Mohan Rudraksh’s friend arrived hastily, his footsteps echoing urgently across the stone floor. At the entrance, he nearly collided with Murti, who managed to steady himself just in time.

“Bhaiji, zara dekh ke chalo…” Murti muttered under his breath, mildly startled.

Mohan flashed him a brief smile, apologetic yet distracted, and continued without a word, swiftly ascending the staircase toward Rudraksh’s room.

But the room was empty.

Puzzled, Mohan leaned over the balcony railing on the first floor and called out toward the courtyard below.

“Chachi! Where is Rudraksh?” he asked.

Meera, busy grinding turmeric and neem leaves into a thick paste with practiced hands, looked up from her work. A golden glow from the late afternoon sun bathed her in a soft warmth.

“Beta, he’s at the temple with his Dadaji,” she replied with a gentle smile.

Mohan nodded quickly, then darted down the stairs two at a time. Reaching Meera, he threw his arms around her in an impromptu embrace, his face radiant with joy.

“Chachi, I came to share some wonderful news… something really special. But I want Rudraksh to hear it first,” he said breathlessly.

Meera chuckled at his boyish enthusiasm.

“Alright, alright—go on then. Your dearest friend is at the temple with his grandfather,” she said, brushing some powdered turmeric from her hands.

“Thanks, Chachi!” Mohan called as he dashed out of the house.

Murti, who had just approached carrying a small bundle of fresh herbs, looked on with a curious expression.

“Chachi ji, what happened to Mohan Bhaiji?” he asked, handing her the herbs.

Meera shook her head, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Who knows? Forget about them. He and Rudraksh—both of them are silly in their own way,” she said fondly.

“Silly? Seriously…? You’ve spoken the absolute truth,” Murti replied with a laugh.

The temple bells chimed with a resonant rhythm, echoing through the old stone corridors of the ancient shrine. The incense curled upwards like whispers of smoke, dancing beneath the canopy of prayer, and the deep chants of mantras reverberated through the sanctum sanctorum—the garbhagriha—where only the chosen pandits were allowed to enter.

Outside the sacred chamber, among the rows of seated devotees, Mohan stood respectfully, hands folded, eyes fixed on the inner sanctum where his best friend Rudraksh knelt beside his grandfather, Viraj Bhatt—a venerable man draped in white, his forehead marked with a thick sandalwood tilak, eyes closed in reverence as he performed the abhishek to Lord Mahadev.

Mohan did not move. He remained rooted just beyond the threshold, where sunlight spilled onto the worn temple floor, a silent observer among the others. Though his heart beat wildly with anticipation, he did not dare disturb the divine serenity. He knew the rules. Only the temple’s priests, the lineage-bound pandits, were allowed into the inner sanctum.

The puja neared its end. The chants softened, then concluded with a long, melodious shloka that brought the ceremony to a peaceful close. The priest stepped forward, carrying a thali of prasad—sweet offerings of jaggery and coconut wrapped in tulsi leaves—and began distributing it to the devotees with solemn precision.

Rudraksh finally emerged from the mandap, barefoot and calm, the marks of ash and sandalwood still fresh on his brow. His face bore the quiet radiance of prayer, his eyes reflecting the stillness he had just shared with the divine.

Mohan could not wait a moment longer. He strode forward and, without a word, pulled Rudraksh into a tight, exuberant hug.

“Rudra!” he whispered with emotion, his voice catching slightly. “It happened… I got the offer letter!”

Rudraksh blinked, startled. “What? Really?”

“Yes!” Mohan laughed, eyes shining. “From SuryanTech Solutions—the big firm in Delhi. They called me last night. It’s official. I start next week.”

“That’s incredible, Mohan!” Rudraksh beamed, gripping his friend’s shoulders.

“But there’s more,” Mohan said, his smile fading into something more reflective. “I have to leave in two days. Just two. I’m going far… out of the village, out of the state. Delhi.”

Rudraksh’s expression softened. The moment held a strange mixture of joy and sudden quiet.

“I remembered what you told me,” Mohan continued, voice thick with emotion. “That night when I was ready to give up—when all the rejections came, and I thought I’d never get a job… you said to wait. That Mahadev never turns away anyone who believes with a true heart. You told me, ‘Believe in Mahadev. He always does what’s right, even when we can’t see it yet.’”

Rudraksh nodded slowly, a smile of quiet pride forming on his lips.

“And now,” Mohan added, glancing around at the temple as if seeking Mahadev’s invisible blessing, “I’m going. Not just from this village… but into something entirely new. A different world, Rudra. But before anything else, I needed to share it with you.”

Rudraksh took his friend’s hand and squeezed it.

“You’re not leaving everything behind, Mohan,” he said softly. “You’re carrying our roots with you. And Mahadev… he’s not just in the temple. He walks with those who remember him.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The breeze moved through the peepal leaves above, and somewhere a conch shell blew again, faint and distant.

The two friends stood together, between old stone and new dreams, between the world they came from—and the one they were about to face.

Later that evening, the Bhatt family gathered for dinner beneath the flickering glow of oil lamps. The aroma of freshly made ghee-drizzled rotis, steamed rice, and slow-cooked lentils filled the air. Brass thalis clinked softly as food was served, and for a while, the room echoed with the quiet hum of a family at peace.

Then Rudraksh, still touched by the earlier moment with Mohan, looked up from his plate. His voice carried both pride and affection.

“Mohan got the job,” he said simply. “He got selected at SuryanTech in Delhi.”

Meera’s face lit up, her eyes crinkling with joy. “That’s wonderful! I knew something good was coming his way. He worked so hard… just like you.” She reached across to touch Rudraksh’s hand gently.

Viraj Bhatt, seated at the head of the low dining platform, gave a pleased nod. “Good news for the village. The boy’s making a name for himself in the city. May Mahadev guide his path.”

But Vedas, Rudraksh’s father, paused mid-bite. His brow furrowed, and his voice came out cool and edged.

“So Mohan got a job,” he said, not looking up. “And what about you, Rudraksh? Still nothing?”

The table fell quiet.

Rudraksh looked down at his plate, his fingers tightening around the edge. The pulse in his jaw twitched. He didn’t answer.

Vedas continued, unrelenting. “It’s been months. One interview after another, and yet, no result. Your friend is leaving for Delhi, and you—” he gestured vaguely “—you’re still sitting here.”

“Vedas!” Meera whispered sharply. But it was too late.

Rudraksh stood slowly, his eyes glazed with silent hurt. Without a word, he stepped away from the thali and backed out of the dining hall.

“Rudraksh—beta, wait!” Meera called, rising quickly, but her son had already vanished into the dim corridor that led to the inner courtyard.

Viraj set his hand firmly on the table, silencing the awkward air that had risen like smoke. Meera turned to Vedas, her voice trembling—not in anger, but with an aching plea.

“Why do you always speak like this to him?” she asked. “Even when he’s quiet, even when he says nothing, you find a way to wound him. Do you not see how much he’s trying? Every day—he’s trying!”

Vedas sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Because I am his father, Meera,” he said heavily. “And I want to see him succeed—not waste away in this village under the shadow of his own silence. Is that so wrong? What father does not want his son to stand taller than him?”

“But not every seed blooms at the same time,” Meera said gently. “He is still growing. Pushing him into a storm won’t make him flower faster.”

Viraj, who had been silent all this while, cleared his throat softly, his eyes calm and knowing. “Enough, both of you,” he said with quiet authority. “Let wounds breathe in silence tonight. Meera, take a plate for Rudraksh. He won’t say he’s hungry, but he is. Go.”

Meera nodded and rose, gathering a small thali with care—simple portions of rice, sabzi, and two soft rotis wrapped in a clean cotton cloth.

Outside, the night had fallen heavy and quiet. Somewhere, a cow lowed gently, and the neem tree in the courtyard rustled in the wind.

And in one of the shadowed corners of the ancestral home, Rudraksh sat alone—his head bowed, heart full, and his food untouched.

The night sat still, heavy like unshed rain. Rudraksh remained tucked into the corner of the courtyard, the world around him hushed, as if even the wind was holding its breath.

Above, the stars blinked faintly through the haze, and the distant spire of the temple stood like a silent sentinel. He looked toward it—not just as stone and shadow, but as something more.

Mahadev… are you listening?

His lips didn’t move, but his heart spoke the words loud enough for the heavens to hear.

Everyone else has a path. Mohan found his. He’s leaving—starting his life. But me…? I don’t even know where mine begins.

He drew his knees closer to his chest, resting his chin atop them.

I try to do everything right. I apply for jobs. I sit for interviews. I nod, smile, prepare, pretend I fit into all those boxes they want me to fit into. But deep down…

He hesitated.

Deep down, I feel like I’m meant for something else.

A dog barked faintly in the distance. Somewhere, a cow shuffled in its shed. But in that moment, the world felt empty except for the presence he was reaching for.

Mahadev… is it foolish to love something that doesn’t promise success?

His fingers, ink-stained even now, curled against his palm.

I’ve always loved writing. Since I was a boy. Words feel like home in a way people never have. But I never dared to think it could be more than a hobby. Who becomes anything just by writing, especially in a place like this?

He sighed, the ache of years pressing down on his shoulders.

Baba thinks I’m wasting time. That I’m slow. That I’m behind. And maybe I am. But Mahadev… if You gave me this love for words, this way of seeing the world… was it only meant to be a burden? Or is it a path You’ve been showing me all along, one I’ve just been too afraid to walk?

He looked up again toward the temple tower, eyes pleading, not for miracles—but for clarity.

Tell me, Mahadev… what do You want from me? What do I do with this gift I never asked for, but can’t let go of?

Is it foolish to choose a dream over certainty? Or is that where faith lives?

The silence offered no answer. But it didn’t feel empty. It felt like waiting.

And for the first time in days, Rudraksh didn’t feel the weight of failure as much as he felt the ache of becoming.

Sneak peek -Chapter 8

“Come on, Sir, pick up the phone!”

A robotic voice answered instead. “ Devraj is currently in a board meeting. Please leave a message.”

“Sir Madam in an ambulance!” she shouted into the receiver. “There’s been an accident at the Manali  site— Workers are hurt. You need to—hello? Hello?”