Inside a modest lodge room near the temple, Bani stood quietly by the window, watching the sky shift from indigo to a blush of orange. Her mother moved about gently, folding clothes, heating water for the bath. Her father was already dressed, seated cross-legged with a prayer book in his hand. Her brother groaned from beneath his blanket.
The room buzzed with the ordinary rhythm of a temple morning.
But for Bani… it was anything but ordinary.
She moved like someone tracing steps already walked before. Her hand touched the edge of her cotton saree—the same kind worn by thousands of pilgrims, yet wrapped around a girl reborn. She tied her hair neatly and applied a soft line of turmeric across her cheeks, a ritual she had once done with careless youth… but now, with reverence.
Today wasn't just about a darshana.
It was about a full circle.
---
The temple street was already alive with life. Vendors selling jasmine garlands, old women seated with trays of kumkum and camphor, the rhythmic clang of temple bells—all blended into a sacred harmony. Cows wandered lazily across the path, and the scent of freshly roasted peanuts floated in the air.
Bani walked barefoot with her family. The ground was cold, gritty beneath her soles. Every step forward was also a step back into a memory.
Years ago—in a life only she remembered—she had walked this very path, but with a different heart.
A bride.
Covered in silk and gold, hand trembling in the grip of a stranger she was told to call her husband, lips stretched in a smile she was trained to wear.
They had married here. Right here, in this very temple. With rituals, promises, and hollow blessings. But there had been no real love. Just expectations, silence, and the slow erosion of her soul.
And now—here she was again.
Barefoot. Bare-faced. Free.
---
They stood in the queue, slowly inching toward the sanctum.
Bani's heart beat quietly but heavily. The chants of "Om Namah Shivaya" echoed through the stone corridor, bouncing gently off the pillars. The smoke of incense blurred the air. She reached the garbhagudi. The priest motioned for the next few devotees.
And there He was.
Lord Manjunatha.
Eternal. Still. Fierce in grace. Calm in power.
Bani's eyes welled as she gazed upon the deity. The oil lamps danced on His stone form, reflecting centuries of faith, of people who had come broken and left healed.
She folded her hands, and within her heart, whispered:
"You were here when I was tied to someone who never saw me."
"You watched when I wept into my pillow night after night."
"You didn't stop it then… but maybe, just maybe, you brought me back now."
Her fingers trembled slightly as she pressed them together.
"Thank you… for this second chance."
She didn't pray for love anymore. Not for someone else to complete her.
She prayed for strength. For clarity.
For herself.
Because this was where it had all begun—and where, now, it began again.
---
Outside, the sun had risen fully. The courtyard glowed in golden warmth. Her mother handed her a spoon of teertha. The sweetness of the laddoo melted on her tongue.
They walked back to the lodge in silence. There was nothing to say. Bani carried her own stillness like a sacred thread.
They packed swiftly. Folded clothes, zipped bags, double-checked for chargers and wallets. Her father paid the bill at the counter, exchanging a quiet nod with the old lodge keeper.
Bani paused at the door for one last look.
The temple's gopuram stood proudly in the distance, painted against the morning sky.
She whispered in her mind, "This time, I walk away not with bindings, but with becoming."
---
The bus was already at the stop, engine humming. It was an ordinary red KSRTC, yet it waited like a chariot of transition.
Her brother climbed in first, calling dibs on the window. Her mother followed, then bani father stepped in last.
Not sweat. Tears.
She sat up, blinking away the remnants of the dream. Something in her had shifted — not broken, but cracked.
The forests were gone now. Fields rolled gently past the window, sunlit and quiet.
Somewhere beyond them, Bangalore waited.
She remembered,
The wind cut through the silence as the Activa scooter sped through the night streets. It was close to 11 PM, the roads mostly empty, Mysore city gently glowing under the streetlights.
Bani sat behind her brother, clutching the edge of the seat tightly. Her fingers were stiff with cold, or maybe just tension.
She didn't carry much—just a small bag. A few clothes. A few memories. A few broken pieces.
She had left her in-laws' house that night.
Walked out.
Because she had to.
It wasn't easy. Her mother-in-law had done everything she could to stop her.
> "Don't go now," she'd said firmly, her voice like ice.
"Stay tonight. Let's talk in the morning."
The bus rattled and groaned as it wound its way down the misty hills of Dharmasthala. The faint scent of temple flowers still clung to her hair — jasmine and incense, reminders of prayers whispered and unanswered. She sat by the window, chin resting on her hand, watching the forests blur past, her thoughts as tangled as the winding road.
The bus to Bangalore was half full. Quiet. The kind of quiet that lets memories echo too loud.
Life, like this road, had curved endlessly — unpredictable, unforgiving.
She pressed her forehead to the cool glass. A long sigh escaped her. Then slowly, gently, sleep folded over her like a shroud.
The Dream
In the strange clarity only dreams allow, she found herself in a place that was nowhere and everywhere — a vast corridor, sterile and white, lined with floating screens and softly humming machines. It felt like something from a sci-fi movie, yet oddly familiar.
On one screen: her. Smiling beside her husband. A small suitcase in one hand, hope in the other.
Then — blink.
The image changed.
Now she was walking out of that same house, eyes swollen from silent crying, a bag slung over her shoulder. Her footsteps echoed in the hollow silence.
Two screens now.