Her pov

I had faced enough for one day.

At that point, I wasn't asking life for happiness, enlightenment, or even basic dignity. I just wanted to get home, lock my bedroom door, bury my face in a pillow, and pretend the last two hours had never happened.

Clutching the two bananas that had been handed to me as prasad, I pulled out my phone and booked a ride. The app searched for a driver for a moment before displaying a waiting time of seven minutes.

Seven minutes.

Just enough time to replay every humiliating detail of what had happened inside the temple.

Wonderful.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket with more force than necessary and looked up. The sun hung high overhead, washing everything in harsh afternoon light. It was almost noon.

Behind me, the temple buzzed with the restless energy of Shivratri—bells ringing, chants echoing, devotees coming and going in endless waves.

The bananas remained forgotten in my hand. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. My knees protested immediately.

I grimaced.

A damru sounded somewhere nearby.

The rhythmic beat drifted through the noise of traffic and temple bells.

I glanced toward the temple entrance.

Same play.

Same story.

Every year.

Maybe after some time another girl would walk through those gates, carrying flowers and hopes and prayers. Maybe she would struggle through the crowd to reach the shivlinga and ask for the perfect husband.

Hopefully she would have more dignity than I did.

I looked back toward the road.

And then, for reasons I couldn't explain, a strange awareness crawled up my spine.

The feeling that someone was standing nearby.

Not close enough to be threatening.

Just that odd sensation that someone was nearby.

Watching.

I frowned and glanced around.

My eyes swept across the road, over a tea stall, past a parked scooter—

—and stopped.

For a second my brain forgot how to function.

The bananas nearly slipped from my hand.

A man stood beneath a peepal tree near the edge of the road.

Ash.

That was the first thing I noticed. Not the casual smear some devotees applied across their forehead. Not a symbolic streak across the arms.

His entire body seemed dusted in ash.

It coated his skin so completely that he looked as though he had stepped out of an ancient painting rather than a crowded city street.

Rudraksha beads hung around his neck in multiple layers, disappearing beneath the dark cloth draped loosely over one shoulder. More beads wrapped around his wrists. A small damru rested against his waist.

His hair fell freely around him, black and impossibly long, reaching past his waist. The afternoon breeze stirred a few strands, but otherwise he remained perfectly still. Not neat hair. Not styled hair. Wild hair. The kind that looked as though it had never met a comb and had no intention of doing so.

A damru rested against his waist.

He stood beneath a roadside tree, perfectly still.

Quiet.

Watching me.

Or maybe watching the road.

I couldn't tell.

Instinctively, I took half a step back.

Then common sense caught up with me.

Of course.

Today was Shivratri.

If I walked another hundred meters, I would probably find three more men dressed as Shiva and at least one enthusiastic teenager painted blue.

I looked away immediately.

Probably an actor.

I pulled my phone out again and checked the screen. Still seven minutes.

Amazing.

Time itself had apparently decided to mock me.

I shoved the phone away and shifted my weight onto my other foot.

My knees hurt.

My dignity hurt.

My soul hurt.

Honestly, by now I wasn't sure which one hurt the most.

The memory flashed through my mind again—the slippery floor, my spectacular loss of balance, the horrifying moment of realization, and then the laughter.

So much laughter.

Nothing builds character quite like falling in a crowded temple full of strangers. I stared stubbornly at the road ahead, determined not to think about it anymore.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

Then I heard a voice.

“Bad day?”

I looked up.

The ash-covered man was watching me.

He was smiling.

Which was surprising because, for someone whose entire body looked as though it had been rolled in ash, he had a remarkably pleasant smile. Not the forced smile strangers offered out of politeness, nor the overly cheerful smile people used when they wanted something. It was an easy smile, the kind that suggested he was quietly amused by the world and rarely in a hurry.

“That obvious?” I asked.

“A little.”

I nodded.

“Fair. The entire temple has witnessed my destruction.”

His smile widened.

Then he started walking toward me.

Just a few casual steps until he stood close enough for conversation.

“Could've been worse,” he said. I looked at him. He gestured vaguely toward me. “You're not injured.”

Immediately, my knee throbbed in protest.

“Oh, I'm injured.”

A laugh escaped him.

“But not seriously injured.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again because, technically, he was right.

My knees hurt. My pride had suffered fatal damage. But I wasn't exactly on my way to the emergency room.

So I gave a reluctant nod. Then his words finally caught up with me. After that fall.

I frowned.

How did he know I had fallen?

I distinctly remembered lying on the temple floor surrounded by horrified aunties and amused strangers, and I was fairly certain there hadn't been an ash-covered Shiva standing nearby at the time.

My gaze drifted down toward my knees.

The fabric of my pants was still darker around the knees, where water had soaked in during my spectacular encounter with the temple floor.

Right.

That explained it. Anyone could have guessed, even if they hadn't seen the actual fall.

Satisfied with the explanation, I dismissed the thought.

The man had drifted closer while we were talking. Not enough to invade my personal space, but enough that continuing the conversation no longer required either of us to raise our voices over the traffic.

I stared at my phone screen, silently willing it to ring.

Maybe the rider would suddenly appear.

Unfortunately, neither the rider nor mercy seemed interested.

The man remained beside me.

I looked up.

“What?”

He looked mildly surprised.

“What?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You keep looking at me like you're waiting for something.”

“Oh.”

His expression brightened with understanding.

“You asked me for help.”

I blinked.

“No, I absolutely did not.”

“You did.”

“I'm quite certain I didn't.”

His smile remained firmly in place.

“You asked me to come find you a decent man for you.”

For a moment I just looked at him. Then a dry laugh escaped me.

Of course.

It was Shivratri. Every second girl entering the temple today was probably praying for exactly that. He hadn't exactly made a difficult deduction.

I shook my head.

“You people are unbelievable.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“You people?”

I waved a hand vaguely in his direction.

“Actors. Performers. Devotees who get too invested in the role. Pick whichever category you belong to.”

His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked amused.

Then he smiled again.

It was honestly unfair how calming that smile was. A man covered in ash should not have looked that approachable. He should have looked unsettling, mysterious, mildly threatening, or at the very least eccentric.

Instead, he looked as though he had all the time in the world.

“No,” he said. “Honestly, I came to find you a decent man.”

I stared at him.

The heat, I decided. It had to be the heat.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Now we're getting serious.”

He nodded.

“So you're saying you're Shiva?”

Another nod.

I narrowed my eyes.

“Lord Shiva?”

He nodded again.

“As in Mahadev?”

Yet another nod.

The confidence with which he answered was deeply concerning.

Not once did he hesitate. Not once did he grin like someone caught in a joke. He agreed as though we were discussing the weather.

I looked him up and down carefully.

Then I found the flaw.

“Aha.”

His head tilted slightly.

“What?”

“Your costume is incomplete.”

For the first time, he actually looked confused. I pointed at him accusingly.

“Where is the snake?”

The question seemed to genuinely deserve consideration. He stood there for a moment, thinking about it.

Then he nodded.

“Right. Vasuki.”

Of course, he knew the name.

Anyone committed enough to dressing like Shiva would know that. Honestly, points for research.

I shook my head and folded my arms.

“Exactly.”

“I left him at Kailash.”

I stared.

“I suppose even you aren't crazy enough to carry a real snake around your neck.”

His smile returned.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I left him at Kailash because I was coming to meet you.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Because I was coming to meet you.”

“No, I heard that part. Why?”

The answer came immediately.

“Because you're afraid of snakes.”

The words hit me with enough force that I forgot my next sarcastic reply. For a second I just looked at him.

The traffic continued to move around us. Someone honked impatiently. A motorcycle sped past. Somewhere in the distance, a temple bell rang.

But my attention remained fixed on the man standing beneath the tree. My discomfort wasn't coming from the fact that he had guessed I disliked snakes. Plenty of people disliked snakes.

The problem was that he hadn't said dislike. He had said afraid. And there was a difference.

I wasn't merely uncomfortable around snakes.

I was terrified of them.

When I was eleven, a rumour had spread through my school that someone had seen a snake near the playground. The snake was never found. Nobody even confirmed it existed.

I had still refused to attend school for three straight days.

“...How do you know that?”

My voice sounded suspicious even to me.

His smile widened as though he found the situation entertaining.

“How would I know that,” he asked, “unless I were not Shiva?”

I rolled my eyes immediately.

The reaction was automatic.

“Please. Almost everyone is afraid of snakes.”

“Not everyone.”

I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Annoyingly, he wasn't wrong. Unfortunately, acknowledging that would mean giving him a point. And I absolutely refused to do that.

“Vasuki was offended, actually.”

I looked at him with an exaggerated expression of disbelief.

“Really?”

“Really,” he replied with complete seriousness. “He wanted to come. I had to explain your fear of snakes before he agreed to stay behind.”

I stared at him.

Of course.

Naturally.

The respected serpent king Vasuki and Lord Shiva himself had apparently held a discussion regarding my personal phobias before deciding on travel arrangements.

How considerate of them.

I shook my head, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Then another detail occurred to me.

“Wait.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“Your trishul.”

“My trishul?”

“Yes. The trishul.”

I gestured toward his very empty hands.

“Where is it?”

For the first time, he looked down at himself as though checking.

Then he nodded thoughtfully.

“Right. The trishul. The security staff wouldn't permit it.”

I followed his gaze. Toward the temple. For a second I was too surprised to respond.

“It's a pointed metal object.”

“You're joking.”

“I am not.”

“The security guards stopped Lord Shiva?”

“They stop everyone.”

I looked at him suspiciously. He looked entirely sincere.

“You're telling me security at the temple confiscated your trishul?”

“Confiscated is a strong word.”

“What word would you prefer?”

“Requested that I leave it outside.”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself from laughing.

The image was too ridiculous.

A security guard standing at the entrance with a metal detector while Lord Shiva patiently explained that the giant three-pronged weapon was, in fact, his.

“And what did you do?” I asked.

“I left it outside.”

“Just like that?”

He shrugged.

“I wished to visit the temple.”

The answer was so simple that I couldn't help laughing.

“Of course you did.”

His expression remained perfectly calm. And somehow that answer sounded complete to him.

I should have let the conversation die there. A normal person would have.

Instead, to my own surprise, I found myself getting invested in the world's most ridiculous interview.

“What about Nandi?” I asked. “Did you leave him at Kailash too?”

A smile immediately appeared on his face.

He opened his mouth to answer.

“Before you say anything,” I interrupted, raising a finger, “I am clearly not scared of bulls.”

I made a face.

“If you're pretending to be Shiva, at least prepare properly.”

To my annoyance, he actually considered my criticism. Finally, he nodded.

“I didn't leave him behind.”

I blinked.

“Then?”

“He didn't want to come.”

I stared.

“Sorry?”

“Yes.”

His tone suggested this was entirely reasonable. “Gurgaon is a busy city. Very crowded.”

I instinctively looked around. Cars. Motorcycles. Auto-rickshaws. People. Noise. Crowds.

Honestly, he wasn't wrong.

“My Nandi doesn't like crowds.”

A horn blared loudly from somewhere behind us.

The timing was so perfect that I almost looked around to see if someone had arranged it.

He merely gestured toward the traffic.

“And he definitely doesn't like noise.”

I couldn't help it. A laugh escaped before I could stop myself. A genuine one this time.

An actual laugh. The kind that surprised you when it came out. His smile widened slightly at the sound.

And suddenly I realized something. I was enjoying this.

Somehow.

Against all logic.

Against all common sense.

Against every warning sign that should have been flashing inside my head.

I was standing on the side of a Gurgaon road, having a completely absurd conversation with a man covered in ash, and I was enjoying it.

My eyes drifted over him again.

The ash.

He noticed I was looking.

“What?”

I gestured vaguely toward him.

“The ash.”

He looked down at himself.

“What about it?”

I cleared my throat.

“You thought a snake would scare me, but this wouldn't?”

He considered the question seriously. Far more seriously than it deserved. “Hmm.”

I waited.

Then he nodded.

“I thought it was comforting.”

I stared.

“Comforting for whom?”

“For me.”

The answer came instantly.

I blinked.

“Explain.”

Without warning, he straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and struck what could only be described as a model's pose.

The movement was so unexpected that I nearly laughed again.

“For me,” he said gravely, “fashion is comfort.”

Then he casually flexed an arm.

“And this is comfortable.”

I looked at the very obvious bicep he was showing off with a level of confidence that suggested he had never doubted his appearance a day in his life. For a moment I stared.

Then I burst out laughing.

“So now Lord Shiva is particular about fashion?”

He shrugged. As though that was the most natural thing in the world.

This man was unbelievable.

Completely unbelievable.

And somehow every answer he gave made less sense while simultaneously sounding perfectly reasonable.

I was still smiling when he looked down briefly and then back at me.

“I think your knees are fine now.”

The observation caught me off guard. Instinctively, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

Then paused.

Because he was right. The pain was still there. A dull ache lingered beneath my kneecaps. But the sharp throbbing that had followed my spectacular fall was gone.

At some point during this ridiculous conversation, I had stopped noticing it. The realization brought back the memory I had been successfully avoiding.

The temple.

The Shivalinga.

The fall.

The embarrassment.

As I stood there replaying the disaster for what was probably the hundredth time, he looked at me for a moment and then said, almost casually,

“Embarrassment passes.”

I immediately shook my head.

“No, it doesn't.”

“It does.”

The certainty in his voice irritated me.

“No,” I repeated. “It really doesn't.”

“It does.”

I folded my arms.

“I still remember things from Class Six.”

That seemed like a perfectly reasonable argument. Unfortunately, he looked delighted by it.

“You are proving my point.”

I frowned.

“How exactly am I proving your point?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Only you remember them. Nobody else does.”

Something about the way he said it felt strangely comforting.

Not because it erased the embarrassment, but because it suggested the humiliation existed almost entirely inside my own head.

Still, I refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words had affected me. So I ignored them.

Unfortunately, he continued speaking.

“You worry too much about what other people think.”

I finally looked at him.

“Did you not see them laughing?”

“I did.”

“There.”

I pointed triumphantly as though I had won the argument.

“They were laughing.”

“They've already forgotten.”

The confidence with which he said it only irritated me further.

I looked away.

“I haven't.”

His expression softened slightly.

“That's because you were there.”

I looked back at him.

“They were there too.”

“Not in the same way.”

I frowned. The answer made absolutely no sense. At least not immediately.

I understood the words individually, but together they seemed to point toward something I couldn't quite grasp.

Maybe he meant experience. I had experienced the fall. I had felt the panic, the embarrassment, the helplessness of being sprawled across a temple floor while strangers watched.

The others hadn't. To them it had been a moment. To me it had been an event. Maybe that was what he meant.

Or maybe I was spending entirely too much energy trying to understand a stranger dressed as Lord Shiva.

A stranger.

The realization should have reminded me to stop talking to him.

In fact, after several unfortunate incidents in my life, I had recently decided that avoiding strangers was generally a wise policy.

Yet somehow he didn't seem harmful. I glanced down at my phone again.

Still seven minutes.

At this point I was beginning to suspect the app had broken. Then the man spoke.

“Your ride is almost here.”

I blinked.

“What?”

He glanced toward the road. “Another minute.”

I immediately looked at my screen. No notification. No incoming call. No movement on the map.

Nothing.

The ride still stubbornly displayed seven minutes.

I frowned.

At this stage, I was seriously considering cancelling and booking another ride.

I looked back at him.

“Do you also drive for Rapido when you're not acting in dramas?”

A laugh escaped him.

“No.”

“Then how would you know?”

He lifted his chin ever so slightly.

“I know many things.”

I stared at him. Then sighed. This man was committed. Not once had he broken character. Not once had he looked embarrassed by any of this.

I pointed at him.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I think you've spent too much time in this costume.”

To my surprise, his eyes brightened.

“Costume?”

“Yes.”

I gestured at the ash, the Rudraksha beads, the long hair, all of it. “The whole thing.”

For some reason he looked pleased by my argument. As though I had accidentally confirmed something important. Then he nodded thoughtfully.

“Perhaps.”

The answer was so unexpected that I nearly laughed again. A horn sounded from across the road.

At the exact same moment, my phone vibrated in my hand. I looked down.

Incoming call.

For a second I simply stared. Then I answered. The driver immediately began asking for directions.

I turned toward the road and spotted him on the opposite side, waving from beside his bike.

Relief crashed through me. An entire hour's worth of waiting. An entire lifetime disguised as seven minutes.

And finally my ride had arrived.

I ended the call and looked back toward the self-proclaimed Lord Shiva.

He was still standing beneath the tree.

Still perfectly relaxed.

Still adjusting the Rudraksha beads around his neck as though he had nowhere else to be.

Honestly, the amount of commitment this man had to his performance was impressive.

Ridiculous.

But impressive.

He glanced up and caught me looking.

Then he lightly touched the beads around his neck and said, with complete satisfaction,

“It looks perfect now.”

I sighed.

“Of course it does.”

His smile returned.

And for reasons I couldn't explain, I found myself smiling back.

I sighed and shook my head.

“Fine, make sure to say hello to Vasuki ji and Nandi ji.”

I turned toward the road, already lifting a hand in farewell, but after taking barely two steps, I stopped.

I don't know why I did.

Maybe because the conversation had been so absurd that my brain had given up trying to behave normally.

Maybe because he looked so expectant standing there beneath the tree, covered in ash and Rudraksha beads, as though this had all been a perfectly reasonable interaction.

Whatever the reason, I turned back.

“And say hello to Parvati ji, Kartikeya ji, and Ganpati ji too.”

His smile immediately widened. I pointed dramatically.

“And everyone else on Kailash.”

The laugh that escaped him was soft and warm.

“Of course I will.”

Satisfied with myself, I nodded and turned around again. This time my ride had actually arrived.

A man stood beside his bike holding out a helmet toward me.

I took it with a murmured thanks and slipped it over my head before climbing onto the bike.

The rider waited patiently while I struggled with the strap.

For some reason, helmet straps always seemed determined to prove I lacked basic motor skills.

Once I finally managed to secure it, the rider glanced back.

“Long wait, madam?”

“A little.”

Then he glanced into his side mirror.

“Someone was talking to you.”

The question immediately caught my attention. I followed his gaze instinctively toward the tree where we were talking.

“Yes,” I answered.

The rider waited.

“I was talking to Shiva ji.”

For a second the helmet strap slipped from my fingers. I stared straight ahead.

The rider stared at me through the mirror. Neither of us spoke. I immediately pretended nothing unusual had been said.

The rider continued staring. I ignored him. Finally, I tapped his shoulder.

“Let's go.”

A moment later, the engine started. As we pulled into traffic, I heard him mutter something under his breath.

I couldn't make out the words. More importantly, I didn't want to.

I had already spent enough time explaining things today.

At this point, all I wanted was to reach home.

Thankfully, I had already taken leave from work. The thought alone felt like a blessing.

No office.

No meetings.

No pretending to be productive.

Just a shower, a bed, and hopefully several hours without any divine matchmaking attempts.

The bike moved steadily through Gurgaon traffic while I replayed the day in my head.

The temple.

The fall.

The humiliation.

The prayer.

The ash-covered stranger claiming to be Lord Shiva.

The conversation about Vasuki and Nandi.

The fact that I had somehow argued with a self-proclaimed Mahadev about fashion. The entire day felt like something my brain had invented after a concussion.

Lost in those thoughts, I barely noticed the familiar roads appearing around me.

By the time I looked up properly, we were already outside my apartment building. Well, technically it was a rented flat.

But after years of paying rent, fighting with the water heater, and arguing with the landlord about maintenance, it felt enough like home.

I climbed off the bike and handed the helmet back.

The rider took it and then paused.

“Madam.”

“Hm?”

“Jooti jati pehan leni thi.” You should have chosen better footwear.

I frowned.

“What?”

But before I could process what he had said, he had already started the bike.

A second later, he was gone. I stood there staring after him. Then his words finally registered.

You should have worn proper footwear.

I looked down automatically.

The dampness from earlier had disappeared, but there was still a dark stain across the knees of my pants from whatever mixture of water, oil, or ghee had been on the temple floor.

Then I looked at my sandals. Simple flats. Barely any heel. Almost completely flat, actually.

I stared at them in disbelief.

The audacity.

The absolute audacity.

As if I had fallen because I didn't know how to walk in heels.

As if my dramatic destruction in the temple had been caused by dangerous footwear instead of terrible luck.

I looked up, fully prepared to argue with him.

Or at the very least defend my sandals.

Unfortunately, the man was already halfway down the road and disappearing into traffic.

I stood there for another second, offended on behalf of my footwear.

Then I shook my head.

One self-proclaimed Lord Shiva and one judgmental bike rider were enough for a single day.

Without another thought, I turned toward my building and headed inside.