020

The day after Diwali dawned earlier than any of them would have liked, especially after the whirlwind of festivities. Raghuveer, Roopa, Ranveer, Maithili, and Radha were all bundled up in the soft glow of the early morning, shuffling around groggily, gathering their bags, and making sure nothing essential was forgotten. With half-closed eyes and yawns that seemed never-ending, Maithili and Ranveer stumbled their way out the door, still more asleep than awake. Radha muttered under her breath about their sluggishness, her tone softened by the lingering joy of the Diwali celebrations, even if she was more awake than the rest of them.

As the auto finally disappeared down the street, Shivangi and Niyati shared a secretive, triumphant look before practically sprinting back inside. As soon as the door was locked, they collapsed onto the make-shift bed in the living room, relishing the silence that came with an empty house. It was as if all the energy they’d poured into the festival had finally caught up with them. They wrapped themselves in blankets and surrendered to sleep, not even bothering to stir until late morning. Only the sight of neighbors carrying fresh Prasad reminded them that they, too, had responsibilities to attend to.

Roopa and Radha, ever prepared, had left behind carefully packed boxes of sweets and Prasad, ensuring the neighborhood customs would carry on smoothly. Once freshened up, Shivangi and Niyati welcomed the guests that trickled in, exchanging pleasantries, passing along Prasad, and bowing for blessings. But even as they greeted each visitor with warm smiles, both of them felt the quiet comfort of knowing they could spend the rest of the day without the usual clamor that filled their home.

As evening set in, Niyati headed to the temple to light the evening lamp and offer prayers. Raghuveer had informed everyone that the temple would remain closed for two days following Diwali, allowing for some much-needed rest and a sense of privacy in their worship.

Shivangi, meanwhile, stayed back, preparing tea and snacks for a group of older neighborhood ladies who had come to visit, led by Manorama. It was meant to be a simple social call, but Shivangi soon found herself trapped in a web of marital advice—one-sided and endlessly overwhelming.

The older women leaned in with eager eyes and knowing smiles, each eager to impart their wisdom, and Shivangi couldn’t help but feel as if she were drowning in an ocean of "dos" and "don’ts." She tried to remain polite, but her mind wandered, already planning her escape.

“Whatever your mother-in-law says, do it without question. A daughter-in-law’s duty is obedience.”

“Your husband is next to God, so fulfill every demand with grace and respect—no questions, no hesitations.”

“Be modest, don’t laugh too loudly in front of guests, keep your voice soft, and only speak when spoken to.”

“Rise before the sun and don’t let yourself rest until everyone else is settled.”

Each piece of advice made Shivangi’s skin itch, as if the very words were confining her. The idea of fulfilling these expectations seemed suffocating, and with every passing minute, she felt her patience waning. When Niyati had spotted the group coming and fled to the temple, Shivangi had only rolled her eyes, but now she found herself wishing she’d done the same.

The moment the tea and snacks were served, she excused herself with the explanation of wanting to visit the temple, leaving the women to their discussion. She made her way down the familiar path, feeling a sense of freedom returning as the evening breeze brushed against her face. The thought of Niyati hiding out at the temple made her chuckle, though she couldn’t deny a pang of envy—Niyati had evaded the lecture entirely, leaving Shivangi alone to fend off the soul-sucking marital advice brigade.

As Shivangi reached the temple, she found Niyati quietly setting up for the evening prayers, surrounded by the flickering light of diyas that cast a soft glow on her serene expression. Niyati looked up, spotting Shivangi and breaking into a grin, clearly pleased with herself for her earlier escape.

“So,” Shivangi teased, folding her arms as she stepped closer, “leaving me to fend off those soul-sucking monsters, were you? Rotten tomato.”

Niyati stifled a laugh, trying to look innocent. “Well, someone had to keep the temple running,” she said, feigning earnestness, though her smile betrayed her. “Besides, you handled it, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” Shivangi huffed, shaking her head. “They were relentless. You should’ve heard the lecture on mother-in-law obedience. I almost lost it when they said I’d have to sleep after everyone else. Are we servants now?”

Niyati laughed, nodding sympathetically as she set another diya in place. “They mean well, but they don’t realize how outdated it all sounds,” she said, her voice soft but understanding. “They were raised with these ideas, and to them, that’s just how things should be.”

Shivangi sighed, some of her irritation melting as she took in the peaceful atmosphere around them. There was something grounding about the temple, the quiet solitude, and the gentle glow of the diyas. It allowed her frustrations to dissipate, replaced by a sense of calm that she hadn’t felt amidst the bustling Diwali celebrations.

Together, they offered their prayers, taking their time as the evening drew on, filling the air with a peaceful serenity. By the time they returned home, the quiet night had settled in fully, stars twinkling above and the chill of winter settling over Begusarai. With their family away, it was just the two of them, and for once, they felt like they had all the time in the world.

Their laughter echoed in the empty halls as they recounted the absurdities of the day, finding humor in the monotony of tradition and the amusing quirks of their neighborhood aunties. And as they finally curled up on their make-shift beds that night, talking long into the early hours, both of them felt a rare contentment—no expectations, no obligations, just the warm, quiet joy of shared companionship and the comfort of being at home.

_

The winter had crept in, carrying its chill into every corner of Durga Devi's room. Outside, the sky was heavy with thick gray clouds.

Inside, Durga Devi, seated on a low cot by the warmth of a small brazier, watched her son Phoolan with the fondness only a mother can muster. Yet, that fondness was tainted with concern as her aching feet throbbed beneath her shawl, her joints wincing at every shift in the cold.

Phoolan knelt beside her, his strong hands coated with warm mustard oil as he gently kneaded the swollen knuckles of her feet, seeking to ease the discomfort that years and winters had gradually carved into her.

The once unyielding matriarch felt her spirit at ease, though her body was now humbled by age. She had seen many seasons pass, and in each one, she had carried the heavy weight of this family. But now, watching Phoolan—a man hardened by life yet softened by love for his kin—she felt the reassuring calm that came with knowing the future of her household was in capable hands.

“So, have you thought about Achintya’s marriage?” she asked quietly, breaking the silence. Her gaze was faraway, fixed on the flickering flame of the brazier, as if within it she could glimpse the young bride who would someday stand beside her beloved grandson. “Sundar and he are of the same age. It would be wise to see him wed soon after Sundar.”

Phoolan’s hands paused momentarily, and a small, wry smile flickered at his lips. He knew this question would come—it had been lingering unspoken in his mother’s eyes for some time now. His fingers resumed their gentle motion, pressing warmth into her weary skin as he replied, “And give Meena more ammunition to fuel her grievances against Achintya? I think not, Amma.”

He let out a soft sigh, lifting his gaze to the face of the woman who had shaped him, taught him everything he knew about life and resilience.

Time had painted her features with gentle wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp, like polished stones that had weathered countless storms. There was wisdom there, yes, but also sorrow—a sorrow that knew Achintya would always be held to a different standard, one that his cousin Sundar would never be bound to.

“Time has mellowed you, my son,” Durga Devi murmured, almost as if reading his thoughts. Her voice carried a mix of pride and resignation, echoing with the memories of battles fought and burdens shouldered. The roaring lion has softened, ready to pass the reins to the next one. "But mark my words, no matter what Achintya does, Meena will always find reason to despise him. Even if he were to become a monk, she would twist it into something to scorn.”

Her words were soft, but Phoolan knew the truth in them. Meena’s resentment toward Achintya was woven into her being, a deep-rooted hatred that ran so far back that it almost seemed part of her nature. Achintya and Sundar were both brothers, but Meena never failed to make it clear that she felt her son deserved more.

“But Achintya deserves peace. His life should not be another battleground for family rivalries. Sundar’s marriage should come first; we should prioritize that for now.”Phoolan nodded, his expression unreadable as he absorbed said those words.

“Sundar’s marriage is the current priority. But we both know the real reason Meena is so eager to arrange his marriage with the Tripathis. It’s not simply out of motherly affection. She believes that marrying Sundar into a powerful family will shift the balance in his favor, giving him an advantage over Achintya in the family.”

The mention of the Tripathis sent a ripple of distaste through him. They were a respected family, yes, but he had always sensed the undertones of ambition in them that clashed with his own values. Meena saw them as a stepping stone for her son, a way to tip the scales in a game that was, for her, far from over.

“Yes, there’s no denying her intentions,” he admitted. “But Achintya is worthy of more. The right alliance, with a family who values integrity over influence, will come when the time is right. He deserves someone who will respect him for who he is, someone who will strengthen him, not bind him to ambitions that aren’t his own.”

With gentle, steady hands, Phoolan continued massaging her feet, the warm oil easing her discomfort as he met her gaze. “Our Achintya has a destiny far greater than that,” he said softly, but with an underlying strength that made his words seem like a promise. “And even if he doesn’t, he will always have his father. So long as I live, neither he nor any of my children will ever have to look to someone else for support.”

A faint, wistful smile tugged at Durga Devi’s lips, the lines of worry easing as she took in the strength in his eyes. In that moment, she saw not only her son but also the resilience of her family—a strength that ran through generations. Phoolan’s love for his children was a quiet force, one that demanded nothing in return yet stood unwavering in its power.

“That’s true,” she murmured, a calm settling over her heart as she felt the conviction in his words. As long as Phoolan was here, Achintya would not face the world alone. Sundar’s marriage would come first, yes, but they would not be swept into the schemes of others.

In the quiet that followed, the brazier crackled, filling the room with the faint scent of burning wood and warm oil.

Untill he is here, Achintya or any of his children will never need anyone else by their side. That he alone is enough.

_

Shibu dii... I'm leaving!" Niyati yelled from the gate, where Reecha was already waiting on her scooty, glaring at her to hurry up, or else they'd be late for the movie.

"Hm... come back soon, Amu, before the—"

"—sun sets. I know... bye-bye!" Shivangi watched as Reecha's scooter crossed the street and disappeared. Their parents were supposed to arrive on the 8 o'clock bus, and she hoped Niyati would be back home before then.

_

The Trivedis had packed a mountain of gifts for their soon-to-be daughter-in-law, each one handpicked and thoughtful. Radha and Roopa eagerly went through each item with Shivangi, their voices warm and their eyes sparkling as they relished her shy, blushing reactions.

"This is from jiju!" Maithili said, proudly displaying a fancy new pencil box she'd been dreaming of for ages, though Radha had always denied it. Secretly, it had been Shivangi who suggested Shivam to get it, knowing how much her little sister longed for it.

"And this for Gola -" Ranveer, meanwhile, grinned as he strapped on the roller skates Shivam had gifted him. He’d barely kept his balance on them all day, but his excitement was uncontainable as he zoomed around the courtyard, only to stumble and land in a heap every few minutes, causing a chorus of laughter.

Then came the pièce de résistance: a beautiful, pristine white anarkali suit for Niyati. Niyati held it carefully, admiring the delicate embroidery that traced its hem and sleeves, the smooth, crisp fabric catching the light. Her cheeks flushed as she said, "I’ll wear this on the last day of Chhath Puja."

_

Chhath was the very heartbeat of Bihar—a time when homes across the state, from sprawling villages to bustling towns, pulsed with life and devotion.

The celebration was nothing short of a grand carnival, uniting people from all walks of life in reverence and tradition. For the Chaudhary family, like many others, Chhath was a time to honor ancestral customs, to bring family closer, and to feel the deep-rooted spiritual connection to the land and its rhythms.

The festival began early on Nahay-Khay, the first day, as the house bustled with activity. Every corner was meticulously cleaned, then sprinkled with sacred Gangajal, purifying the space as the Chaudharys prepared to welcome the divine into their home.

In the backyard, Nupur, the daughter-in-law of the house, molded a fresh clay stove by hand under the watchful eyes of Rukmani and Durga Devi.

Together, they prepared a simple yet sacred meal—mung dal khichdi and pumpkin sabji, cooked in brand-new clay pots. The first taste was offered to the family deities, and then Nupur took the first bite, symbolizing her role as the matron, carrying forward traditions that had been passed down for generations.

On the second day, the sacred fast began—a day of deep commitment, as the women abstained from both food and water. All around the locality, the air was thick with the sounds of folk songs and the soft hum of shared stories, as elders recounted tales from their own youth.

These songs, carrying the essence of Chhath, echoed down the lanes, binding everyone with an invisible thread of shared history.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, the women gathered to prepare rasaio ke kheer—a sweet rice pudding flavored with jaggery and the essence of sugarcane, cooked over the clay stove. Its earthy fragrance filled the house, a comforting scent that brought a feeling of home.

At midnight, while the house lay in quiet darkness, Nupur prepared the traditional Prasad of thekua, small fried wheat biscuits, golden and crisp, each shaped carefully by hand. They would be offered as Prasad on the following day, a humble yet sacred offering that held the blessings of the festival.

The third day arrived, and with it, the most sacred part of the fast. After thirty-six hours without food or water, Nupur bathed at dawn, emerging resplendent in the attire of a new bride. Her saree was draped meticulously, her bangles jingling softly as she adorned herself, a reflection of the day she first entered the Chaudhary household as a daughter-in-law. Her calm, determined gaze and the careful brush of sindoor at her forehead carried the quiet strength of a woman honoring the responsibilities entrusted to her.

Under her guidance, the daura, a special bamboo basket, was filled with offerings—thekua, fruits, sweets, coconuts, and other Prasad. Mithilesh, her husband, watched with reverence as she arranged the items, each one laden with prayers and gratitude.

When the time came, he lifted the daura above his head, ensuring it remained pure, untouched by anything that could taint its sanctity. With family members following close, they made their way to the Ganga Ghat, joining a long line of fellow devotees, all singing the age-old songs of Chhath.

The path to the ghat was alive with light and music, a procession of faith and togetherness that crossed generations.

_

Niyati could barely believe her eyes. The scene unfolding before her was a revelation, a spectacle unlike anything she'd seen in her life. Growing up, she'd celebrated Chhath in Indore, familiar with its rituals and colors. But nothing could have prepared her for the sheer magnificence, the raw energy, and the collective spirit of the people in Begusarai.

Here, Chhath wasn’t just a festival; it was a way of life, a time-honored tradition that coursed through every street, every home, and every heart. The songs, the people’s joy, and the meticulous devotion woven into every detail of the celebration awoke something in her—a new sense of belonging and awe.

As she dressed alongside Shivangi and Maithili, she ran her hands over the soft fabric of her muted orange lehenga, feeling both excitement and nervousness. “Didi, this doesn’t look too much, right?” she asked, uncertain.

“No, Amu. Trust me,” Shivangi reassured her with a grin, adjusting her bottle-green lehenga as she curled her long hair. “Wait till you reach the ghat—you’ll see what ‘too much’ really looks like.” With a playful eye, she suggested, “Maybe open your hair?”

Niyati touched her simple braid with a nervous laugh. “So birds can lay eggs in it? No way!” The thin maang tikka she had carefully adjusted felt like a new weight on her forehead, a reminder of how different this look was for her.

Normally, she didn’t wear such bright colors, but her Kaki had chosen this one, and Niyati couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Shivangi, on the other hand, looked regal—a forest goddess with her flowing hair, bold makeup, and a deep green lehenga that gleamed under the lights.

"Atleast wear a chocker-" After some urging, Niyati relented and let Shivangi clasp a delicate choker around her neck, but she stood firm against any more makeup, opting only for a red lip tint, thin eyeliner, and a soft blush. And Shivangi, to her credit, was right. The look was stunning—simple yet striking.

As they arrived at the Ganga Ghat, Maithili gasped, her eyes wide. “Wow!” she exclaimed, staring in awe at the riverbank, now shimmering like a newlywed bride draped in lights and decorations.

Every step Niyati took felt surreal. She held Maithili’s hand tightly, weaving through the crowd behind Raghuveer, who had found a spot saved by a friendly neighbor.

Roopa quickly sat on the mat they’d brought, setting up the traditional chauraha for Chhath Mata with practiced ease, placing coconuts, lighting lamps, and performing the initial puja rituals as they waited for the sun to dip below the horizon.

Before she knew it, Niyati felt a gentle tug and turned to see Reecha, who had swept her away from her family. Shivangi had already slipped away with friends, and Maithili and Gola were off somewhere too.

“Wow, Reecha, you look amazing!” Niyati said, admiring her friend, who wore a wine-colored lehenga with sequins that shimmered as she moved. Reecha gave her a sly grin, twirling to reveal a daring backless blouse that made Niyati gasp.

“Now, how’s that?” Reecha asked with a smirk, one hand brushing her straightened hair over her shoulder.

“Wow!” Niyati gave her two thumbs up, momentarily at a loss for words. In Indore, she’d seen women wear these bold designs, but somehow, seeing Reecha dressed like this here felt unexpected, like Begusarai itself was bringing out parts of herself she hadn’t known were there. It was as if the town’s traditional spirit had made a place in her heart, blending with her own memories of home .

“Is Asha here?” Niyati asked, recalling their conversation with the other girl earlier.

“No, but someone else is,” Reecha replied, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

Niyati scrunched her nose in confusion. “Who? The prime minister?”

Reecha rolled her eyes. “No, you fool. Someone almost as big—the chief minister.”

“What? To do the puja?”

Reecha shook her head, groaning. “No, silly. He’s here to meet Phoolan Chaudhary. Papa says it’s a power play. Why else would he be here?”

“I don’t care about politics, Reecha,” Niyati replied with a shrug. “My life’s better without it.” But a flicker of curiosity tugged at her thoughts. If the Chaudharys were here, then maybe… maybe he was here, too. She scanned the crowd, hoping, but there was no sign of him.

“Where are the Chaudharys?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Reecha smirked, catching the glint in her friend’s eye. “Oh, there’s already a huge crowd around them—all the ‘vagabonds, punks’ of Begusarai hoping to get their ugly faces on Television,” she said with a chuckle, causing Niyati to laugh. “What? It’s true! You should see the desperation.”

“I know, I know,” Niyati replied, still giggling. “It’s just the way you said it—‘ugly faces on television’!” hitting Reecha's hand multiple times.

“Well, there’s a bunch of news crews there, reporting live. Wanna try to get closer?” Reecha asked, her eyes dancing with excitement.

“You just said it’s crowded!” Niyati protested, her voice turning to a shriek as firecrackers burst and the beat of dhol drums filled the air. Reecha was already pulling her forward.

“Nothing will happen—come on!” Reecha urged.

“But they know you! Maybe they’ll let us through once they see you,” she teased, winking.

"You've gone mad."

_

Niyati could feel her temper rising, her patience wearing thin. She glared at Reecha, who was avoiding her gaze. “Now what?” she shouted, her voice rising above the thundering sound of the dhol and the deafening crackle of firecrackers.

Reecha, clearly hoping Niyati would be her golden ticket into the crowd, had managed to drag them to the heart of the chaos. Now, they were stuck in the middle, surrounded by a throng of people, unable to move forward or backward. And to top it all off, it seemed as if every man in Begusarai had been drawn to this very spot, as though by some unseen force.

"Reecha..." Niyati’s voice was low, but the fury in her eyes was unmistakable. She rarely ever got angry, and when she did, it was a force to reckon with. The anger simmered, bubbling just beneath the surface, and it was clear that Reecha had overstepped.

"Yrr... sorry..." Reecha mumbled, her voice laced with regret, but Niyati’s expression only hardened. The apology, instead of calming her, made her more furious.

“I thought... they would let us...” Reecha trailed off, but her explanation did little to soothe the storm inside Niyati.

"I’m not their family, Reecha. Why would they let me get inside their inner circle?" Niyati’s words were sharp, cutting through the noise. Her body moved instinctively, covering herself with her dupatta, trying to shield herself from the crowd that felt too close, too suffocating.

Just then, she felt a hand graze the back of her neck. For a fleeting moment, she thought it was just another accident in the crowd, but something about it didn’t sit right. She let it go, but it lingered at the edge of her mind.

"I'm sorry, yrr... ouch..." Reecha winced beside her, her voice shaky, and the hurt expression on her face did nothing to quell Niyati’s growing unease.

Niyati’s temper flared. “What? Are you okay?” She spun to face her friend, concerned but irritated by the entire situation.

“Y-yeah... I think we should leave,” Reecha replied, her voice small, barely audible over the cacophony around them.

“We would, if we could,” Niyati shot back, her frustration mounting. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re stuck. In the middle of all these people.” She pointed around, her arm waving in exasperation. Every inch of her space felt violated—people pushing against her from all directions. A shove came from behind her, and then she felt someone’s chest pressed against her back. She turned quickly, her eyes narrowing, only to lock onto the face of a man she would rather forget.

The man was hideous, his face marred by a large mustard-sized mole under his nose. He was grinning lecherously, rubbing his chin with a grotesque expression that sent a chill down her spine. Her glare did nothing to deter him—if anything, his eyes seemed to widen with curiosity, and that only made Niyati more furious.

She spun back to Reecha, the tension thick in her voice. "Reecha, what happened?" Her friend looked visibly uncomfortable, shifting uneasily and adjusting her dupatta around herself, a subtle sign that something was wrong.

Reecha shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper as she spoke through clenched teeth. “Let’s go, yrr…”

Niyati’s frown deepened, sensing something was off. “What? Did someone do something?” She glanced back and caught sight of the second man—this one even more repulsive than the first. He was shorter, his hair matted and clinging to his forehead, and his mouth was full of yellow, rotting teeth from the tobacco he chewed incessantly. His smirk was just as sinister as the other man’s, if not worse.

“He did something?” Niyati pressed, feeling the protective instinct rising within her. This wasn’t just about being uncomfortable anymore; this was about something far more sinister.

Reecha finally nodded, the words spilling out in a rush, her voice trembling. “He touched my back…”

Niyati’s hands clenched into fists. “You should’ve slapped him!” she snapped. The anger flared, but seeing the tears brimming in Reecha’s eyes, she softened.

“I don’t know, Niyati... Let’s just go…” Reecha’s voice broke, the hint of tears threatening to spill.

Niyati’s heart ached. Seeing her friend so vulnerable, so close to breaking, shattered something inside her. She reached out and took Reecha’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “We will. But first, we need to get out of here. Stick with me.”

Reecha wiped away the single tear that had escaped, trying to hide it with a shaky smile. But Niyati wasn’t fooled.

With determined resolve, she looked at the confused Reecha."Find the exit. we are running-"

Niyati reached into her bag, her fingers brushing over the safety pin she always kept in her side pocket—an old habit. She didn’t need to think twice. With the crowd pressing in around them, she moved swiftly, her hand hidden by her dupatta. As the man’s laughter echoed in her ears, she felt his hand move again, this time brushing against her waist.

Before he could react, Niyati straightened, swiftly stabbing the safety pin into his stomach, the sharp pain causing him to howl. His scream was drowned by the chaos of the celebration—the drumbeats, the crackling firecrackers—but it didn’t matter. The man stumbled backward, clutching his stomach, as Niyati grabbed Reecha’s arm and pulled her through the crowd.

They ran. They didn’t look back. There was no time to waste.

And as they pushed through the throngs of people, Niyati and Reecha could feel their heart pounding, but their resolve was unwavering.

_

It was no easy feat to escape the chaotic crowd, but somehow, Niyati and Reecha managed to push through the sea of bodies. With their hearts racing and adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they found themselves on the other side, away from the men who had made them feel so uncomfortable.

Niyati’s grip on Reecha’s hand tightened as they breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that the men wouldn’t be able to follow them through the dense throng.

Reecha turned to Niyati, still visibly shaken but trying to grasp the reality of what had just happened. "What did you do?" Her voice was full of disbelief, as though the sharp, decisive action Niyati had taken didn’t quite register yet.

Niyati smiled coolly, the satisfaction of her swift retaliation gleaming in her eyes. "It’s called tit for tat, my friend. He got what he deserved."

Reecha didn’t have words for that—she was too overwhelmed, her emotions running high from the confrontation and the release of tension after their escape. Without thinking, she pulled Niyati into a tight hug.

The gesture was filled with gratitude, relief, and unspoken thanks. But once they pulled apart, Niyati’s gaze softened as she wiped a tear from Reecha’s cheek, her voice teasing yet warm.

"Your makeup’s gonna get ruined," she said with a small laugh, brushing away the stray tear that had escaped her friend's eye.

Reecha wiped her eyes hastily, chuckling through the haze of her emotions. "Yeah, we can’t afford that," she replied with a grin.

Niyati shook her head in mock disapproval, but the bond between them felt stronger in that moment than ever before. "Maybe I shouldn’t have worn this dress—"

"Nonsense," Niyati interrupted immediately, her voice firm and reassuring. "Utter nonsense. It’s those men who were the problem, not this beautiful dress. Trust me, and don’t ever think otherwise."

Reecha smiled through her tears, grateful for Niyati’s words. "You’re right," she said, her voice steadier now, as the tension of the crowd and the fear of what had almost happened faded into the background. She was safe now, and she had her friend by her side. That was all that mattered.

_

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, the women of Begusarai began to make their way to the Ganga. The air was thick with anticipation, the energy palpable. The third day of Chhath was always the most significant, the culmination of the three-day-long fasting and prayers.

Inside each basket, the offerings to the Sun God were carefully placed: the thekua, ripe bananas, turmeric, sugarcane, roots, tubers, and the big lemon—each item symbolizing health, prosperity, and the blessings of the divine.

The air around them was thick with chants and prayers, the sound of the dhol and the soft hum of women offering their devotion to the setting sun. It felt like something ancient, something timeless, and for a moment, Niyati felt herself fully immersed in the beauty of the ritual, the connection to the earth, the water, and the divine.

Each woman circled the water five times, the 'daura' held aloft as they offered their prayers in unison. The sight of so many women together, all bound by this single moment of devotion, filled with awe.

As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, settling the quiet peace over everyone —a sense of belonging, of being part of something much bigger than oneself. The Chhath was not just a festival; it was a testament to faith, tradition, and the shared strength of the women who upheld it.

Completing the Sandhya Arghya, the third day of the Chhath, was not just a physical act. It was a ritual of cleansing, of renewal, and of offering thanks for all that they had been given.

_

Achintya stood near the huge Banyan tree, surrounded by people. Mayank was on his left, complaining about why the hell they were standing there doing nothing.

"Fucking tell me?" he demanded, getting frustrated with the unnecessary suspense.

"Either keep your mouth shut or fuck off," came the reply from his friend, whose eyes were busy searching for someone only he and God knew. So many girls had approached them, and instead of spending time with them, Mayank was still here.

He could leave, as Achintya had pointed out, but Mayank had the inkling that by standing here, he would soon be able to unveil the drama surrounding his best friend's life.

Niyati. That girl is here. It was clear from the way Achintya was standing there patiently, like a lion waiting for its prey.

"Hello..." Mayank heard a honey-sweet voice and saw a curly-haired girl standing in front of them. She was wearing a pink lehenga, cut to her midriff, showing smooth skin, with a face like that of a seductress. "Happy Chhath Pooja, Achintya Babu."

And his friend was one lucky bastard to get every passing girl's attention fixed solely on him. Achintya looked dashing in a pastel purple fitted kurta and white dress pants, his signature glasses perched on his nose.

"You too."

The girl looked at him expectantly, fishing for more words, but Achintya didn’t even pay any attention. He stood still, looking elsewhere, and after a moment, the girl, regaining her sense of defeat, turned away.

It was hard to make out anyone with this kind of crowd—people stumbling over one another, strolling away. Still, Achintya knew. Once she would be near him, he would know. And he did. After spending some more time and listening to Mayank's restless whines, he just knew she was around.

Straightening up a bit, he craned his neck and found the figure. With her back to him, the long braid covered under a dupatta in the color of the sun, Niyati was standing there with her friend, both conversing hurriedly as she wiped something from the other girl's cheek.

Achintya’s eyebrows furrowed. Niyati looked stressed and tense, her shoulders carrying the weight of some tension. When she turned slightly sideways, as someone passed by her, he could see her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression angered.

What the hell really happened?

His feet moved on their own accord.

"Oi, where you off to now?" Mayank yelled behind him but was ignored. Following the trail where his friend’s eyes had set, he saw two beautiful girls standing and conversing.

Which one of them is Achintya’s Niyati?

He would only know when the devil himself allowed him to know. With that thought, he followed after his friend’s footsteps.

_

Seeing Reecha’s eyes widen, Niyati started to speak, but quickly clamped her mouth shut.

The thundering voice came from behind her, and she didn’t have to turn to know who it was. “Why do you look so fucking tense? What happened?”

Oh Lord… has he really gone mad? How could he just barge in and demand answers, even knowing she was with a friend, in the middle of a crowd, where anyone could overhear them?

“Achintya…” An unfamiliar voice greeted him cheerfully, a hand slung around his shoulder. “Mayank Kushwaha. And you, my lady?” His crooked smile made Reecha’s face turn crimson.

“R-Reecha Tandon.” She stammered, shaking his hand, but then his extended hand turned towards Niyati. Before he could reach out, someone kicked his left leg sideways.

“Ouch!”

“Sorry... I kicked by mistake—” came the devil’s voice, making Mayank realize at once who the other girl was. Mayank had known Achintya since childhood, and deep down, he’d always had the inkling that despite his friend’s numerous rendezvous, he would only settle down with someone who was a stark contrast to his usual type.

Niyati wasn’t a conventional beauty, but there was something extraordinary about her, something that lay in her simplicity and the elegance with which she carried herself. Even now, dressed traditionally with her hair in a neat braid, she easily caught the eye. There was a glow about her—something that came from within. Her innocence, her round cheeks, and those enormous eyes—it all worked in her favor.

“Niyati…” Achintya nodded, and despite her initial hesitation, she extended her hand. She sent a sharp glare in Achintya’s direction before directing her eyes to Mayank, who quickly withdrew his hand as if it had been set on fire.

Achintya, despite wanting to press for answers, waited until the introductions were over. “What happened?” he asked, his voice calm but firm.

“Nothing happened.” Niyati remarked, not meeting his gaze. It was always difficult to lie to him—she was a good liar, but with Achintya, the truth always felt like it would slip out. “We… I and Reecha had a small tiff.”

“Really, Reecha?” The girl was lost in her thoughts, trying to make sense of the unfolding scene, but she wasn’t expecting Achintya Chaudhary’s piercing gaze to land on her. Fumbling, she looked at Niyati, who jerked her head once, signaling her not to open her mouth.

But Reecha wasn't as brave as the Niyati, for she couldn't take his glares and still lie on his face, ending up blurting everything -

Niyati facepalmed herself, utterly exasperated.

This idiot… Reecha had no idea what she had just done. And knowing what was about to unfold, Niyati silently stepped back. If she went to her family, she wouldn’t have to face the wrath of Achintya.

She leaned backward, but before she could slip away—

“Run away, and watch me drag you back.” His calm tone was even more chilling than his anger. Niyati could sense it—the same calmness Achintya had shown when he fought those goons at the fort. She knew what would follow and had no desire to repeat that scene.

She stood still, glaring at the dirt beneath her feet, wishing she could crouch down, grab a handful, and throw it in his eyes just to escape. But her prince charming had to choose this exact moment to give her another heart attack.

“Will you be able to recognize those men if I show you them?” His words made her eyes widen, but they weren’t directed at her—they were aimed at Reecha, who looked completely shell-shocked.

“Achintya, no.” Niyati was in front of him in a second. “I handled the situation. There’s no need for you to get involved.” Not to mention, if he got his hands on this, it would only turn violent, bloody even.

“Besides, if you forget, let me remind you… the media’s here, recording your family—”

“Fine. I won’t send an invitation for them to come and watch,” Achintya replied with a smirk, and an uncontrollable snicker escaped from Mayank. Niyati gritted her teeth, glowering even more.

“I mean it. Don’t get involved in this. I handled it well, didn’t you hear?”

“I did. I’m very proud of you.” His words were sincere, and Niyati felt the warmth at the back of her neck. “So, I’ll just check on that man and see whether we need to send him to the hospital or not. That’s it.” And then, the sarcasm followed.

Rolling her eyes, she raised her hand and slapped his arm, causing Mayank and Reecha’s eyes to bulge out of their sockets as they looked at each other. There was something familiar about the interaction—how Niyati wasn’t angry, even with the slap, and how Achintya remained calm, unaffected by it.

Just what is the relationship between Niyati and Achintya?

“Please don’t insult my intelligence,” Niyati said, turning to Reecha and grabbing her wrist. “Anyway… it was nice meeting you, Mayank. Bye. Happy Chhath Pooja.”

_

“You let her go?” Mayank questioned, watching the two girls drift away.

“Didn’t you hear?” Achintya replied. “She said don’t get involved. I’m respecting her wishes.”

If Mayank hadn’t heard it with his own ears, he wouldn’t believe it. Achintya giving up so easily? Was the sun setting in the east today?

_

Hm… The man had a mustard-sized mole under his nose, right? Yeah, found him. Inform me as soon as you can,” Achintya muttered, ending the call. He lowered the phone, only to find Mayank’s eyes fixed on him with a knowing look.

“You said you’d be respecting her wishes?”

“I am,” Achintya replied with a calmness that seemed at odds with the intense fire in his eyes. Mayank followed him as Achintya carried Laxu in his arms,as Nupur Bhabhi, who was offering Arghya in the Ganga. Laxu, fascinated, watched the ritual, her soft brown eyes wide, taking in everything around her.

“Really? Then why are you looking for that hideous man?” Mayank pressed, raising an eyebrow. He could feel the tension in the air, the storm just waiting to break. Achintya’s eyes remained fixed ahead, his jaw set in a tight line.

“To send him to the hospital… along with his friend.” Achintya’s words were clipped, each one dripping with an unspoken promise of violence.

“Niyati told you not to get involved, didn’t she?” Mayank smirked, finally catching the murderous glint in his best friend’s eyes. It was rare to see Achintya like this, but there was something unsettling about the calm before the storm. Something dangerous was about to happen.

“Reecha’s told you, too, remember?” Achintya’s voice was low and steady, but his tone carried weight. “That the man standing beside her was the only one who got punished by Niyati.”

“I heard that,” Mayank replied, his voice dropping slightly. “Yeah, I heard it.”

“And so, I won’t do anything to him. As Niyati wanted.” Achintya’s gaze hardened, his resolve unshaken.

“But…” Mayank raised an eyebrow. There was always a ‘but,’ wasn’t there?

“But what about the other hideous fucker who tried to touch Niyati’s neck?” Achintya’s voice lowered, a dangerous edge creeping into it. “It would be abject discrimination against the injured fucker if his friend doesn’t accompany him to the hospital. If one goes, the other should follow.”

Mayank chuckled, shaking his head. “I swear, Achintya, sometimes I think you’re just looking for an excuse to hurt someone.” But deep down, he knew his friend’s code of honor—this wasn’t about the punishment. It was about making sure no one got away messing with the people he cared about.

As the devotees continued their rituals, circumambulating the water five times, the Sandhya Pooja was coming to an end.

The sun was sinking lower, casting an orange glow across the scene. Women, with yellow sindoor painted from their noses to their foreheads and through their hair, began to head home, carrying bamboo baskets on their heads.

Their voices echoed in song as they sang hymns about Chhathi Maiyaa, their rhythm matching the soft waves lapping at their feet.

Laxu, nestled in Achintya’s arms, watched the scene unfold with fascination. Her innocent eyes filled with wonder, not understanding the gravity of the moment but captivated by the beauty of it all. The vibrant colors of the evening, the solemnity of the rituals, and the sounds of hymns created an atmosphere that was both sacred and serene. For a brief moment, everything seemed peaceful, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in Achintya’s heart.

But that calm would not last. Not tonight.

_

The man screamed, his voice gurgling with blood as Achintya relentlessly tore his teeth out, one by one, with brutal efficiency. His nails were ripped from his fingers, his ribs shattered under Achintya’s unyielding grip, and his kneecaps were pulverized, each hit making the man writhe in agony.

“M-M-Mercy… H-Hav m-m-mercy…” The man’s voice cracked, desperate, pleading for a reprieve, but Achintya only chuckled darkly, his cold eyes gleaming with a terrifying satisfaction.

“Oh… not so soon,” Achintya’s voice was almost playful, but there was a sadistic undertone. “I’ve just started, yrr… don’t ruin my fun like this.” The man screamed again as Achintya pressed his raw fingers harder, the weight of his shoes digging into the man’s broken body, the sound of bones cracking like the breaking of dry twigs.

“Now…” Achintya leaned down, his voice low and menacing. “Before trying to mess with any girl… remember this lesson well.”

The slap that followed echoed through the empty warehouse like a thunderclap, a sound that made even the shadows around them shudder. Achintya stood tall, unfazed, as the man lay there, gasping for breath, wishing for death, his body a broken heap of flesh.

Meanwhile, in the far corner, Mayank sat, his phone lighting up the dim surroundings as he absentmindedly played games. But then, a blood-curdling scream sliced through the air, causing him to pause. His fingers faltered, and for a brief moment, a chill ran down his spine.

He thought to himself, “The girl indeed did him good.” He wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a warning, but in that instant, Mayank understood something fundamental about his best friend. Achintya was a man who would destroy anyone who dared to harm those he loved.

Mayank couldn’t help but think back to the incident with Abhishek, how the man had crossed a line and paid the ultimate price, falling into a coma from which he would never awaken. And now, the man in front of Achintya—broken, begging—was suffering a fate he would never wish on anyone. A fate that mirrored Abhishek’s, twisted by his own actions and his desire to harm someone Achintya held dear. And what was the common thread between them? Niyati.

Mayank’s mind raced. What was it about Niyati? What was it about her that drew this ferocity from Achintya? He’d always known his best friend was protective, but this was something else. There was a coldness to Achintya when it came to her, a quiet rage that burned beneath the surface. And if this is how Achintya reacts when someone harms Niyati in small ways, what would happen if someone really tried to hurt her?

The thought sent a shiver down Mayank’s spine. What would happen if Achintya ever had to fight a real battle, a battle where it wasn’t just a man’s body on the line, but his heart, his soul? Would Achintya’s rage consume him? Would he lose himself in the bloodshed, or would he still stand tall, holding onto the love and loyalty that made him who he was?

Mayank didn’t know. And he prayed to whatever gods there were that he would never have to find out.

Because as it stood, Abhishek had suffered a coma from which he would never wake up, and this man—the one currently writhing in agony—was enduring a torturous nightmare of his own making. And both of them were connected by one person.

Niyati.

Niyati.

What did fate have in store for her? What did it mean for Achintya? Mayank couldn’t help but wonder if the two were tied together in ways he couldn’t yet understand. Was Niyati the key to unlocking Achintya’s deepest rage? Or was she the only thing that could pull him back from the edge, from becoming a monster he couldn’t control?

As the scream of the man faded into the night, a silence fell between the two friends, heavy and suffocating. Mayank couldn’t shake the thought from his mind. What exactly did Niyati have in store for Achintya, and what did Achintya’s future hold for her?

___

Chhath is not a festival but the emotions of the Bihar. If one can..they surely visit the state during the festival to see the actual Glory.

.

.

Eve teasing and inappropriate touching is common in places that involves crowd. My suggestion is, always carry safety pins or sharp objects because one don't know when they will need it.

.

.

I hope I did the justice to the chhath Puja and if anyone finds any mistakes in that..do inform.

.

.

Like || Comment || Follow