CHAPTER 1 -

AARVI'S POV

They say I killed them.
That I was born with death in my breath and poison in my veins.
But no one ever asked if I remembered doing it.
Because I don’t.
All I remember… is the dream of him.

Aarvi speaks in the voice of a soul who has lived in silence, untouched by the world. She doesn’t describe the temple like a place — she describes it like a cage made of forgotten prayers. She’s not afraid of the dark. She’s made peace with it.

“Aarvi, tulsi mein paani de diya?”

“Haan Didi,” I replied, carefully placing the brass lota back near the temple steps. The tulsi leaves always danced a little in my presence, as if they were happy to see me.

This has been my world since I was two — stone floors, sacred chants, the scent of sandalwood and the constant hum of devotion. People say I’ve lived in an ashram. But to me, I’ve lived inside a prayer.

Outside the gates... I know nothing.

Only that I’m not allowed to go there.

“Aarvi, dhoop jal gaya kya?”
“Haan, Didi,” I replied, keeping my gaze low as I blew gently at the ember. The smoke swirled upward, carrying the scent of ghee and guggal into the still air of the courtyard.

Another day had begun.

The same as every day in the ashram.

The same sacred silence.
The same five aartis.
The same stone floors beneath my feet — cold even after years.

And me, wrapped in a white cotton suit, barefoot, hair braided tight, with no sound louder than the breath in my chest.

I’ve lived here for fifteen years.

People say I was brought to the ashram when I was two. Left quietly, like a donation. No name. No history. Just a child and a note that said, “Raksha karo.”

So they raised me like they would raise fire — carefully, with rituals and boundaries.

I became ‘Aarvi.’
The quiet one.
The untouched one.
The girl who belonged more to puja thalis than to people.

I don’t know much about the world outside.
Only what I hear through whispers and overheard words.

“Cinema.”
“College.”
“Jeans.”
“Boyfriend.”

They sound like names of foreign gods. Or maybe sins.
Sometimes I try to ask Didi about them. She always shakes her head, saying:

“Tumhare liye nahi hai, Aarvi. Tum pavitra ho. Baahar ki duniya tumhe bigaad degi.”

So I never ask again.
But that doesn’t stop me from wondering.

My days begin before the sun opens its eyes.

4:00 a.m. – I wake with the conch.
4:15 a.m. – I light the first diya in the mandir.
5:00 a.m. – I help with the tulsi puja and sweep the courtyard.
6:00 a.m. – I sit cross-legged, reciting the Devi Suktam as Panditji begins the mangal aarti.

Even my silence has a schedule.

And I’ve followed it all my life — like a shadow follows light. Without protest. Without pause.

The devotees come every day with offerings — coconuts, milk, garlands of marigold.

They touch my feet sometimes, thinking I bring blessings. But I don’t know what that means. I don’t feel divine.

I feel… invisible.
Seen only through the filter of their beliefs.

Some stare. Some avoid me entirely. Some bow. Some whisper as I walk past.

“Wahi ladki hai na… joh kabhi baahar nahi gayi?”
“Ashram ki hai. Kya naam tha?”
“Kehti hai kuch sapne aate hain usko.”

They think I don’t hear. But I do.
They think I don’t understand. And sometimes, they’re right.

I often dream.

Not of the gods. Not of mantras.
But of him.

A man with a shadowed face. Sometimes in black. Sometimes bleeding. Sometimes standing still while the world burns around him.

His eyes — I never see them clearly. But I feel them.

Like fire wrapped in wind. Dangerous, but familiar.

I don’t know who he is.
But I wake with his name on my lips — a name I never remember.

Today, during the morning prayer, my hands trembled.
Not from fear. Not from cold.
From something deeper — like a question wanting to break free from my bones.

“Main kaun hoon?”

I’ve never asked it before.
But I couldn’t push it away today.

I tried to hide it in routine — helped grind the chandan, cleaned the temple utensils, arranged fresh flowers for the Devi’s altar.

But still, it lingered… a quiet ache under my skin.

The other girls here talk in whispers when Didi isn’t around.

About things I can’t picture.

“City boys.”
“WhatsApp.”
“Hostel freedom.”
“Night-outs.”

I just listen. I don't join.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because I don’t know how.

In the evening, after the sandhya aarti, I sat alone in the courtyard.

The peepal tree swayed gently above me, its roots like veins stretching into the earth.

I pressed my palm to the ground.

It felt steady. Familiar.

But my heart didn’t.

Today, it beat like it was looking for something.

Didi came and sat beside me, silently. She handed me a bowl of warm halwa.

“Special hai?” I asked, surprised.
“Aaj tumhara janmdin hai na,” she replied simply.

I paused.
No smile. No candles. No flowers. Just the bowl.

Still… it was something.
And in this life, even something felt like a lot.

As night crept over the temple walls, and the bells were silenced for rest, I looked up at the sky.

So many stars tonight.

Some looked close enough to touch.

I imagined what it would feel like to stand outside the gate.
To feel wind that hadn’t been filtered through holy incense.
To walk somewhere that hadn’t been pre-approved by Didi’s eyes.

Not to run. Not to escape.

Just to see.

“Sirf dekhne jaaun toh paap hoga kya?” I whispered to the sky.

The stars didn’t answer.

But something inside me did.

My hands were cold when I pressed them together in one last namaste before sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep.

I lay on my floor mat, staring at the ceiling, heart whispering words I wasn’t supposed to know.

And then…

I decided.

Just a few steps.
Just past the gate.
To the edge of the forest.
I’ll come back before the morning bell.

No one will know.

I have always obeyed.
Always followed.
Always believed that peace meant staying still.

But tonight, something inside me wanted more.
Not love. Not rebellion. Just… air.

I didn’t want to be saved.
I wanted to be seen.