The fruit is now in the seer's hand.

Nandini peers at it. "Beautiful gift you have received."

He tilts his head. "I don't know. I don't feel like it."

Nandini opens her palms. "Then give it to me. I shall–"

"No!" he protests. "I...I cannot."

"But you don't like it, do you?"

Standing with his back towards Nandini, he takes his first bite.

****

Love, to some people, came the hard way.

For example, Hrishav and Amba. The former drank three glasses of chilled whiskey to forget the shock. Amba cried and smacked her head. The divine sight of Matangi affected her uninitiated body too, and combined with the sour revelation, she fell sick. A burning fever made it difficult to keep her eyes open. But sleep won't come either. The epiphany probed her heart akin to the merciless spear of a malevolent spirit.

How can Maa do this to me? Both wondered.

In the morning, Boro Babu was seen coming down with a drunken gait and reddened eyes. Upon being asked by Rajon Vijay, he said he was stressed after some visions.

"You need to endure these in your path of sadhana," Rajon Vijay told his brother. "Don't drink so much, stupid."

Hrishav couldn't look at him without a phantom flash of shame obscuring his ego. "It was too much this time. Maa thinks she can play with me."

Vijay smirked. "She may play with anyone, and honestly, she plays with only her favourites. So, you amuse her."

Seeing that he was not in a mood to do the puja, Vijay did the aarti and Ramu helped. After Maa was given her morning meal, Vijay asked Ramu to go fetch some vegetables from the market. Then the two brothers sat in silence for sometime. Hrishav's downcast eyes and pensive frown was fixated on the lotus feet of Kalika.

"Feels like you got a wife."

Hrishav flinched. He realised sending Ramu away was a deliberate move to maintain privacy.

"I am a celibate still, Dada."

"It's a pity that you and Shalini both deter away from the shrine of matrimony. I don't know about her, but my intuition says you have been dictated to embrace a passionate transformation."

Hrishav's eyes expanded like the cosmos at the brink of creation. He averted his gaze, feeling a fiery warm blush lit up his dark cheeks. Why was this steam collecting in his core? Why did he feel so tight? Why did he wish to release in ways that would stop his upasana?

"You know why tantra, especially Vamachara, was created?"

Hrishav shook his head. "You tell me, Dada."

Vijay gave him the prasad– a sweet made of kheer. "You see– alcohol, copulation, everything civilisation associates with sinful connotations are the same things used to worship Maa in that path. She teaches us the supreme power of bodily union that can transcend this realm and show you the goddess herself.

"Although it is compulsory to remain a celibate during several types of sadhana, there are many aspects you cannot do without intercourse. For that, you must have a Bhairavi. A companion. Even Vedic rituals require you to be married."

Hrishav squinted, a bitter bile coating the sides of his throat. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know exactly what you went through," Vijay paid his last respect to Kalika and ended the puja, "but I can sense you are being pushed by Kalika to take the next step. And you are reluctant."

Boro Babu kept mum. He was glad that his older brother didn't know about his connection with Amba. It would embarrass him a lot.

"Know this, Hrishav," Vijay's aura darkened, a certain yellow flicker scintillating in his aged orbs, "you won't be able to deny her for long. She will take what is hers. And she will make you do what she wants. The more you..." He heaved a sigh. "The more you resist her desire, the more aggressive she grows."

Hrishav was left alone in the temple. He sat cross-legged, contemplating his brother's words.

He didn't care. He had chosen this path for himself, and no way he was going back. If Amba was whom Maa had chosen for him, he would give in. Intercourse in tantra wasn't a place to relish lust. It was an act to be done elaborately, with chanting and following stringent rules. It was an oblation offered to the Devi. So, perhaps he didn't need love to do it, but pure adoration for the Mother Goddess? Although with much distaste would he take this change. He would eat the Devi's prasad with a wrinkled brow and a half-hearted devotion.

"Forgive me, Maa. I am a true Shakta. I will definitely do what you say, but this time, I can't stop myself from feeling disgusted."

Climbing down the stairs of the temple, he bumped into Rituja. He rolled his eyes. This girl was too immature and lively. Always doing something or the other, but never working. He couldn't even blame her. Her life was too sad; the man she had married and fell in love with became partially paralysed from an autoimmune disease.

"I am sorry, Boro Babu!" she apologised in her chirpy voice. "I am very worried. She is sick. I don't know what to do."

Hrishav was perplexed. "Your mother, Rani?"

"No!" Rituja panicked and bit her nails. "Amba. She suddenly fell ill. Muttering gibberish. She burns to touch–"

Not waiting for Rituja to complete, Hrishav sprinted towards Amba's room. Without a polite knock, he pushed open the door. Laying on the lap of Rani was Amba, her limbs dangling down like lifeless bones.

It reminded him of Falgun's corpse. The sudden resemblance was eerie, making him shudder.

Rani's eyes sparkled with mischief upon seeing a seething Boro Babu hover above the feverish girl. She feigned to cry and pointed at Amba. "Look at her! I can't even go cook. She is saying things I don't understand."

"Reckless girl," he said through gritted teeth. "Move."

"What?" Rani was surprised.

"I asked you to move. Lay her down on bed and let me check on her." Hrishav turned to Rituja. "Go and bring my japa mala. It's wrapped in a red cloth. Don't dare touch it with your filthy bare hands."

"As you say!" And she ran to fulfill the task. Rani stepped aside and watched the drama unfold.

Hrishav placed a hand on Amba's forehead. True enough, she was burning. He went near her face, unbothered about the scandalous gasp that Rani uttered. Amba was taking the name of Matangi and some Yoginis. He concluded this fever was an aftereffect of witnessing the Devi in her raw form. At least she was alive and not yet gone. Hrishav had to do something quickly.

"Amba," he jerked her hand, "can you hear me?"

"Huh?" She fluttered open her eyes. Tears streamed down. "She came..."

"I know." Hrishav grabbed his janeu in one hand and chanted mantras while caressing her head. "Don't worry. Maa is kind, but you were not strong enough to behold her."

"Oh my!" Rani covered her mouth, her stare akin to a hungry hawk. "Did she see the Devi?"

Hrishav hissed at her. That was enough to seal her lips. He concentrated back on Amba. "What do you see, Maya?"

"I don't want you," she whispered. "You are egoistic."

A gush of blazing heat steamed out of his ears. Rani's pupils widened, but she remained quiet. Knowing that the tea was spilled and things were smoothly going out of their hands, Hrishav asked Rani to get out. Rituja came with the japa mala too, and the mother and daughter was asked to wait outside.

"But Amba might need me–"

"Stay here. Don't leave. And any word of this going outside will cost you your heads," he snapped at Rani. Shutting the door, he went and sat beside Amba.

"You are always mean to me," she complained. "I may be poor, uneducated. But I am a Brahmin too. I learnt from my father's books. I want to know Maa."

This was all a result of them pushing away each other. Of course they would! Love wasn't something that erupted in a day.

And yet, Hrishav found himself concerned for her, his hands stroking her hair gently as she callously disrespected him, the esteemed brother of a Rajon. The anger that was there when Rani and Rituja were in sight, had vanished along with them. In the absence of any intruder, he saw Amba through rose-tinted glasses.

He was a tantric priest, thus his body could handle Maa's displeasure better, unlike Amba, who was still not inducted into the path.

"You want to learn tantra?"

Amba fidgeted in her daze. "Yes." A mellow smile danced on her lips. "I will learn and defeat you."

He grinned. "I hate you, Amba. I really do." He clenched his fists. "But we have no other option. We must stay together because Maa wants us to. Going against her means inviting doom."

"But I hate you too."

"I know, sweetheart." He pursed his lips. Whether inebriated or conscious, she was always gutsy. "But our lives are all dictated by her."

"It's not what I desire."

He lolled back his head, a devilish chuckle resounding in the room. "Bad luck."

He began counting the beads of the mala and cast a protective spell around Amba. Her words became twisted and lips turned heavy. Soon, she was in a peaceful slumber. The fever was there, but less intense.

"Hopefully you will be fine by the evening," he said. "Then we need to talk."

He got out her room and was instantly repelled by the eavesdropping Rani. "I had ordered you to stand and not put your ear on the door," he said tartly. "Now get lost. She won't wake up any soon. Prepare our lunch. You get paid for it."

"What about Amba?"

"See if she wakes up in the evening. Feed her some prasad from the temple and make her drink lots of water. She should take a bath, wear washed clothes and come meet me in my room." Puffing up his chest, he towered over the hag. "And if this reaches the ears of anyone else," he wiggled at finger at her face, "I will have you and your daughter cooked in the kitchen."

****

When Amba woke up, she was confused if it was late evening or midnight. Her sense of time was lost. There was no lamp lit in the room and the welcoming darkness only soothed her for a moment. As her eyes adjusted to the dim room, she swayed to a table and lit a lantern.

"When did I fall asleep?" She didn't know. Placed on the table was a plate of sweets, a glass of water and a new saree. In the folds of the fabric was hidden a note. Scribbled in wavy letters, which Amba recognised as maybe the handwriting of Rituja, was written the following: Boro Babu has asked you to have Maa's prasad, drink lots of water because you are sick and dehydrated. Then take a bath. Maybe lukewarm since you are sick. Wear the nice saree and meet him. He was very worried...

"Worried?"

Skipping all the instructions, her brain pinpointed that extraordinary emotion. Worry. Boro Babu was anxious about her health.

"He really baffles me."

But Rituja didn't look like someone who would lie, so maybe that beast did have a heart. Amba proceeded to do what was written on the note– eat, drink, bathe and then draped herself in the cotton saree to go meet the man in whose world she wildered herself.

She found the door left ajar, and before she could ask permission to enter, he pulled her in. She gasped at the cold launch of his grip landing on her skin. Rolling on the floor was a bottle of alcohol. No, she wasn't going to tolerate any assault. She wasn't anybody's slave. She wasn't a toy. Her body was a temple as much as Hrishav claimed his own to be.

"Stop with your overthinking," he clutched his head, "just sit on the chair."

She took her seat, somewhat relaxed by his assurance. No, his ego was in being disciplined and wise, not in rampant enjoyment. He was a different kind of a monster. An ethical one.

"To start with," be took a deep breath, "your body couldn't take the divine occurance that happened last night. That was why the fever came. And with all the peculiar sightings and astounding experiences you are gathering, we must do something. I am not an irresponsible man who would allow you to perish."

She leaned forward with a hand over her chest. "Is my life in danger?"

"It requires strength to take in the powers of Maa. If I don't train you for what you are destined to go through, you will lose your sanity."

Her ears rang. The colours of the furniture, of his brilliant red garb and his parched lips, all began to fade. A numbing pain scratched the insides of her neck, slithering up to an increased sensation of a hammering throb crushing the skull. Rivulets of sweat slid down her spine. She wiped herself, looking at him with teary eyes. "What should I do?"

She had expected him to sympathise with her, although it was so very out of character. And indeed, she was proven wrong about his little kindness. A lopsided grin mocked her. "You don't remember, do you?"

"What?" She shivered. "The goddess?"

"No." He clicked his tongue. "What you told me while you were in a trance."

She stiffened. Did she utter anything too sweet to exist between them?

"You made it evident that you hate me. I appreciate your courage, Amba. You are one of a kind."

"Oh, thank Kalika. I was thinking otherwise."

"I don't think we are yet on a page where we would propose under the effect of wine or magic. Our dislike is very deep-rooted and mutual."

She huffed. "And that will be so forever."

"But I have bad news, Amba. Very bad news. It even hurts me."

The handsome priest rose and circled her, pausing near a vase of red roses. He took one, sniffing the aroma of the flower of love. "You see, although we hate each other, Maa has other plans."

It didn't take Maya time to understand what he meant. "Oh. Bhairava and Bhairavi."

"Exactly."

Amba was blown away by his smirk. The glitter in his eyes contrasted his clenched jaw. Was he irked by it, or happy? His piercing gaze was as unfathomable as Kalika herself. But she dare believe the Goddess to be more comprehensible than this priest of hers.

"Whether we like it or not, you must get tantric diksha. You will be taught to be my equivalent, my Bhairavi. I have decided to take you to my Guru tomorrow."

"But–"

"Shh." He placed the rose over her lips. Her breath hitched, their gazes interlocked in abhorrence and attraction. Amba saw her reflection in his brown irises– her curls flowing down like a river, the surprise painted on her face. Neither knew when the rose dropped to Amba's lap. Hrishav's hand lingered under her chin. Their breaths mingled, lips parted. Only when the noses brushed did it strike them what they were doing. The abrupt shake made their lips touch for a second. Hrishav staggered back as if hit by a lightning bolt.

"Leave." His words were hushed and tired. Amba didn't argue; she wasn't in a state to revolt.

His lips tasted like betel leaves, she knew. For hers too were flavoured by the peck.

word count: 2622 words
Total word count: 36,589 words

I would like to mention from beforehand that it's not possible for me to get every detail regarding Vamachara practice. I might know a thing or two thanks to books and free knowledge, but being cautious of what it is, the sanctity of it, I will avoid going into deep details of it, which includes any depiction of Maithuna. Any sex scene that occurs will thus be a normal one. I am a normal human like anybody else and won't do the mistake of claiming to know anything that I don't. So, I will only write on things that I know.

That being said, destiny is a thing. However hard may Hrishav and Amba try, Maa will make them choose each other!