The dream of living in a grand mansion had crumbled into dust.

Rao Wada, once the symbol of my ambitions, now felt like a prison.

It had been a week since I tried securing a teaching job at the village school. In 1920, a high school certificate should have been enough to qualify as a teacher, but the headmaster remained unconvinced. My modern degree, a master’s in Accounting and Finance held no value here. The British Raj had its own system. The Anglo-Vernacular School and Saudamini had passed it.

For once, I was grateful. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer through exams again.

The school itself sat on a hillock, offering a breathtaking view of the Arabian Sea on one side and the vast Sahyadri mountains on the other. The only way to get there was through the bustling village market, a labyrinth of narrow pathways filled with vibrant stalls, the scent of fresh spices, and the ceaseless hum of vendors calling out their wares.

Yesterday, as I strolled through the market, a scruffy, barefoot boy blocked my path.

"Please, give me my three paisa," he demanded, his face set with determination.

I frowned. "Who are you?"

His lips twisted into a scowl. "Saudamini, don’t act like you don’t know me!"

Panic flickered through me. Did Saudamini borrow money from a child?

"You said if I stole coconuts from the lake offerings, you'd win a bet and get twenty paisa," he huffed. "You promised me three paisa!"

The words hit me like a jolt of lightning. I don’t remember this.

His dark eyes glistened with unshed tears as he spoke. "My mother beat me when she found out!"

My stomach twisted. Saudamini’s memories were fragmented, full of missing pieces.

"At least tell me your name," I asked.

The boy smacked his forehead in frustration. "Mother was right. Saudamini has lost her mind."

I crossed my arms. "Am I biting you? No? Then I’m not mad."

His eyes darted between mine, uncertainty flickering across his face.

"Follow me," I instructed, leading him away from the crowded market.

We walked through winding paths, past clusters of mango orchards, until we reached the ancient banyan tree near the lake. The thick, gnarled roots curled around the earth like protective arms. It felt safer here, quieter.

"Tell me about the bet," I said, lowering myself onto one of the roots.

Raghu hesitated, his brows furrowed. "You really don’t remember?"

"Do you want your paisa or not?" I countered.

His expression darkened before he sighed. "My name is Raghu," he said, searching my face for a sign of recognition.

I nodded, waiting.

"You and Sita made a bet," he explained. "Whoever stole the naivedya, the goddess’s offering on new moon night would win twenty paisa. You were scared of the Sati Asras punishing you, so you made me do it instead."

I stiffened.

The Sati Asras. The Water Goddess.

"I don’t believe in curses," Raghu muttered. "But Saudamini, you really drowned that night."

A shiver crawled down my spine.

He hiccupped, rubbing his sleeve against his face. "I don’t want to be foolish like you…"

I placed a firm hand on his head. "I’m fine, see? So stop crying."

He sniffled. "Really?"

"Really. Now, let’s find Sita and get our money back."

His eyes brightened, but then he frowned. "Aunt Ketki said Sita didi went back home."

Ketki.

Anita’s look alike.

An uneasy feeling settled in my chest.

"What’s her surname?" I asked slowly.

"Murle," Raghu answered.

A chill ran through me.

The same surname. The same village. The same face.

I took a deep breath. "Then we’ll write to Sita. Let’s visit Aunt Ketki and get her address."

Raghu nodded eagerly, and together we walked back through the marketplace, weaving through carts of ripe mangoes, colorful fabrics swaying in the afternoon breeze. The scent of cardamom and turmeric mingled with the salt of the sea air, but my mind was elsewhere.

Murle Family ??

Found them.