The next morning, Rithanya woke with the faint trace of a dream, like a memory slipping away at dawn.
For a brief moment, she was no longer here.
A child again… in a garden of herbs, laughter soft in the air…
And someone beside her.
A presence, guiding, patient… just out of reach.
It was a dream she had seen before, always fading before it could be understood.
Then her mother’s voice.
“Wake up, dear… you will emerge from the flames… you carry my strength within you…”
The words echoed softly, fading, yet deeply reassuring.
She lay still for a moment, holding onto the feeling… the warmth, the certainty.
But it slipped away.
And reality settled in.
She exhaled and rose, quiet and composed, like a warrior stepping into another battle.
She had been twelve when she lost her mother. Since then, she had learned to redirect her pain, pouring it quietly into nurturing plants and herbs.
The memory of her mother’s face had faded, but her life lessons and strength remained.
She walked toward the backyard, seeking the quiet comfort of the garden, the only place that softened the sting of the previous evening’s humiliation.
As she approached, she heard Annapoornamma’s voice, her pitch high enough to carry from a distance.
Rithanya’s toes pressed into the ground as she stopped. She gently tiptoed and hid behind one of the pillars.
Relief passed through her.
Had she arrived a few minutes earlier, she would have been caught in the garden.
Peeking from behind the pillar, she saw the gardener standing before Annapoornamma, his hands folded, his head hanging low, his face pale with fear.
“I clearly told you to take care of the herbs. My daughter can deliver anytime. We need them for both mother and child,” she vented.
“I’m sorry… I tried…” he said, struggling to explain.
“I don’t need excuses,” she replied firmly.
“One week. If they don’t recover, you’re out. I will find someone else,” she thundered, leaving no room for explanation.
The gardener stood still, confused and worried. As he lifted his head to leave, his gaze fell on Rithanya standing near the pillar.
He paused, thinking.
Involving Rithanya was risky, as the Aranthads disliked her. But ignoring her knowledge of herbs would cost him his job anyway.
He slowly walked toward her.
“The herbs… they need your help,” he said, his voice humble.
Rithanya did not say a word.
“I need my job… those herbs are beyond my understanding,” he added, reluctantly admitting his shortcomings.
Rithanya thought for a moment.
She couldn’t sit all day near the pillar; her mind kept drifting. This was an opportunity she couldn’t miss.
It was risky but worth it.
“Okay. I will,” she replied, soft but confident.
The gardener left with a faint smile, hoping his problem would be solved.
Rithanya followed him to the garden, silent, but with purpose.
A week passed.
Rithanya had found motivation to keep herself busy, to wake each morning with a smile, to choose calm over chaos.
It was Thursday.
Knowing the importance of the evening event, she made plans for herself. She decided to visit the nearby temple to avoid sitting alone in her room.
Permission was the last thing she would seek.
Rithanya checked the verandah. No one was around.
She walked toward the gate but stopped when she saw someone approaching. She stepped aside and waited until they had passed.
Then she walked out quietly, unnoticed, at least, she thought so.
Near the old neem tree, just beyond where the light reached, someone stood watching her. Not hidden. But not ready to be revealed either.
Simply watching.
Her exclusion, her pain, her resilience.
As she stepped out, a sudden fear consumed her. She was walking alone amidst angry villagers, with fresh wounds of deceit. She quickly covered her head with her pallu and walked briskly.
The temple stood by the river, ancient and steady, a place devoted to the Goddess of Strength, the embodiment of divine feminine energy.
Even from a distance, it felt powerful.
As she approached the entrance, she noticed a crowd.
She stopped.
Then quickly moved behind a tree, searching for another way in.
Before she could decide, the crowd began moving toward the temple hall, adjacent to the main shrine, reserved for cultural performances.
A stage had been set, and people began occupying the seats.
The entrance cleared, and she slipped inside.
The moment she entered, an invisible flow of energy passed through her.
The air felt different. Still. Sacred.
A calm settled over her, easing the fear she had carried.
A sudden sense of belonging filled her, the kind she had always longed for.
Involuntarily, her palms came together and her head bowed in devotion. Tears finally found their way down her cheeks. A quiet moment of peace and gratitude embraced her.
She sat there, absorbing the calm and tranquility.
After a few minutes, she rose to leave, when a song from the stage caught her attention.
His voice… mesmerizing…
The depth in his tone… impossible to ignore…
She stood still, hypnotized, as the world around her faded.
The devotional song invoked the blessings of the Goddess, accompanied by traditional instruments.
She felt a pull, almost physical, as though her senses had moved forward, leaving the rest of her behind.
Her thoughts, usually restless, fell into a rare, attentive silence.
The song ended with a mantra, verses speaking of resilience in difficult times.
Slowly, the spell loosened. Her body remembered itself, and the world resumed.
But something within her had shifted.
Eager to see the singer, she moved toward the hall but stopped midway upon noticing familiar faces from the village, the victims of the jewellery scam.
She couldn’t risk going closer. The crowd was beginning to disperse; she might get caught among them.
She turned to leave.
As she walked away, an announcement echoed from the stage: “The devotional song series will continue next week… same day… same time.”
Her heart skipped a beat.
She composed herself quickly and hurried back to the Aranthad residence.
At the house, the weekly gathering had taken place as usual. No one had noticed her absence. She slipped quietly into her room.
The night was still but her thoughts were not.
She turned from side to side, chasing sleep that wouldn’t come. Her mind clung to something far more compelling, the memory of the singer. His voice replayed again and again.
What was so magical about it?
Was it the lyrics?
The tune?
The devotion?
No.
His voice… captivating…
Who was he?
From the same village, or invited?
Had she heard him before?
She couldn’t understand her fascination.
Why couldn’t she forget his voice?
She sat in silence and an answer surfaced.
The pain.
The pain in his voice felt like her own.
Though he sang of devotion, his voice carried a depth of sorrow only she could recognize.
Without her consent, her heart longed to hear him again, to soothe her buried emotions, to draw strength from his words.
Awaiting the next Thursday…
Like a garden yearning for the rain it once felt to nurture itself and bloom again.
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Author’s Note:
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