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A Few Days Ago, Before Ruhanika's Confrontation with Her Mother

The dawn sky was painted in a soft palette of pastel blues and blush pinks as the sun slowly began its ascent, bathing the world in the delicate glow of morning light. At exactly 5 AM, the first notes of the day came from birds chirping sweetly, their songs carrying a sense of tranquility through the neighborhood. The world was quiet, still cocooned in the gentle embrace of sleep, but Ruhanika's heart was already wide awake.

As the warmth of the early sun kissed her skin, she stirred from her slumber, her eyes fluttering open to greet the new day. It was a morning like any other, but within her, there was a quiet excitement—a sense that something was different, though she couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was the serenity of the hour or the promise of the day ahead that stirred her from the comfort of her bed with a feeling of anticipation.

Ruhanika moved with practiced grace, a creature of habit as she followed the same cherished routine she had grown so fond of. First, she slipped into her morning rituals: the cool splash of water against her face, the faint fragrance of her favorite lotion, the gentle hum of a mantra whispered under her breath. Each moment was a deliberate act of grounding, a small meditation that gave her clarity and strength for the day ahead.

Her thoughts drifted as she busied herself with the household tasks that had become second nature to her—tidying up the living room, setting out her mother's favorite tea leaves, and watering the delicate potted plants that lined the windowsill. As the minutes passed, the sun's rays became brighter, stretching across the horizon in hues of gold and lavender. It was nearly time for her to make her way to the temple—her sanctuary, her haven of peace and spirituality.

At 5:30 AM, she stepped out of her home, the morning breeze cool and crisp against her skin, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. Her steps were purposeful as she walked along the familiar path leading to the Gauri Shankar Mandir. Nestled among the lush greenery near her home, the temple stood tall and serene, a place where she found both solace and guidance.

The short walk to the temple allowed her thoughts to wander, her mind filled with quiet prayers, hopes, and wishes for her family's happiness. The world around her seemed to pause in reverence as she approached the temple gates, its towering spires stretching upwards towards the heavens. The temple had always been a place of refuge for Ruhanika, a sacred space where she could lose herself in the divinity of her prayers and the soothing rhythm of her breath.

As she stepped through the threshold, the cool marble beneath her feet sent a shiver of reverence up her spine. The temple was bathed in the warm, amber light of sunrise, casting a holy glow upon the ancient idols of the gods. In the quietude of the temple, with only the gentle hum of the priests preparing for the morning aarti, Ruhanika felt a deep sense of peace settle over her.

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The serenity of the temple grounds always had a way of soothing my soul. I could feel the chaos of the outside world melt away as soon as I stepped foot inside, leaving me with only the sacred silence of this holy place. It was my personal sanctuary—a place where I could lose myself in prayer, in gratitude, in hope.

Each morning, before the world stirred from its slumber, I found solace here. It was like my own form of therapy, where I could release the burdens that weighed on my heart. I would come here to seek guidance, to find strength in the divine, to remind myself that I wasn't alone in the battles I faced. Today, however, as I stood before the ancient temple, something different lingered in the air—an inexplicable weight pressed upon my chest, as though the gods themselves were trying to tell me something.

The Gauri Shankar Mandir—Delhi's oldest and most revered temple—stood tall and resplendent before me, its towering spires gleaming in the golden morning light. There was something about the story of Gauri and Shankar, the eternal love and sacrifice that defined their bond, that always resonated with me deeply. Every time I prayed before them, I couldn't help but feel the longing for a similar love in my life—a love so pure, so unshakeable, that it could withstand any storm.

But as I stood there, offering my prayers before their divine forms, my heart ached with the harsh truths of my own life. Love had always been elusive for me, a fleeting dream that slipped through my fingers no matter how tightly I tried to hold on. The scars from my past were too deep, the betrayals too many. I may have appeared strong on the outside, but inside, I was still that girl nursing wounds that had never quite healed.

My hands clasped in prayer, I lowered my head, seeking solace from the divine idols. I wanted to be seen, to be heard, to be understood by the universe. I prayed for my family, for their health and happiness. I prayed for the souls wandering the streets, the ones without food or love. And lastly, with a trembling heart, I prayed for myself—for the strength to keep going, even when it felt like life was trying to break me.

There was a lump in my throat as I whispered my prayers, my voice barely audible. "Why is it that I have been dealt this hand?" I asked the heavens, my chest tightening with emotion. "Have I done something wrong, something to deserve this constant struggle? Why is love something I can never seem to hold onto?"

I didn't expect an answer. How could I? The divine worked in mysterious ways, after all. But as much as I yearned for clarity, for understanding, I found myself unable to harbor any bitterness. How could I be angry at the very gods who had been my silent companions through every storm? Bhagwan Ji had been there for me when no one else had. Even in my darkest hours, I knew I wasn't alone. And that, in its own way, was enough.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a commotion to my right, and I snapped out of my prayerful daze. I opened my eyes just in time to see an elderly woman struggling to maintain her balance, her frail body teetering on the brink of collapse. Without thinking, I rushed forward, my heart racing in my chest. Something inside me knew that I had to help her—it was as if the gods had placed me here at this exact moment for a reason.

In that instant, as I moved towards the elderly woman, everything else faded into the background. All that mattered was helping her. Little did I know, the path I was walking would soon intersect with someone else's—a man who would unknowingly change the course of my life forever.

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Yesterday, I arrived in Delhi, my heart light and my mind buzzing with anticipation. The occasion? My grandparents' wedding anniversary. A significant milestone, one they had insisted on marking with a visit to the Gauri Shankar temple, a revered site in the old heart of the city. The temple was ancient, steeped in history and tradition, much like the love my grandparents shared. Their bond was the kind of story that people wrote poems about—a testament to time, patience, and unwavering devotion. And somehow, they wanted all of us—our big, chaotic Shekhawat family—to witness this special moment, to take part in their celebration of love.

The journey to the temple was nothing short of an event itself. We left in multiple cars, each packed with family members who were already brimming with excitement. My parents and Chachu and Chachi took one car, their conversations undoubtedly revolving around family matters and my mother's latest obsession with finding me a suitable bride. My grandparents, ever the romantic pair, had chosen to travel alone in another car. I could imagine them now, holding hands, talking softly, soaking in the quiet moments that were theirs alone. And then, there was my car—the one I had fondly dubbed the "Vanar Sena." My siblings, always full of energy, were my companions on this journey. The banter, the teasing, the laughter—it was all familiar, comforting in a way that only family could be.

But today felt different, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why. There was this strange sense of excitement buzzing inside me, something bubbling beneath the surface, like the universe was trying to tell me something. I tried to shake it off, telling myself it was just the excitement of the day. But it persisted. What was it about this day that felt... significant? I didn't have an answer, but it was hard to ignore the feeling that something was about to change, that maybe, just maybe, today would alter the course of my life in ways I couldn't yet understand.

As we finally arrived at the temple, I stepped out of the car, greeted by the sacred air of Gauri Shankar. The temple was grand, its towering spires reaching up to touch the heavens. The aroma of incense wafted through the air, mingling with the sounds of morning prayers and the soft rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze blew through. The temple grounds were bathed in the golden light of the early morning sun, casting a serene glow over everything.

The Shekhawat family moved as one, entering the temple with smiles on our faces. But as much as I tried to let the peaceful atmosphere wash over me, the weight of my own thoughts was harder to shake. My past, those shadows I had worked so hard to keep hidden, always found a way to creep back into my mind. I had never spoken of it to anyone, not even my parents. I didn't want to burden them with the mess that I had made of my life back then, the choices that had led me down a road I wasn't proud of. My mistakes were my own to bear, and I had always believed that if I kept them locked away, I could protect the people I loved from my own darkness.

But as the years went by, that darkness had started to seep into everything else, including my relationships. Especially my relationships. My mother, bless her, had been relentless in her pursuit of a perfect bride for me. It was no secret that she longed to see me settled down, to start a family of my own. And I couldn't blame her for that. Every time she brought up marriage, I saw the hope in her eyes—the hope that one day, I'd find someone who could make me happy.

But what she didn't know—what no one knew—was that I didn't want to marry. At least, not yet. The reasons were too complicated, too painful to explain. I had spent years trying to bury them, convincing myself that I was fine, that I didn't need anyone to fix me. But the truth was, I was scared. Scared that if I let someone in, they'd see the scars I carried. And once they did, they'd realize that I wasn't worth the trouble. That I wasn't worthy of being loved.

But standing here, surrounded by the divine presence of Gauri Shankar, I couldn't help but let myself wonder. What if? What if there was someone out there for me, someone who could understand me, who could see past the walls I had built around myself? What if there was a Parvati for me, just as there was for Lord Shiva? The thought lingered in my mind, filling me with a strange sense of hope and fear all at once. Because even though I told myself I didn't want love, there was a part of me—a quiet, desperate part—that longed for it.

I yearned for someone who could see the real me, the me I had kept hidden from the world for so long. I wanted someone who wouldn't run when they saw the cracks in my armor, someone who would stand by me, not in spite of my scars, but because of them. But that was a dream, wasn't it? And dreams had a funny way of slipping through your fingers when you tried to hold onto them too tightly.

I pushed those thoughts aside for now. This wasn't the time for self-reflection. Today wasn't about me. It was about my grandparents, about family, about connecting with the divine and seeking solace in their presence.

We gathered around the sanctum, our voices joining together in the prayers that had been passed down through generations. I closed my eyes, letting the familiar chants wash over me, the rhythmic rise and fall of the Sanskrit verses soothing the turmoil in my mind. For a moment, I allowed myself to forget the weight of my past, to focus solely on the present, on the energy of the temple, on the divine love of Gauri and Shankar.

As the priest conducted the rituals, I found myself staring up at the grand idols before us. Lord Shiva, the embodiment of power and destruction, and Goddess Parvati, the symbol of love, devotion, and nurturing. Together, they were balance, two halves of a whole, their story one of eternal love and sacrifice. And as I stood there, watching the flickering flames of the aarti, I couldn't help but think—wasn't that what I wanted too? Not just love, but balance. Someone who would be my equal, my partner in all things. Someone who would walk beside me, through the good and the bad, through the light and the dark.

I let out a quiet breath, my heart heavy with unspoken thoughts.

One day, maybe. But not today.

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The vibrant hum of the temple surrounded Ruhanika as she hastily made her way through the crowd, her heart pounding with an unshakable urgency. She barely noticed the serene beauty of the marigold garlands draped across the pillars or the soft chants of prayer that echoed through the air. Her eyes were fixed on the frail figure of Mrs. Gayathri Shekhawat, who had stumbled, her body swaying like a fragile leaf in the wind.

"Aunty Ji, are you all right?" Ruhanika's voice broke through the cacophony of sounds, tinged with concern and rising in panic.
She knelt beside the elderly woman, gently placing her hands on Mrs. Shekhawat's shoulders, her touch filled with warmth and care. "Somebody, please bring water!" she called out, her voice urgent yet steady, her heart pounding faster as she noticed how pale the old woman looked.

Just as she was about to examine Mrs. Shekhawat more closely, a deep, commanding voice sounded in her ear, sending an unanticipated shiver down her spine.
"Excuse me, she is my grandmother. Can you please step aside? I need to take her to the hospital," the voice asserted, low and authoritative, pulling her out of her frantic thoughts.

Ruhanika's breath caught in her throat as she turned to face the man who had spoken. The moment her eyes met his, time seemed to still. His dark, stormy eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that left her momentarily speechless. His sharp jawline was taut, lips pressed in concern, but there was something more—a fleeting sense of curiosity mixed with his urgency. For a heartbeat, everything else melted away. The air between them thickened with a silent tension, an inexplicable pull neither of them could yet understand.

But her resolve didn't waver. With a steady breath, Ruhanika straightened herself and met his gaze, her voice soft but unwavering.
"Excuse me, Mr.," she began, her tone both firm and compassionate, "right now, your grandmother needs urgent care. Crowds like this aren't safe for elderly people." Her words weren't sharp; they were a gentle reminder, a plea laced with her concern.

The man—Abhinav, though she didn't know his name yet—narrowed his eyes slightly, as though her words struck something deep within him. Her unwavering determination, the quiet strength in her voice, stirred something unfamiliar in him. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he found himself simply looking at her, his heart unexpectedly caught in the way her eyes glistened with genuine worry for his grandmother, a stranger.

Ruhanika didn't break eye contact. "It's a little bit suffocating for her," she continued, her voice carrying a note of compassion that made Abhinav's heart tighten in his chest. "And can you all step aside? She needs air, and this crowd around her isn't helping."

He blinked, momentarily startled by how effortlessly she took control of the situation. But instead of feeling annoyed, he found himself intrigued—drawn to this woman whose calm, selfless demeanor was unlike anything he had expected. There was something magnetic about her presence, something that tugged at him in a way that was both unfamiliar and disarming.

As if on cue, a young girl approached with a glass of water. "Here, Aunty, please try to sip some water. You will feel better," she said softly, offering the elderly woman some respite. Mrs. Shekhawat's frail fingers trembled slightly as she took the glass, her eyes filled with gratitude.

The gathered family members, who had been watching in stunned silence, were in awe. There, standing amidst them, was this stranger—Ruhanika—who had rushed to their grandmother's aid without hesitation, driven purely by her concern and compassion. Even Abhinav's younger siblings exchanged grins, their minds already working in unison. This girl—this beautiful, determined stranger—was something special. They could already see her fitting into their family, especially alongside their brooding brother, who, for once, seemed completely at a loss for words.

Suddenly, an elderly man crouched beside Mrs. Shekhawat, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. It was Harshwardhan Shekhawat, her husband. Ruhanika, realizing she had been unintentionally blocking the path of the family, felt a wave of awkwardness crash over her. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she rose to her feet.

"I-I am so sorry," Ruhanika stammered, addressing the gathered family, her eyes momentarily flitting to Abhinav before looking away. "I shouldn't have panicked like that. Nor should I have blocked your way." She bit her lip, the flush of her cheeks deepening as she added softly, "I'm also sorry for yelling at your grandson."

Abhinav's heart skipped a beat at the softness in her apology, at the vulnerability that slipped through her confident demeanor. He wanted to tell her there was no need to apologize—that her actions had spoken louder than any words. But instead, he remained silent, staring at her, his chest tightening with an emotion he couldn't quite place.

Ruhanika, not waiting for a response, quickly excused herself, her heart racing as she turned to leave the temple grounds. She could feel the weight of someone's gaze following her—his gaze. But she couldn't look back, couldn't face the strange emotions that swirled within her. She didn't understand why her heart felt so heavy, or why she felt so drawn to that man with the stormy eyes. All she knew was that she needed to leave.

As Ruhanika disappeared into the bustling streets, Abhinav watched her retreating figure with a strange sense of loss. His heart hammered in his chest, still echoing the lingering warmth of her presence. He barely registered the gentle teasing of his siblings or the knowing smiles of his family. His thoughts were entirely consumed by her—by the softness of her voice, the quiet strength in her actions, and the way her eyes had locked with his, as if they were the only two people in the world for that brief moment.

He didn't understand it, but something had shifted in him the moment their paths had crossed. Something he wasn't ready to admit, even to himself.

As he knelt beside his grandmother, helping her drink the water, a single thought burned at the back of his mind—Who was she? And why couldn't he stop thinking about her?

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