The memory of the temple lingered in the quiet of our courtyard.
I traced the lines of the courtyard stones with my eyes, counting the spaces where light fell differently, as though testing me. The bells still echoed softly in Mrinalini's mind —
The temple courtyard carried late light and movement.
Women pressed toward the sanctum. Children drifted too near the oil lamps and were drawn back by irritated hands.
The bells struck.
Seven.
Pause.
Seven.
Mrinalini counted.
Near the edge of the steps — where shadow lingered longer than sun — something brushed against her arm.
A child.
No older than she was.
The girl steadied herself without speaking. Her fingers gathered the hem of her dress — not crushing it, simply ensuring its fall remained correct.
When she looked up, her gaze did not scatter.
It paused.
Measured.
Behind her stood a woman and two attendants. None called her name. None reached forward.
Yet the crowd altered around them.
Not abruptly.
Not theatrically.
Just enough.
Mrinalini's attention lowered to the fabric.
At first glance it was modest — muted dye, no temple brightness.
But the surface held light differently.
The cotton was long-staple, combed fine. The warp threads were drawn under firm tension; the weft was packed closely, nearly seamless. Village looms produced irregular breathing in cloth — faint undulations where the shuttle hesitated.
This fabric did not hesitate.
The dye had fixed evenly — no feathering at the selvedge, no bleeding along the narrow border. The repeat motifs aligned precisely, each interval measured without drift.
A loom accustomed to discipline had shaped this.
Trade, not subsistence, had woven it.
The brass plate edged too close.
The girl shifted.
Mrinalini moved first — fingers resting lightly at the child's elbow, guiding her one step back.
No resistance.
"Nandri," the girl said.
The word was careful.
Placed.
"I am Leela," she added after a moment. "We have come to live nearby."
Not a declaration.
A positioning
Mrinalini studied her — the contained posture, the absence of restless motion
Mrinalini studied her — the contained posture, the absence of restless motion.
Village children collided and demanded.
This one waited.
The woman behind her watched without appearing to watch. A fractional tilt of the chin — correction or approval.
The bells rang again.
Seven.
Pause.
Seven.
The pattern remained.
But something within it had shifted.
...
The sun had lowered when a small shadow appeared at their courtyard gate.
The gate was not knocked loudly.
It was touched.
Mrinalini was called to the doorway.
Leela stood beyond the threshold.
The same disciplined fall of fabric. The pleats aligned. The border uncreased despite travel.
In her hands rested a small cloth-wrapped bundle, held steadily — not tightly, not carelessly.
Behind her, at measured distance, stood the woman from the temple and two attendants.
They did not step forward.
Leela did.
One pace.
"I am Leela," she said again, quieter here. "We have come to live nearby."
Mrinalini regarded her.
"Yes," she replied after a moment.
"You have mentioned."
The correction was gentle.
Not unkind.
Leela nodded.
For a brief instant, her heels lifted and settled again against the earth — the smallest leakage of nerves.
Mrinalini raised one eyebrow.
A question.
Leela hesitated.
Not from lack of words.
From sudden awareness of them.
A faint warmth rose along her cheeks — visible only because the light lingered.
The bundle shifted slightly in her hands.
"We wished to greet you," she corrected.
Formal. Practiced.
Mrinalini stepped forward at last.
Their fingers brushed as the bundle passed between them. The wrapping cloth was finely woven — higher thread count than village looms sustained. The selvedge was clean. Tension even along its edge.
Even this had been prepared with intention.
Behind Leela, the attendants held additional bundles.
They did not approach.
Leela remained where she stood, gaze steady now — though still uncertain what to do with it.
Mrinalini inclined her head once.
"Welcome."
Nothing more.
Leela's shoulders lowered slightly — no longer rigid, still contained.
This time, when her gaze lifted, it did not retreat immediately.
It lingered.
Only a moment.
Behind her, the elderly attendant gave the slightest nod
Behind her, the elderly attendant gave the slightest nod.
Approval.
Or acknowledgment.
Leela stepped backward, restoring distance.
Mrinalini turned inside with the bundle resting in her palms. The gate closed softly.
Outside, the attendants moved toward other courtyards.
This time, no small figure stood at their center.
From the temple, the bells carried faintly through the evening air.
Seven.
Pause.
Seven.
The rhythm continued.
The pattern remained.
"The smallest movements are often rehearsed the longest."