The days passed like shadows, slow and unyielding, stretching across the corridors of the temple with a silence that was heavier than words. Though the monsoon had eased, the city of Pataliputra had not yet exhaled. Rain still drizzled, soft and sporadic, trailing like tears down the ancient stone walls. And within those walls, Devika moved like a ghost. Her limbs obeyed, her lips murmured prayers, her feet danced when commanded — but her soul wandered elsewhere.
She had once been the temple's star — the girl with eyes like dusk, feet that fluttered like peacock feathers, and a voice that echoed like morning bells. Now she was a woman stripped bare by grief, her eyes rimmed red, her silences too loud.
Aarav's death had not come with thunder. It had come with a whisper — a soft announcement from a palace emissary. A scroll handed over, unreadable for minutes through her tears. And yet, she'd memorized every word. The phrasing was detached, cold:
"Commander Aarav, son of General Virat, fell during a counterattack near the northern valley. His remains were not recovered."
That final sentence had ripped through her like a blade. Not recovered.
No fire. No funeral. No ashes to scatter. Not even a token to mourn.
The priests, who had once paraded her through ceremonies like a divine ornament, now watched her with wary eyes. They called her withdrawal impiety. Her grief, rebellion. "The goddess must be served with a clean heart," Acharya Suman declared before the council. "If her dance has become infected with worldly sorrow, she must be cleansed."
Meera pleaded on her behalf. "She is mourning. Would you punish the moon for waning?"
But the temple had rules older than compassion.
So it was decreed: Devika would return to the sacred platform for the full moon festival. Before nobles and priests, she would dance again. And if she failed — if her grief overtook her — she would be stripped of her sacred role, exiled to silence.
On the day of the festival, Devika awoke long before the sun. Her chamber was dark, save for a single wick burning near her small altar. She rose, slowly, like a woman made of clay. Her body felt distant, an instrument she no longer recognized.
Meera entered quietly with a bowl of sandalwood paste. "Let me prepare you."
Devika nodded. They sat in silence as Meera painted the sacred patterns across her arms and neck. She braided Devika's hair with jasmine and tied the silken anklets of red and gold. Finally, she placed the silver ghungroos around her feet. The same pair Aarav had once kissed in secret.
When Devika stepped onto the courtyard platform, a hush fell over the temple. The full moon cast long shadows across the white marble. Torches flickered in every corner. Faces gathered like clouds — priests in gold, nobles in silk, merchants whispering.
The music began. Soft. Deliberate.
She closed her eyes.
In her mind, she wasn't in the temple. She was by the river. Beneath the neem. Where fireflies swirled and the lotus pond breathed stars.
Her body moved.
At first, slow, restrained. A curve of the wrist. A turn of the ankle. The audience held its breath.
Then, it changed.
She whirled, her skirt blooming like a flame. Her arms slashed through the air — not in joy, but in grief. Her eyes shone with fury, her breaths came in gasps. Each beat of her foot was an accusation to the heavens. Each spin, a scream without sound.
She danced as if chasing ghosts.
The rhythm quickened. Her ghungroos struck the marble with savage force. Her hair broke free of its braid, flying like wild vines. The bells of her waist jingled like the laugh of a dying deity.
The crowd was spellbound.
And then she stopped.
Mid-spin. Mid-breath.
Still.
Her chest heaved. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She lifted her hands and drew a single pattern in the air — the symbol of eternal return.
And bowed.
For a moment, there was silence. Then — applause.
But she didn't hear it.
She turned, walked slowly off the platform, and vanished into the temple shadows.
Later that night, Devika returned to the lotus pond. She had changed into a simple cotton robe. No paint on her face. No anklets. Just herself.
She sat beneath the neem, the one that had witnessed their secret meetings.
In her hands, she held two ghungroos — his and hers — tied together with a red thread.
"I danced for you tonight," she whispered. "Not for the gods. Not for the temple. Just for you."
The pond shimmered in the moonlight, as if it understood.
She tied the thread to a low branch and let it sway in the breeze.
"If your soul passes through here," she said, "you'll hear them. And you'll remember me."
A tear slid down her cheek.
She closed her eyes and imagined him sitting beside her. Imagined his arm brushing hers. His voice in the dark.
"Devika," he would say.
She smiled.
Even in grief, she knew one truth: love like theirs didn't end with death. It slept. It waited.
And somewhere, in a time not yet born, it would wake again.