Their parents sat across from them—shoulders turned inward, hands resting on their laps, eyes distant. They didn't speak either, their silence stretching long and taut like a thread that could snap with the slightest movement. The only sound was the train's heartbeat, steady and uncaring, and the occasional gust of wind that rushed in through the open window, brushing against their faces. But it brought no comfort.
Outside, stations passed in a blur—Pandavapura, Srirangapatna—landmarks of childhood journeys, names that once meant picnics and cousins and sweet corn on the cob sold by the tracks. But not today. Today, they faded into the background like scenery glimpsed in a half-remembered dream.
No one exchanged words, but emotions lingered in the air—unspoken, heavy, like mist that wouldn't lift.
"We're here," her father said gently.
Bani looked up.
They had arrived at a small cream-painted building with tiled steps and a narrow corridor. A dusty nameplate hung beside the entrance, the Kannada script barely legible under layers of grime and peeling paint. A familiar smell of incense mixed with cleaning liquid hung in the air—jarring yet vaguely nostalgic.
Something about the place felt... known. Like somewhere she'd been before. Maybe during a school excursion, or a family wedding long ago. Her brain, dulled by fatigue, offered half-memories that refused to .
Her limbs moved on autopilot, her bag dragging beside her. She followed her family up a flight of stairs, turned a corner, passed a narrow window with rusted iron bars. It wasn't until they entered the room that reality began to blur and shift.
A dull thud echoed as she dropped her bag to the ground. The room was plain—two identical single beds with thin foam mattresses, a battered metal rack with some hooks, and an old switchboard with mismatched buttons that stuck out like broken teeth.
It hit her then.
This wasn't home.
This was a hotel room.
Not even a proper hotel. A budget lodge, maybe. The kind of place meant for temporary stays.
The silence of the room pressed down around her—not the silence of their old house, with its familiar ticking clock and birds outside the window—but a flat, lifeless quiet. The kind that didn't carry memory, only the weight of unfamiliarity.
The walls weren't the old bedroom. There were no bookshelf corners worn from years of leaning against them, no pencil marks on the skirting from when she and her brother measured their height every summer.
And yet, just for a second, her tired brain had hoped—had believed—she was back.
She sat down slowly, her knees almost buckling, trying to collect the pieces of what she was feeling.
Her mother, meanwhile, moved with quiet efficiency. There was something almost robotic in her grace as she unzipped a bag, pulled out a packet wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, unrolled a small silver diya, and placed it carefully on the narrow window ledge.
Bani stared at her, numb.
She blinked slowly.
This wasn't how it was supposed to feel.
It wasn't holy.
It wasn't sacred.
It was... hollow.
Why was she acting like this was normal?
Why wasn't anyone else shaken?
Her throat tightened. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the tumbler of water on the side table. She took a sip. The water was cool, but it didn't settle the storm inside her.
She stood and walked over to the mirror above the small sink, barely able to meet her own reflection.
Her hair had puffed out from the journey, frizzy and uneven. Her eyes looked different, like they belonged to younger. Her face still held that teenage softness around the cheeks, but behind that softness.
She raised a hand and touched her cheek, almost as if trying to recognize herself again.
Something deep inside told her—this wasn't a return.
This was the beginning of something else.
Something uncertain.
Something that would never feel whole again.
"Go wash your face, Bani," Amma called out casually, brushing dust off her saree. "You look like you walked through a sandstorm."
"Wha…?" Bani blinked. She hadn't realized she was still wearing the kurta from yesterday. She hadn't realized her eyes were puffy. She hadn't realized anything.
Dragging herself to the washbasin, she splashed water on her face, the cold biting into her skin.
Then, she looked up at the mirror.
And froze.
Who was that?
Her reflection startled her. The cheeks had a soft curve again, the eyes looked… bright, almost childlike. There was something youthful about her face — not just washed clean, but glowing. It was a face she hadn't seen since she was 16. Before the mess. Before the marriage. Before the compromises. Before the quiet breakdown of everything she thought would last.
She leaned in, heart thudding.
This wasn't just exhaustion. This wasn't some hormonal fluctuation.
It was like she had been reset.
In the other room, Amma had just pulled another bundle of prasadam from the side pocket of the luggage. She stared at it for a long moment. "Strange," she murmured. "I don't remember packing two…"
Bani stepped into the living room slowly, still dabbing her face with a towel. She saw the prasadam in Amma's hands and blinked.
"Why is that here?" she asked, more to herself.
Her memories were in shambles. No temples. No poojas. Just argument which went in her in-lawshome.
So why was there temple prasadam in their luggage?
Amma placed it gently beside the flickering lamp. "Sometimes the soul goes on a journey even when the body doesn't," she said softly, eyes not meeting Bani's. "Maybe it was meant to come back with us. Maybe… you were meant to come with us send amma to prasadam"
Bani stood frozen.
She couldn't understand it. Couldn't rationalize it. But she could feel it.
Something sacred had crept into the cracks of her fractured world.
And even amidst legal settlements and broken promises — something untouched had survived inside her.
Her face, glowing again.
Her eyes, waking up.
Her soul… remembering.
Bani couldn't breathe.
Not because of panic, not quite — but because the air around her was suddenly too full. Too full of smells, sounds, emotions. Familiarity.
It was the smell of camphor. Of jasmine. Of old stone and temple oil.
And it was the sound of temple bells in the distance. Chants on a loudspeaker. A koel calling from somewhere far off.
She stood still, her body present but her mind spiraling.
Just moments ago, she had been somewhere else — emotionally, if not physically. There had been heavy words, courtrooms, the sting of a broken family scattered into legal documents.
But now... this?