He was on a path of angry red earth baked by the unyielding sun and dust-laden with traces of footsteps of thousands. Mannn walked alone, with his worn sandals slapping soft against the ground, every step a quiet defiance of the life he had left behind. A hallowed cloth satchel, light on the shoulder and empty in its meaning, carried inside the long-lost kurta, an unfinished little notepad with some half-finished poems, a rudraksha mala, and a silver locket that he cannot open. The air is thick, heavy with monsoon promises, rich with odorich in fields of mustard, swaying along joyous yellow waves: pollen dusting his skin like a faint blessing. Above churn Saffron and ash up and down the sky, clouds that curled like smoke from a havan, and as if the gods were discussing his arrival, their voices wove themselves into the low hum of the wind.
Mannn was thirty-two years old, although grief had crude lines into his face so as to group him with those much older; even his dark eyes bore a load that no mirror could reflect. His hair was once neat but now fell like waves, combed wild by dust from his journey. Three years back, he lost his first love, Meera, who had died of fever and all she had said was: "Mannn, khoj lo uss prakaash ko." He had got it, however—to poetry bleeding over pages, through teaching children reminding him of Meera's laughter, through the clamor of city life that drowned all his thoughts. The light had evaded him and replaced by a hollow ache gnawing through the bones, a dard no mantra could soothe. The city days were noise: rickshaw horns, crowded markets and endless laborer figures chatting with one another—but even then, the silence Meera left behind was not filled with words. There will always be a shadow in the form of her absence right at my side-a shadow heavier than the satchel I now carry.
Then came undefinable and unremitting dreams. An ancient and alive grove with twisting banyan roots, similar to veins of earth, pulsing with secrets older than time. A voice—feminine, soft as a flute's lament, and yet vast as the sky—called his name: Mannn. While it was not Meera's voice here, it bore the same warmth, the same unbearability of intimacy that made his chest tighten. It certainly sounded older, deeper, like the universe had learnt to sing in Sanskrit. He'd resisted for months, dismissing the dreams as tricks of a broken mind, the fancy of loss and tanhai. He would sit under the night light by his window as the neon from the city mocked him in those moments of solitude, saying none of it ever amounted to anything-a poet's fancy, a heart's refusal to heal. The voice began to grow more insistent, weaving itself into his waking hours—murmuring among the leaves of the peepal outside his apartment, humming in the flickering of a diya at the local mandir. One night, he woke to the scent of sandalwood, though no incense burned. His fingers, trembling, found the locket in his pocket, its silver warm as if kissed by breath. "Yeh koi sapna nahi hai," he whispered, heart pounding. This was no dream.
That moment had broken him open. He could stay no longer in this city of memories-Magara cafes, where they would drink chai, such as that park, where he made his poems come alive under her voice, dancing like the bells of a temple. All history was sold, all earthly possessions given away, all travel led by the dreams to this forgotten village, where no secret map ever recorded its name but only his soul etched it like a mantra. It was a long way, dusty buses rattling everything within him, crowded trains borrowing strangers' eyes to avoid his, and again this solitary walk carrying him through fields that seemed to whisper his name. His kurta was drenched in sweat as it clung to his skin and his throat dry, but his steps were sure, born of an unfathomable certainty.
Now, as the sun hung low down fiery streaks in the horizon, Mannn mounted a hill. Below lay the village, close in a cluster of mud-walled houses, huddled about the tower of a temple, stone-topped, catching the last light as though it were partaking in a silent aarti. Thatched straw roofs characterized the village, some of them decked with drying chilies glowing red against the demon of dusk. Beyond this village lay the grove-that bewitched green shadow sea, throbbing and casting its own rhythm, the rhythm that matched the dna in his chest. His breath was sharp, electric, half-paralyzed in the shock of a hug that was half prayer and half fear. It was a different air here-thicker, laced with jasmine over something unnameable, like a memory of a vow spoken in another life. His chest tightened not with fear but with acknowledgment. "Yeh wahi jagah hai," he murmured, the Hindi slipping from his lips like a confession. This was the place. This was where she waited, whoever, whatever she is. A goddess, a spirit, or perhaps just a piece of his broken heart, he could not say. But the grove knew him, and he knew it, as one knows the curve of a lover's hand.
He decended with a shadow long stretched before him-a dark twin that seemed to hesitate just at the edge of the village. The path grew softer underfoot, the red earth giving way to patches of grass, moist from a drizzle before. A peacock screamed in that grove, uncertainly a blade of sound against the evening hush. Mannn stopped to let fingers brush against the rudraksha mala encircling his wrist, its beads smoothed over years of prayer. "Om Namah Shivaya," he softly murmured in connection with this mantra from Sanskrit, the tether to earth, the covering to the vague. Shiva, destiny, ascetic, had been the haven for him after Meera's death. In the stillness of Shiva, he would rest, finding his way to silence the chaos grief had created. He would spend the night collaring and calling to Shiva with the mala slipping over his fingertips like a snaky river, each bead a step toward detachment. It was not Shiva's austerity stirring him in adoration tonight, however, but something wilder and softer—Shakti, the divine feminine, dancing through rivers and storms, traced in the curve of Meera's smile, in the voice that called to him now.
It had become a desolate village, the people retreating into their shells as dusk drew that shawl against the earth. Smoke curled from chimneys, mingling with woodfire and roasted cumin in the air, and somehow there was jasmine scenting the place. A few eyes followed him from doorways but were reined back with curiosity tempered with caution, as if weighing his purpose. At the well stood a woman in a green sari whose bangles clinked in drawing water; her glance was brief and warm. She stretched out her clay cup to him, offering the cool taste of earth. Yatree ho?" she asked simply, her soft voice all she needed to complete the rugged reality. "Are you a traveler?" Mannn nodded, murmuring thanks, the cool waters soothing his parched throat. "Mandir mein raho" she added, providing a reference to the temple. Her eyes checked his hold on the satchel, the dust-streaked kurta, as if sensing the burden he carried.
Nearby, children played around a banyan tree, singing with voices as fleeting echoes of Meera's, bright and unrestrained. One boy aged about seven ran close, and his eyes were saying all kinds of things pricking out with curiosity. "Tum kahan se aaye ho?" he asked, bold despite the fading light. Where are you from? Mannn smiled, though his heart clenched, the boy's voice stirring memories of Meera teaching her students, her hands shaping their words like clay. "Bohot door se," he replied, his voice gentle. From very far. The boy grinned, then darted back to his friends, their game resuming as if Mannn were already forgotten. He watched them, his fingers tightening around the locket in his pocket, its edges biting into his palm. Inside was a single strand of Meera's hair, kept since her pyre, a relic he hadn't opened in years, afraid of the yaad it would unleash-grief, yes, but also the love that still burned, a jwala unquenched.
An old man had placed himself below that other banyan tree whose roots spread across the ground like arms of the sage in meditation. His white dhoti was stark against the gathering dark, his face a map of creases, his eyes sharp with a knowing that made Mannn's skin prickle. Glinting faintly was a brass lota beside him, its surface etched with fading mantras. He chewed paan, the red stain of betel leaf on his lips like some ritual mark. As Mannn approached, the old man spat into the dust, the red now spreading like spilled blood, and spoke, his voice low, like the drone of a tanpura, "Tum van ke liye aaye ho, na?" You've come for the grove, haven't you?
Mannn nodded, throat tight and heavy in question. How could he explain the dreams, the voice, the pull that had uprooted him from everything familiar? "Mujhe bulaya gaya hai," he said, the words simple but heavy, each syllable a stone dropped into a still pond. I have been called.
His lips curved slightly as if in a smile, narrowing his eyes, probably reading Mannn's soul through the dust on his skin. "Bahut logon ko bulaya jata hai. Kam hi sunte hain." Many are called. Few listen. He pointed toward the temple, silhouetted in quiet sentinel against the fading light within, spire crowned by the faint copper of a glow. "Aaj raat mandir mein raho. Varna raat ko anjaan logon ka swagat nahi karta." Rest there tonight. The grove does not welcome strangers after dusk.
The warning hung in the air, sharp and cold, like the edge of a trishul glinting in moonlight. Mannn's fingers tightened around the locket, the warmth a small challenge against the cold that crept into his bones. "Yeh van kise le leta hai?" he asked, voice steadier than he felt, heart racing. Who does the grove claim?
"It is a love affair which is defined between heart and heart," the old man said, gazing now into the grove, where fireflies twinkled in starry pattern. "It brings them to its fold and does not return them; else it sends them back in a broken state."
The ones who love too much, beyond heart and heart, the grove claims them. It never returns them; it returns them broken. He had paused once again to spit paan, the red stain easily spreading in the dust, a warning in itself. "Nishchit kar lo, beta, ki tum kiski awaaz sun rahe ho." Be certain, son, whose voice you're hearing.
Mannn's heart stuttered. Surely, the words of the old man sliced through his resolution like a blade through silk. He thought of Meera, her fevered hand in his, with shallow breath whispering her final plea. "Prakaash, Mann. Usse dhoondh." The light, Mann, Find it. Was this voice hers, reshaped by grief into something divine? Or was it Devi ki shakti, the goddess's power, testing his faith, his worth?
He thanked the old man, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let me leave and head toward the temple because the grove's shadow lengthens behind in its'reaching like fingers." The fireflies danced, with their silent aarti light, and peacock cried again in its call, which echoed like a warning: a nada which vibrated in his bones.
Small in size, stone-walled and meagerly worn smooth after a thousand years of devotion, their surfaces were faintly etched with carvings of lotuses and nagas, their edges softened by time. There wafted a faint smell of camphor and withered marigolds besides the earthiness of the grove beyond. And in it one oil lamp flickered before a lingam where black suited night without a star-where it was all smeared with sandalwood paste above which lay remnants of faded petals.
It whirred like a hum, gave that faint vibration which seemed to be coming from the surface of the earth itself, a nada brahma pulsed in his chest along with the rhythm of his heartbeat. He knelt and pressed his forehead against the cool floor, grounding himself on stone, the chill soaking into his skin. "Yaa Devi Sarvabhuteshu Shakti Rupena Samsthita," he chanted, that Sanskrit verse to the goddess, a plea for strength, drawn from the Devi Mahatmyam. O Devi, who resides in all beings as the form of power. Now his voice trembled, the words both anchor and surrender, effacing the human heart and yet bridging it with the divine unknown.
He shut his eyes and felt the voice come again: Mannn. The sound was now nearer, woven into the soft crackle of the lamp, the rustle of leaves beyond the temple's opened door, the faint chime of a bell that swayed unstruck in the breeze. His breath hitched, a shiver tracing his spine, raising the hairs on his arms. Was it her, the woman from his dreams? Or was it Maa Durga, Maa Kali, testing his heart, her fierce gaze piercing his soul?
And pressed his palms together, the rudraksha beads digging into his skin, their texture a reminder of his fragility. "Main yahan hoon. Batao, mujhe kya karna hai," he said, whispering in Hindi a promise to the night. I am here. Tell me what to do.
The priest, a shadow in saffron, emerged from a corner, his movements silent as a cat's, his bare feet whispering against the stone. His face was gaunt, his eyes kind but distant, as if he'd seen too many pilgrims come and go, their dreams swallowed by the grove. He brought in a small brass thali, at one surface glimmering with a diya and a banana leaf bearing food. "Khao, beta," he said softly, setting the thali before Mannn. Eat, son. "Raat lambi hai, aur van ki awaaz sunne ke liye shakti chahiye." The night is long, and listening to the grove's voice requires strength.
It was a simple meal-steaming rice, dal richly spiced with cumin, and a thin slice of mango glowing like a shard of sunlight. Mannn had his meal in silence, grounded by the flavors with every bite forming small acts of surrender to the present. A sharp pang of sweetness in the mango sparked memories of Meera's laughter, sticky-handed with juice feeding him a slice, her eyes bright as temple bells. They'd sat under a neem tree, her voice teasing as she recited his poems, her touch a warmth he'd thought would last forever.
"Yeh yaad kyun abhi?" he thought, pushing the memory away, but it lingered, a teer in his heart, piercing the calm he'd tried to build. The divine woman—was she a goddess, a spirit, or a cruel echo of his loss? He thought of the old man's warning, the grove's hunger for those who loved too deeply. Had Meera's death not already claimed him? Had he not already been broken, his poems reduced to ashes, his dreams to dust? He finished the meal, the mango's aftertaste lingering, a bittersweet reminder of what was and what might never be. He thanked the priest with a nod, his throat too tight for words. The old man retreated to a corner, his saffron robe a splash of aún color in the gloom, his breath soon a soft rhythm, leaving Mannn alone with the lingam and the lamp.
Night fell, heavy and starless, the monsoon's weight pressing against the temple's walls, the air thick with the scent of earth and impending rain. Mannn lay on the straw mat, the stone floor cool against his back, its chill seeping into his bones like a lover's touch. Outside, the grove seemed to breathe, its leaves hissing secrets to the wind, a sargam of shadows and whispers that wove through his thoughts. He clutched the locket, its silver warm, as if it held a pulse, a fragment of Meera's soul. Her hair was inside, a single strand he'd kept since her pyre, a relic he hadn't opened in years, afraid of the dard it would unleash—grief, yes, but also the love that still burned, a jwala unquenched. He'd stood by her pyre, the flames swallowing her body, his poems curling into ash at his feet, his heart a silent scream. "Tum kyun chali gayi, Meera?" he'd whispered then, and the question lingered now, unanswered.
The rudraksha beads pressed into his palm, grounding him as he drifted toward sleep, their texture a reminder of his fragility, his humanity. "Shivo Bhokta, Shivo Mukta," he murmured, the Sanskrit verse a quiet offering to Shiva, the enjoyer, the liberator, drawn from the Shiva Sankalpa Sukta. But it was not Shiva who came to him in that liminal space between waking and dreaming. It was her.
She stood at the grove's edge, her form both sharp and fluid, like moonlight on a river, her presence a pulse that matched his own. A saffron veil draped her, its edges trembling in a wind Mannn could not feel, its folds catching the fireflies' light like stars trapped in cloth. Her face was hidden—not by cloth, but by a strange blurring, as if his soul was not yet ready to see, as if the divine withheld its full gaze. Her hands were outstretched, palms up, and in them bloomed lotuses, their petals trembling with dew, their scent curling through the air like a lover's breath, a sugandh that filled his lungs. Mannn, she said, and the sound was a river, a flame, a sigh that made his heart stutter, a spandan that wove his soul to hers. He reached for her, his fingers aching to touch, to know, but she dissolved into mist, leaving only the scent of lotus and a warmth that lingered in his chest, a fire that was both pain and promise.
He woke with a start, his breath ragged, his kurta damp with sweat, clinging to his skin like a second grief. The temple was silent, the lamp's flame steady, casting shadows that danced like tandava on the walls, a cosmic rhythm of creation and destruction. But the scent of lotus remained, faint but undeniable, curling through the air like a vow, a sankalp he could not ignore. His hand went to the locket, its silver a burning weight, then to the rudraksha mala, its beads a lifeline in the dark. He sat up, his gaze drawn to the open door, where the night pulsed with the grove's breath. Beyond it, the grove waited, its darkness alive with whispers, its branches reaching like arms, beckoning him into their embrace. The old man's warning echoed—Jo dil se dil tak pyar karte hain, unhe van apna bana leta hai—but it was drowned by the voice, her voice, calling him still, a nada that resonated in his soul.
Dawn was hours away, but sleep was impossible, a distant shore he could not reach. Mannn rose, slipping on his sandals, the leather creaking softly, a small sound in the vast silence. The priest slept in his corner, his saffron robe a splash of color in the gloom, his breath a steady rhythm like a distant drum. Mannn stepped outside, the night air cool against his skin, heavy with the scent of earth and jasmine, a sugandh that felt like her touch, her presence. The temple's bell swayed gently, unstruck, its chime a faint hum in the silence, a nada brahma that vibrated in his bones, a sound that was both question and answer. He walked toward the grove, each step a prayer, each breath a surrender, his heart a drumbeat that matched the earth's own pulse.
The path to the grove was narrow, lined with wildflowers that glowed faintly in the dark, their petals trembling as if aware of his passing. The fireflies danced, their light guiding him like a path of stars, a jyoti leading him home. He paused at the grove's edge, the banyan trees towering above, their roots a labyrinth of shadow and earth, their leaves whispering in a language older than words, a mantra that spoke of love and loss, of beginnings and endings. "Main yahan hoon," he whispered, his voice barely audible, the Hindi a vow to the night, a promise to the divine. I am here. The grove answered with a rustle, a sigh, a pulse that matched his own, a laya that wove his heart to its own, a rhythm that was both his and hers.
His fingers brushed the locket, then released it, letting it hang heavy in his pocket, a weight he could not yet shed. He thought of Meera, her laughter like temple bells, her plea to find the light, her hand in his as the fever took her. "Prakaash, Mannn," she'd said, and the word echoed now, a beacon in the dark. He thought of the divine woman, her voice, her lotuses, her presence that was both stranger and kin. He thought of Shiva, of Shakti, of the love that had broken him and the love that might yet make him whole. "Sarvam Shivarpanam," he chanted, the Sanskrit offering everything to Shiva, to the divine, his voice a thread in the night's tapestry.
He stepped forward, and the grove swallowed him, its darkness soft as a lover's embrace, its whispers a song that called him home, a geet that was both his beginning and his end.