RAYA's POV

It was almost evening. I was walking alongside my sister and my close friend Tara, heading toward the sacred temple of Maa Kali for our usual Tuesday prayers. Every week, without fail, we came here to offer our devotion. The atmosphere surrounding the mandir was a kind of spiritual enchantment-the rhythmic tolling of temple bells, the sweet fragrance of incense sticks mingled with fresh marigolds and jasmine, and the soul-stirring sounds of the shankh and ullu dhwani echoed through the air like a hymn of peace. Even with the heavy crowd of devotees flocking from every direction, there was a rare serenity that lingered in the chaos. It felt like time slowed down here, as if the divine was truly present.

"Raya, did you hear? In a few days, there's going to be a grand puja at the Radhakrishna temple. Every girl will dress up as Radha and perform a traditional dance. We should go! You, me, and Isha-we'll all dress in lehengas and dance!" Tara said with uncontained excitement, her eyes lighting up at the thought.

"Really, Tara di? Oh my god! That sounds like so much fun. Dancing while wearing a lehenga-it would be like a dream!" my younger sister chimed in, her voice filled with joy.

I smiled faintly, but my heart sank a little. "No, Tara," I said softly, looking down. "I think I need to ask Baba first. I can't promise anything without his permission."

As soon as I said that, my sister's face fell, her earlier cheerfulness disappearing. Tara gave me a concerned look, sensing there was more to my words than I let on.

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AUTHOR'S POV

(Flashback)

One year ago...

There had been a major dance competition organized across colleges in Kolkata. It was the most prestigious event of the year, drawing students from all over the city. Every young dancer dreamt of participating, knowing that the winner would receive life-changing opportunities-a direct path to pursue a future in dance. The energy on campus was electric, the anticipation palpable.

Among those dreamers was Raya. Dancing, like writing, was something she didn't just enjoy-it was her passion, her heartbeat. Though she had never taken a single professional dance lesson, she had taught herself, step by step, with nothing but sheer love and dedication. For her, dancing was a kind of devotion. Without hesitation, she enrolled her name.

That evening, full of excitement, she rushed home, eager to share her joy with her father. She found him immersed in his work, juggling phone calls while flipping through documents. Still, her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm as she stood beside him, waiting for a pause.

Her father glanced at her briefly, still distracted. "What happened?" he asked, already picking up another call.

"Papa," she said, her voice bubbling with happiness, "there's going to be a dance competition at college-the biggest one in Kolkata-and I've enrolled my name!"

She smiled, hoping for even the smallest sign of encouragement. Her father nodded vaguely, still busy, and said nothing more. Thinking he had heard and accepted it, she didn't press him and quietly left the room, her heart fluttering with hope.

Weeks passed. The day of the competition finally arrived. Raya had practiced tirelessly, rehearsing until her limbs ached. She had never performed on such a grand stage before, but her spirit was unshaken. That morning, she got ready with trembling hands and a fast-beating heart, her outfit neatly in place, her mind filled with dreams.

As she descended the stairs, her father looked up and frowned.

"Raya, where are you going?" he asked sternly.

"Papa, I told you before-about the dance competition at college? It's today. I'm going now," she said with excitement.

"What? When did you say that? I don't remember hearing anything. Who gave you permission to take part in this?" he said, his tone rising.

"But Papa, I told you that day when I registered. You didn't say anything then..." she replied, confusion and fear creeping into her voice.

"You didn't ask for permission," he snapped. "You just did what you pleased. Do you think that's acceptable?

"Papa, please understand. You know how much I love dancing. It's my dream. And it's not even outside-it's in our college!" she tried to reason, her voice growing desperate.

"I don't want to hear anything else. Go back to your room. You are not going anywhere," he shouted.

"Please, Papa... don't say that. I've practiced so much... I've worked so hard for this day... Please, don't stop me," she pleaded, tears forming in her eyes.

"I said NO! I don't want to hear another word. From now on, you will not participate in any dance events, or anything else for that matter. You go to college to study-not for these useless things," he thundered.

"Dance is not useless! Please, don't say that. It's my dream, my passion. Please, just this once, let me go," she cried, her voice breaking as tears rolled freely down her cheeks.

"Will you go or not?" he roared.

She stood there frozen, her feet rooted to the ground, as if the weight of his words had turned her limbs to stone. Her eyes searched his face, desperately hoping to find even a flicker of understanding, of softness-anything that resembled the father she once adored. But there was nothing. His gaze was cold, unyielding, and full of an anger she couldn't understand.

Her body trembled, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. Words formed inside her, but they refused to come out. Her voice-so full of passion just moments ago-was now trapped somewhere deep inside her, suffocated by fear and disbelief.

And then came the words that would haunt her forever:

"I don't know what curse has fallen on me to have a daughter like you. You've become unbearable. If you want to live life on your own terms, go to your mother-I don't care. Honestly, life would've been so much easier if I had a son instead of a girl like you."

For a moment, everything around her stopped. The walls of her home, once filled with childhood laughter, seemed to blur and collapse in silence. Her knees buckled slightly, and she stumbled back a step, as if physically struck by the cruelty in his voice. It wasn't just disappointment-it was rejection. Complete, unfiltered rejection from the man whose approval she had longed for since she was a child.

Her lips quivered. Tears flooded her eyes, but she didn't make a sound. She didn't argue, didn't beg this time. What was the point? Her heart cracked open slowly, painfully, as if each word he uttered had carved a deeper wound.

He had spoken from a place of fury, perhaps even frustration-but what he said, those words, felt like they were etched into her skin with fire. A daughter he considered a curse. A daughter he wished had been a son.

Something inside her died in that moment.

With her vision blurred and her soul shattered, she turned around without another word. Her feet dragged against the floor as she made her way back upstairs, each step heavier than the last. The staircase felt longer than ever. Her dreams, her excitement, her identity-all of it collapsed under the weight of her father's voice echoing behind her.

She closed her bedroom door gently-not slamming it, not making a scene. She simply shut herself inside. She sat on the floor, her back against the cold wall, and finally let the tears fall freely. Her costume, once so carefully chosen, now lay in folds around her as her sobs filled the silent room.

And that night, something changed in her.

She didn't dance again. Not the next day. Not the next week. Not even in secret.

Flashback ends

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RAYA's POV

"Raya? Where are you lost?" Tara's voice pulled me back from the depths of memory. She waved a hand in front of my face.

I shook my head lightly and gave her a faint smile. "I don't think I can come to the Radhakrishna puja, Tara. You go with the others, okay?"

Tara looked confused and a bit hurt. "But why? You love dancing, and you dance so beautifully. You've never joined anything since that year... Did something happen?"

"No... nothing happened," I lied quickly. "Let's go, we're getting late for the puja."

We walked together through the crowd as the sandhya aarti began. The priest stood before the idol of Maa Kali, his voice deep and melodic, reciting the mantras. The flames of the aarti lamps flickered like divine whispers, casting shadows on the temple walls. We stood in prayer, taking in the blessings of the Goddess. A wave of calm settled over us, but I couldn't shake the strange sensation-an intense feeling that someone was watching me.

After we received the prasad, we moved toward the other side of the temple, where the sacred Shivlinga stood in its quiet, powerful presence. I stood before it, folding my hands, closing my eyes, and asking silently for strength. The gaze-it was still there, burning into me. I resisted the urge to turn.

"Raya... is it real what I'm seeing?" Tara whispered, sounding genuinely startled, her eyes locked on something behind me.

"What happened?" I asked, turning instinctively-and then I froze.

My breath caught mid-air, and for a moment, I forgot where I was.

There, amidst the soft glow of oil lamps and the fragrance of sandalwood and marigolds, stood a figure I hadn't seen in a long time. His presence alone felt like it didn't belong to this world of devotion and peace.

Rudraveer Roy Choudhary.

The Great Rudraveer.

Once a teacher in our school-stern, aloof, and infamously unapproachable-he was the kind of man who made silence feel heavier than words. Every student remembered him. He didn't just walk through the corridors; he commanded them. People barely dared to speak in his presence, not because he was cruel, but because there was something about him that kept you at a distance-an air of mystery that no one could quite understand.

I had heard whispers that he had recently joined the college faculty, but I had never seen him around. And even if I had, nothing could have prepared me for the sight of him here.

In a temple.

Participating in a puja.

It felt... strange. Like a storm standing quietly in a garden.

He wore a plain maroon kurta, but somehow made it look regal. His face, calm yet unreadable, was turned toward the deity as if in silent conversation. His posture was composed, but something about him seemed tightly coiled beneath the surface-like a predator waiting in stillness.

Tara and I exchanged a glance-one of pure confusion, and maybe a trace of unease. This was not a man you expected to find among prayers and offerings. He was the kind of presence that didn't blend in-he disrupted.

He didn't speak. He didn't move. But his eyes-they weren't on the idol.

They shifted, slowly, scanning the crowd.

And then, almost imperceptibly, they stopped.

Stopped... on us.

No, not us.

Me.

Only for a second. But in that second, something passed between us-an unnamed tension, a question left unasked. His eyes didn't widen, didn't soften. But they lingered. Intense. Calculated. Familiar.

I looked away quickly, pretending not to notice, but my chest felt tight. I could still feel the weight of his gaze-like a thread connecting us, invisible but unmistakably real.

Was he really here for puja?

Or was there another reason?

And deep in the pit of my stomach, I felt it-an instinct, a warning, a strange pull I couldn't explain.

Was it just a coincidence?

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Kaise kahu Ishq me tere

Kitna hi betaab mai

Aankho se aankhe milaake

Churalu tere khwaab main

Mere saaye hai saath mein

Yaara jis jagah tum ho....

Mai jo jee raha hu...

Wajah tum ho