Abhinav stiffened.
“The girl from Anand Mahal.”
His pulse struck once, sharp.
“She is very kind,” the woman murmured, eyes on the photograph. “Always helping the older women during darshan. Always making space for others before herself.” Her mouth curved in a warm smile. “Very gentle hands. She tends to the deity with love.”
His grip tightened around the phone.
The woman looked up. “You called her your wife.”
He locked the screen and set the phone aside.
“She will be.” His voice came out hoarse. “The wedding is in a few days.”
Understanding moved across her face, slow and deep. “So it is you. The Thakur.”
He did not answer. The car moved through sleeping streets. Silence settled between them once more.
After some time, she smiled. “She is fortunate.”
The words pressed against him.
“No.” His eyes remained on the road. “I am.”
The woman watched him for a long moment. There was a strange softness in her face. So strange, it felt… ancient.
“Yes,” she murmured. “You are.”
The road narrowed.
“Take the next left.”
He turned.
Minutes passed. Silence remained until she asked, “You believe in God? As she does?”
“No.” The answer came at once.
“Not even your Kuldevi?”
“Especially not.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “God does nothing.”
Light from passing streetlamps cut across his face.
He exhaled sharply. “Just watches. Waits. Takes prayers. Gives nothing back.”
“Nothing?” she asked quietly.
“My father prayed every day. My mother. My sister. All of them prayed. It changed nothing.”
“Didn’t it?”
“He died.”
The words dropped between them.
“My father died…” A sharp breath left him. “In pain. Slowly. And all those prayers… They changed nothing. He spent his life helping people. Honest. Humble. Generous. And he still died like that.”