The first rays of dawn spilled gently through the worn paper windows of the monastery, casting golden light across Sita's sleeping face. The sun, soft and warm, brushed against her eyelids like a quiet invitation — a sign that today was no ordinary day.
It was Buddha Purnima, the grand festival that celebrated the birth, enlightenment, and nirvana of Lord Buddha.
The entire monastery, usually a place of peace and quiet chants, was buzzing with energy. Monks hurried through the corridors, novices scrambled with trays and flowers, and laughter echoed from the courtyards. Bells chimed in rhythmic harmony, blending with the faint aroma of sandalwood and marigold.
A gentle knock on the wooden door stirred Sita from her sleep.
"Wake up, little sister," said a calm, affectionate voice. It was Brother Aniruddha, a kind-hearted monk who had practically raised her within these temple walls. "Dadaji is looking for you. There's much to do before sunset."
Sita rubbed her eyes and sat up, the sunlight dancing across her features. Her long hair flowed down her back like black silk. With a sleepy nod, she got up, washed, tied her hair in a simple braid, and stepped out into the lively courtyard, her bare feet padding against the cool stone.
The day passed in a blur of colors, chants, and constant movement.
Garlands were strung across the ancient pillars. Butter lamps lined every edge of the temple steps. Children from nearby villages were rehearsing Buddhist hymns under the guidance of elder monks. Sita helped wherever she was needed — lighting incense, arranging offerings, folding prayer flags. Despite the exhaustion, her spirit soared. This was her home, her sanctuary.
By the time twilight painted the sky in hues of rose and lavender, everything was almost ready. The celebration was moments away from beginning.
But then — a sudden panic broke out.
"Where are the lotus flowers?" someone cried. "The centerpiece for the prayer hall… it's missing!"
Brother Aniruddha turned pale. "They were supposed to be delivered by noon… but the man never showed up."
He turned to Sita, urgency in his eyes. "We can't begin without them. You'll have to fetch them, quickly."
"I'll go," she said without hesitation.
"But… your horse?" he asked.
"He's sick today," she said, worried. "I'll find a way."
---
Sita rushed into the village, her eyes scanning every cart, every shop, every flower vendor.
"Do you have lotus flowers?" she asked a woman selling garlands.
"No, child. The ponds dried up weeks ago."
Again and again, she asked, only to be met with headshakes and apologies. Her breath grew heavier, her hope thinner.
Just as despair clutched her heart, an old woman, sitting quietly by a shrine, looked up at her.
"You seek lotuses?" the crone said with a weathered smile. "There's still one place they bloom… the pond near the waterfall, atop the mountain."
Sita's eyes lit up.
---
By the time she reached the peak, the sky had deepened into a bruised violet. The air was crisp, the sound of the waterfall roaring like distant thunder. But as she approached the pond, her heart sank.
The lotuses were gone.
All of them.
---
Disappointed and weary, she began her descent. Her feet stumbled on the rocks, her mind spinning with the guilt of having failed the temple, her family. The night wind rustled the trees with a kind of whispered sadness.
As she reached the road that led back to the monastery, a scream of tires cut through the silence.
A flash of black — a speeding convoy of luxury cars roared past her like demons in a nightmare. She staggered back, heart thudding.
And then… she saw him.
A man — perhaps in his late fifties — lay sprawled on the edge of the road, bleeding from his forehead.
Without thinking, Sita ran to him. "Sir! Are you alright?" she asked, trembling, as she knelt beside him.
His eyelids fluttered. He groaned in pain.
She checked his pulse — still there, weak but steady.
With all her strength, she helped him stand, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Your home… where is it?"
He murmured an address. It was not far — just at the base of the same mountain.
---
When they arrived, his family rushed out in shock and gratitude. His daughter-in-law clutched Sita's hand, eyes glistening.
"You saved his life… thank you," she whispered.
The old man, now bandaged and resting, called her to his side. His voice cracked not from pain, but from something deeper — grief.
"I went to the waterfall today…" he said slowly, "to pluck lotus flowers. It was a promise I made to my wife. She… she died last year. I was supposed to take her there that day… but I didn't. Work, as always."
He looked out the window, eyes distant. "She died waiting."
Sita's eyes welled with tears. She understood. Loss was a language she knew all too well.
"I saw no lotus in that pond," she said gently.
"I plucked the last ones," he whispered. "For her. I… I can give them to you, if…"
"No," Sita said softly, her voice warm. "Keep them. She waited once. Let her not wait again."
---