness, his need to rationalize the irrational. This is no game. He had risen, dusting off the dirt from his palms, and again set his eyes upon the carvings. The lovers' hands joined forever appeared to mock him for his solitude; yet, their lotus remained a glimmer of hope, a symbol of purity rising from muck.
The grove sighed, a breeze caressing the leaves, bringing in the scent of jasmine and sandalwood, a sugandh that felt like her touch. Mannn closed his eyes as he surrendered to the caress of air, reciting, "Om Hreem Shreem Kleem Maha Lakshmi Namaha," the Sanskrit invocation to Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune and love, a plea for guidance. The vibration of his words resonated in his chest, their rhythm catching in time with that of the grove, and just for a moment, he felt whole with the divine woman's presence filling the void Meera had left behind. "Main sun raha hoon," he whispered, softly yet firmly. I am listening.
He plunged deeper, treading upon the ground, where the shadow had disappeared, with steadiness, albeit tentative. Here, the banyans had become denser with roots that created arches as if guarding some sacred space. More carvings of elephants, peacocks, and a flute player who, maybe, was Krishna, half- eroded yet oozing grace. Each carved image felt like another breadcrumb leading him toward her, closer to the truth. It became hotter, and the jasmine stench sharpened, then he felt her again, not as a shadow but as a breath, warmth that caressed the back of his neck and made all the hairs on his skin stand up. "Tum yahan ho," he said, so low that thereafter was a hollow silence, the Hindi a promise to the unseen. You are here.
The trail ended at a clearing, where a single banyan stood, its canopy vast, its roots a cathedral of earth and shadow. There was a small shrine at its base, its stone weathered, adorned with faded vermilion and wilted marigolds. It housed a self-contained lingam, bright and fresh, untouched by dust, as though it had never known the care of human hands. Mannn knelt, his heart pounding, and touched the stone, its coolness grounding him. "Shivo Bhokta, Shivo Mukta," he chanted, the Sanskrit offering to Shiva, the enjoyer, the liberator, his voice echoing in the clearing, the grove seeming to listen, its whispers softening, a chorus that held its breath. He stood up, surveying the clearing in search of the shadow, of her. The fireflies were gone, yet the sunlight broke in such a way that it cast a pattern below-an imperceptible, exquisite, lotus summoned by leaves and light. He caught his breath, a sob rising in his throat, and he whispered, "Yeh tumhara ishaara hai, na?" Is this your sign? The grove responded with a rustle, a sigh, a pulse that matched his own, and he felt her, not as a vision but as a presence, a shakti that wove through the air, the earth, his very soul. He sat under the banyan, back against the trunk, notebook open on lap. The poem he had erased continued in his mind and was penned again in ink, his shaking hand: In banyan's shade, whisper calls. A lotus blooms where shadow falls. Is this thy voice, my heart's own flame, Or Devi's dance with none to name? He closed the notebook, heavy-chested, and looked at the shrine, the lingam, the lotus circle on the ground. The shadowy figure, the whispers, the scent - these were as real as anything, not maya, not madness. "Main dhoondhunga," he vowed, steady voice, Hindi promise to the grove, to her. I will find you. The banyan leaves rustled, soft applause, and the jasmine scent deepened, a sugandh that was both her and the grove, a love that was both human and divine. Mannn remained standing, his kurta stained with earth, his heart a mélange of grief and hope. The grove became a place alone; it was a mirror to reflect all his pain, longing, and soul. He retraced his steps on the pathway, the shadow of the banyan stretching behind him, the roots morose with memories of lovers carved in stone. The divine woman was here, in the whispers, in the lotus, in the air he breathed. And although Meera's absence burned, the grove offered a light, faint but undeniable, a prakaash he would chase, no matter the cost.