She looked down at her hands. They weren't trembling.
She looked around. The house didn't feel cold anymore.
In fact, it looked exactly like it had back then — back in the time where she still has to write 10th board exam.
Wait… had she come back?
Her thoughts scrambled to catch up.
She remembered it clearly now — that strange trip they took after her exams. Her father had said, "Let's go see a few temples, take a break," and they had. A string of temple visits across towns and hills. Sleeper trains. Cold early mornings. Coconut water under banyan trees.
Had she just... landed there again?
Was this a dream? Or something more?
Before she could chase the thought further, the front door creaked.
Her father entered, a smile on his face and brown paper packets in his hands.
"Hot dinner," he said, as if nothing had changed, as if time hadn't bent and stretched just to put him in this room at this very moment.
Her heart ached with a confusing warmth.
Was this the same moment?
Had her wish to escape today brought her back to a yesterday?
Her mother took the food, unwrapped the packets with practiced hands, and laid it all out on the floor — the way they used to during temple trips. Simple. Silent. Sacred.
Bani sat down slowly, as if afraid the whole thing might dissolve if she moved too fast.
The food was still warm, fresh from some small-town temple or roadside eatery.
There were soft rotis, folded neatly in a stack, still warm to the touch, slightly flaky at the edges. A vegetable curry glistened beside them — with chunks of potato, bits of carrot, peas floating in a golden masala, the kind that clung to your fingers and left a trace of warmth on your tongue.
A heap of steamed rice was gently pressed into a plate, its fragrance clean and comforting. Poured over it was thick sambar, rich with toor dal, tamarind, and vegetables softened into flavor. And beside that, a small bowl of rasam — watery, peppery, and sharp with the tang of tomato and garlic — the kind of rasam that woke you up from the inside out.
The moment she took her first bite, Bani froze again.
It tasted exactly like she remembered.
Not just food — but time. Memory. That one night in Madurai. Or was it Srirangam? That soft laughter between her parents. The chill of marble floors under her feet. The whispered stories of gods before bedtime.
She chewed slowly, each mouthful grounding her further.
No one said anything. Her mother offered her a second helping, her father poured water into steel tumblers. It all felt so real.
And yet… somewhere deep down, Bani's brain was still processing.
Was this a glitch in time?
Was she remembering too hard?
Or had some hidden grace given her one more night of peace?
She didn't know.
All she knew was — she wasn't ready to let go of this moment.
Not just yet.
She picked up another piece of roti and dipped it into the curry, anchoring herself in the one place she still believed in — dinner with her family, in a time when the world hadn't yet broken apart.
The aroma of dinner still lingered faintly in the room—roti, curry, rice with sambar and rasam. The warmth of the meal seemed to calm the unease that had settled around Bani like an invisible fog.
After the plates were cleared, Bani's mother, with her usual quiet efficiency, handed her a small bundle of clean clothes.
"Keep them on the table, kanna," she said gently. "It'll be easier for you to get ready in the morning."
Bani nodded and did as she was told—placing the freshly pressed towel and a soft cotton salwar neatly by the edge of the table. Something about the small act—something so normal, so mundane—grounded her in a strange sense of comfort.
Meanwhile, her mother was sorting used clothes into a separate bag, carefully keeping them apart from the fresh ones. No mixing—just like how some memories needed to stay folded away, untouched.
"Bani, Manu, time to sleep," came the firm yet kind voice of their father, Mr. Nagaraj. He stood by the doorway, his eyes resting on them with calm certainty. "We have to wake up early for darshana tomorrow."
His gaze softened as it fell on Bani. "Especially you, Bani. We came here for you."
Bani looked up, a quiet question in her eyes.
"Yes, I know how much effort you put in your study," he continued, stepping further into the room. Now, we'll pray to God—for strength, for clarity. Sometimes… we need His grace to move forward, to find the right path."
There was no lecture in his voice, no pressure. Only reassurance. And something else—faith.
Bani's voice was soft. "Yes, Appa… I understand."
And she truly did.
Somewhere deep inside, she knew this moment wasn't just about marks or a pilgrimage. It was something more—something spiritual.
A strange peace settled over her as she lay down. The rustle of the ceiling fan hummed above, lulling her into drowsiness. Manu was already asleep, his breath steady and even.
But Bani stared at the ceiling a little longer, heart beating with something she couldn't name.
Yes… she had been granted a second chance.
Maybe it was God's grace.
As her eyes fluttered shut, Bani felt it in her bones, in her breath, in her soul—
She hadn't just returned to a temple town.
She had been reborn in time.
The early morning mist still hung like a soft veil over the temple town of Dharmasthala. The tiled roofs glistened with dew, the air was cold but comforting, and the slow hum of waking devotion stirred the silence.
Now, she was leaving as something far greater—
A woman who had been broken, reborn, and blessed with her own beginning.
And the road ahead was wide open.
As she found her seat and the bus rumbled to life, she looked out one last time at the spire of the temple.
Years ago, she had walked out of Dharmasthala as a bride into a loveless marriage.