MEERA'S POV

The morning returned, as it always does, not caring for broken hearts or haunted dreams.

Light seeped in again through the small window—thinner this time, gentler—casting pale amber ribbons across the floor where I still lay curled, my cheek pressed against stone, the shawl clutched like armor.

My eyes fluttered open slowly. I did not remember falling asleep.

And yet... I must have.

My limbs ached, but not from labor—just from surviving. Just from curling into myself too tightly, too long. There was a strange stillness in my bones, the kind that comes not with rest, but with exhaustion deep enough to fool even grief into silence for a few hours.

I sat up slowly, knees cracking from how long they had stayed bent. The shawl slipped from my shoulder and puddled in my lap.

For a moment, I just stared at the floor. The same stone that felt foreign yesterday now looked familiar. Not comforting. But... tolerable.

Then I remembered.

Gora Sahib.

He had not returned in the night. Or if he had, he had not disturbed me. He hadn't knocked, hadn't called. I didn't know if that was kindness or caution.

A part of me had expected his boots to sound again on the path, his voice to fill the air, his presence to break this fog that hung over me like the smoke of my dead past.

But the house remained quiet.

And in that quiet, I made my decision.

I would speak to him.

I would ask him... no, tell him—to send me away. To a temple. An ashram. Any place where widows like me lived—hidden away from the world. Forgotten, yes, but at least safe from whispers and shame.

That was the right thing to do. The only thing.

I could not keep staying in the house of a British officer. Not when the whole village had already begun weaving stories out of their hatred. Not when I saw the glances, felt the stares even from behind drawn curtains.

And he... Gora Sahib... would not be able to shield me forever. Even now, his kindness was being mistaken for something else. And if I stayed longer, it wouldn't just be my name they would ruin—it would be his too.

And despite everything...

Despite the way his voice had broken the mob's chants...

Despite the shawl he had placed around me without a word...

Despite the way he had spoken to me like I was not an untouchable piece of tragedy...

I still couldn't bring myself to belong in his world.

I was not part of his life. I was not meant to be.

"Bas... ab aur nahi," I whispered to myself, brushing the corners of my eyes with the edge of my saree.

(Enough... no more now.)

I would thank him. For everything.

And then ask—no, beg if I must—that he help me reach a temple where women like me lived in silence. I  heard of places in Vrindavan, in Benaras, where widows served the deity, swept temple floors, sang bhajans to Krishna—not for love, but for release.

Maybe that's what I needed too. Not a future.

Just release.

A small voice in me still stirred. But what if he says no? What if he asks you to stay?

No. I couldn't afford to dream. Not now. Not after fire had nearly claimed my skin and society had already tried to erase my soul.

If he refused, I would walk. Barefoot. Alone.

Even exile was better than this limbo.

Meera stood slowly. . The sun had now crept in fully. The walls glowed soft gold. The house no longer felt like a stranger—but it wasn't hers either.

She looked toward the door.

When he returns, she thought, I will speak.

And this time, her voice wouldn't tremble.

The day passed—but he did not return.

I kept glancing at the gate.

Then at the sky.

Then back at the path beyond the courtyard wall, where I imagined I might hear the slow crunch of his boots on the gravel.

But silence answered every time.

I did not know where he had gone. Or how long he would be gone.

For a long time, I sat near the door—half inside, half out—watching the shadows shift as the sun crossed the sky.

I did not cry this time.

Perhaps my eyes had given up.

But my chest... it ached with a strange pressure. A waiting that had no shape, no name. I told myself it was not worry. That I was simply... concerned. That anyone would be, after everything he had done for me.

After all, hadn't I just decided I would ask him to send me away?

Yes. That was still my decision.

Yet some part of me—the foolish, shattered girl who once dreamed of love before her wedding night turned to horror—kept waiting for the sound of his voice.

For the comfort of his presence in this unfamiliar house.

The evening came and with it, a cold breeze. I lit the lamp near the prayer corner and sat beside it, my knees tucked to my chest.

I whispered a few lines I remembered from bhajans sung in childhood.

"Mere to Giridhar Gopal, doosro na koi..."
(My only beloved is Krishna; I have no one else.)

The words tasted bitter on my tongue.

Because they no longer felt like surrender.

They felt like loneliness.

I didn't eat that night.

There was rice. Some dal left . But I couldn't bring myself to lift the spoon. My hands felt heavy. My mouth dry.

I lay down again—this time on the cot.

The shawl around me felt warmer tonight, even though the air was colder. I clutched it tighter, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe he would return tomorrow.

Maybe he was just held up.

Maybe...

But no matter how many maybes I whispered into the darkness, the silence answered them all.

And slowly, sleep came again.

Not peaceful. But deep enough to swallow questions.

Arthur Blake's POV

I dismounted, my legs stiff from the rough ride. The gates to the bungalow creaked open with a familiar groan. Silence wrapped around me like a thin shawl—present, not oppressive, but noticeable.

Inside, . The window curtains fluttered gently in the breeze. The faint scent of turmeric and sandalwood clung to the walls, and the floor had been swept so clean it looked polished. On the table, a plate sat covered with a steel lid—untouched.

i moved towards to my  room and saw her sleeping on cot

She was still here.

That was my first relief.

And yet, something in my chest tightened. Not fear. Not discomfort. A strange kind of anticipation. The sort that creeps in when you know something has changed... but don't know how, or why.

I made my way to other room and dropped the file from the Commissioner's office on the desk. My boots left streaks of mud on the floor. My shirt clung to my back with sweat. The desert sun hadn't been kind the last few days, nor had the weight of the conversations I'd had with upper officers about land disputes, irrigation maps, and another layer of taxation none of the farmers would understand.

I didn't sit.

Instead, I moved to the washbasin, unbuttoned my collar, and splashed water on my face. It was cold. Sharply cold.

I stared into the mirror.

The same tired eyes stared back. But now, they held something else too.

Something I couldn't name.

I dried my face, brushed back my hair, and returned to the study. Unrolling the maps, I tried to refocus. Tried to care about the ink lines, the markers, the survey notes from Jodhpur. But my gaze kept wandering.

To the door.

I think till now she had woke up. . I could feel it, like the way one feels rain coming before the first drop falls.

And then—

A soft knock.

I stood up almost instantly. A reflex.

She entered slowly. Dressed in a plain white saree. No bangles. No earrings. Just her—small, quiet, and somehow vast. A storm made of silence.

"Gora Sahib," she said softly.

I nodded. "You're awake early."

"Jii," she replied, voice steady, but not cold.

There was a pause.

And then she said it.

"Gora Sahib... vo main Vrindavan jaana chahti hoon.krishna ji ke pass"
(I want to go to Vrindavan.)

I blinked. "What?"

My brows furrowed. "Vrindavan... where is it? And why would you want to go there?"

She looked down for a moment before speaking again. "Vo waha mere jaise bohot log rehte hain... to main waha reh lungi."
(There are many like me there... I'll live there too.)

She was composed. Too composed. Like someone who had practiced this moment for days.

I stepped toward the table. My fingers curled against the edge.

"Why?" I asked again, voice quieter. "Is there a problem?"

She looked at me directly.

"Yahan rehkar aapki zindagi bhi khatre mein aa sakti hai."
(If I stay here, even your life could be in danger.)

Her voice trembled—barely. But it was enough.

I didn't interrupt. I waited.

"Gaon wale bhi... main jaanti hoon... tarah tarah ki baatein bana rahe honge."
(The villagers must be saying all sorts of things... I know it.)

I frowned. "Let them say what they want."

But she shook her head.

"Par main kaise chup rahun... jab aapka naam badnaam ho raha ho?"
(But how can I stay silent when your name is being ruined because of me?)

she had just said it—softly, firmly—"Main Vrindavan jaana chahti hoon."

And somewhere in the middle of trying to understand why, the question slipped out of me.

"Who is Krishna Ji?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. A shadow of a smile passed her lips—not the kind born of happiness, but of something remembered. Something holy.

Then she looked up, not at me, but at the window beyond. The morning light filtered through the jali wall, scattering golden shapes across her white saree.

Her voice, when it came, was not loud. But it carried.

"Krishna ji... mere liye bas bhagwan nahi hain, woh mera sahara hain."
(Krishna ji... for me, he's not just a god. He's my shelter.)

She took a slow breath, folding her hands in front of her chest as though she didn't even realize she was doing it.

"Jab main sabse chhup kar roti thi, unhone mujhe kabhi shabd se nahi, par apne hone se sambhala."
(When I cried in secret, he didn't console me with words... just with his presence.)

I didn't speak. Her voice was threading something ancient into the air.

"Unka prem... woh samajhna mushkil hai. Kyunki woh Radha se prem karte the, lekin woh prem... woh sharir ka nahi tha, woh aatma ka tha. Ek aisa rishta jisme haqdari nahi thi, sirf samarpan tha."
(His love... it's hard to understand. He loved Radha, but that love wasn't of the body. It was of the soul. A bond without demand—only surrender.)

She turned slightly toward me then, her gaze quiet, unwavering.

"Main bhi to Meera hoon na... jise sabne chhoda, par Krishna ne kabhi nahi."
(I'm Meera too... the one everyone left, but Krishna never did.)

Her words stirred something I didn't have a name for. Maybe because it wasn't meant to be named. Just... felt.

"Woh bansuri bajate hain... jaise koi andar se bula raha ho. Jaise kisi ne tumhare dard ko suna ho bina tumhare kehne ke."
(He plays the flute... like someone calling from within. As if someone heard your pain without you saying a word.)

Her eyes shimmered. Not with tears. But with peace.

"Main Vrindavan isliye jaana chahti hoon... kyunki waha mujhe kisi ka bojh ban kar nahi rehna padega. Main waha unke saath jee sakti hoon... bina kisi darr ke, bina kisi badnami ke."
(That's why I want to go to Vrindavan. There, I won't be a burden. I can live with Him... without fear, without shame.)

I didn't fully understand.

Not the names. 

But what I did understand... was the way she spoke of Him.

Not like a subject reciting beliefs.
But like a soul remembering its anchor.

When Meera said "Krishna", her voice changed—softened, like velvet pulled across an open wound. There was no fear, no rigidness, only something quiet and unshakable. Like she had surrendered everything to this unseen presence... and in return, found a place to breathe again.

And though I didn't know the stories

Someone who lives not in form, but in feeling.

I think that's what struck me the most.

It wasn't about religion.

It was about belonging.

She still belonged.

Not to her past.

But to Him.

To Krishna.

And as she stood in front of me, asking to go to Vrindavan, asking to return to that quiet place where others like her whispered the name of their god with closed eyes and open hearts—I realized...

She wasn't running away from life.

She was choosing a kind of living I could never understand, but deeply respected.

Maybe I didn't know her Krishna.

But I knew her.

And I had never seen her speak of anything—anyone—with so much peace in her pain.

So even in my ignorance... even in my quiet, aching confusion...

I felt it.

That her Krishna was not some distant deity to her.

He was close.

He was the reason she hadn't collapsed.
The reason she still stood with a spine of steel.
The reason she could still smile, even after all that had been stolen from her.

And I—I who had no god left to pray to, who carried my solitude like an old coat—I envied her that.

Not her faith.

But her connection.

That invisible thread that tied her heart to something eternal.

I didn't fully understand Krishna.

But I understood what it meant to be held...
even when the world let go.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

The dignity in her voice. The depth in her longing. It wasn't religion. It wasn't surrender.

It was hope.

I turned away, blinking against the heaviness in my eyes.

My throat tightened.

I wanted to tell her she was safe here. That nothing outside this bungalow mattered. That I had built walls not just for shelter, but to hold a space where she could breathe freely.

But how could I say all that?

Not when she had made this decision not for herself, but for me.

Fear for me.

Because I was British.

And because the world outside hated her just for surviving.

I sat down slowly.

And for the first time... let myself admit what I had refused to think aloud.

I wanted her to stay.

I wanted to protect her not just as a man who had seen injustice—but as a man who was beginning to forget what loneliness meant when she was nearby.

Since she came here... something shifted.

And now she wanted to leave.

I pressed a hand to my face.

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