Today was a day of gratitude and devotion, of offerings and garlands, of paying homage to the goddess.

If you'd asked me a lifetime ago, when I was still me, still Damini, practical and free-thinking, whether I believed in divine protection or karma, I would have laughed.

But now, after being reborn into this life, given another chance by the seven maidens of the lake, belief came easier.

Today, I wanted to do more than believe.

I wanted to earn merits, to avert dangers, to change whatever fate had in store for me.

A Morning of Prayers and Garlands

I spent the morning kneeling on the stone floor, my fingers fumbling as I wove delicate marigolds and jasmine into garlands. The soft petals brushed against my skin, their fragrance wrapping around me like a whispered blessing.

I cooked simple, hearty food, enough to share with those in need. Each meal felt like a small prayer, a desperate hope that good deeds might protect me from the unseen dangers lurking in my new future.

Dressed in a Parkar and Polka, a traditional skirt and blouse I hadn’t worn since childhood, I felt both comforted and foreign in my own skin.

The long fabric tripped me more than once, much to the amusement of my aunt and the household maid.

"Look at our baby bird!" Aunt teased, laughing as she adjusted the pleats for me.

"You've forgotten how to walk properly, haven’t you?"

I forced a smile, but inside, I missed the easy comfort of jeans, T-shirts, and the modern world.

The weight of tradition settled on my shoulders.

---

The Temple of the Goddess

I turned to books for escape, their yellowed pages offering a thread of familiarity in an otherwise unfamiliar world.

But soon, the quiet stretches of the day felt suffocating.

I followed Aunt to the temple, hoping for peace.

The temple stood unchanged exactly as I remembered it.

The eleven stone steps leading to the entrance were etched in my mind, each step carrying the weight of my childhood memories.

The walls were built from massive interlocked stones, their surfaces lined with tiny carved niches for oil lamps.

Every festival, those hundreds of small flames would flicker in the night, making it seem as though the temple itself was breathing.

The air was thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the fragrance of gulmohar and jasmine trees.

The occasional clang of the temple bell sent birds scattering into the air, their wings a frantic blur—only to settle moments later.

Gods and goddesses watched over us from intricately carved pillars, their expressions serene and unblinking.

Women in bright sarees stood in silent prayer, their heads bowed, faces partially hidden behind their veils.

I had never been religious, but the weight of reverence in the air pressed into my chest, undeniable and humbling.

Then, I stepped into the inner sanctum.

The Goddess Lakshmi was sitting on her lotus throne, draped in rich red silk, her golden jewelry gleaming in the dim light.

In her hands, a pot of overflowing bounty, just as I had seen in my dreams.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

I bowed my head, murmuring a quiet prayer.

"Mother, though I may no longer be Saudamini, please help me protect these people. Bless us, guide us, and keep us from harm."

I waited, as if expecting an answer.

And then

"How is Saudamini Bai?"

A voice cut through the sacred calm.

I turned, curious.

And my heart skipped the beat.

She stood there , a woman who looked exactly like Anita.

Anita Murle.

My uncle Ramesh’s sister.

My breath caught.

I knew that sharp nose, thin lips, the constant pursed expression—as though she were always a moment away from scolding someone.

Except… she was different.

She was dressed in a maroon saree, draped in the Casta style, her hair pinned in a neat bun, secured with a golden flower pin.

Not like the modern, sharp-tongued Anita I had known, who only wore Western clothes, who would have laughed at traditions like these.

But the resemblance was uncanny.

A chill swept through me.

Rumors flooded my mind. Whispers from my past life.

Anita.

The woman who shot her own dog for running away, claiming it was rabid.

The woman who embezzled money from her own father.

My stomach twisted.

Was she the same Anita? Or was fate playing tricks on me?

She met my gaze, and a slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

"Naughty girl," she mused. "Already fourteen and still causing trouble for your poor aunt."

Her tone was mocking, just as I remembered.

Aunt Radha didn’t notice my unease. She took a pinch of sindoor and turmeric, applying it to the woman’s forehead in a traditional blessing.

The woman , Ketki Aunt grinned, mirroring the gesture.

"She’s been quieter lately," Aunt Radha remarked, glancing at me. "Not playing pranks like she used to."

Ketki’s eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"Be a good girl, Saudamini," she said lightly.

Something about her voice was too smooth, too knowing it made my skin crawl.

I forced a nod, but the headache building behind my eyes grew unbearable.

"I’m going home," I blurted out. "My head hurts."

Aunt barely glanced at me. "Go straight home," she replied absentmindedly.

My lips twitched, sarcasm slipping through before I could stop it.

"Hail Hitler," I muttered, giving a mock salute.

Aunt’s head snapped up instantly.

"Who’s Hitler?" she demanded, frowning.

The realization hit me like a slap.

Of course.

World War II hasn’t happened yet.

I slipped up.

I left before she could press further.

My mind swirled with unease.

Ketki, the temple, Aunt Radha’s easy kindness, everything felt like a fragile illusion, as though one wrong step could shatter the peace completely.