Happy Gudi Padwa ✨

-• faith •-

Sara had been to Mumbai only once in her life. Now twice. She was eleven years old, and had accompanied her sister for an inter-state dance competition. They had reached the city at twelve in the afternoon, it was the month of September. Heavy rains had plunged the wide streets of the city into knee deep waters, and yet, the city was alive. Why?

It was Ganesh Chaturthi. A festival of ten days where it is believed Lord Ganesha alights from the sky to bless his devotees.

Sara had never before seen a sight so bizarre. Thousands of people had flooded the streets, the sound of trumpets, dhol tasha and slogans breathed life in the air. This was the busiest city in India? This was the city that worked so hard that it never slept? How come it has time to celebrate when it never has time to eat?

"And I thought Mumbai was the busiest city," she had mused thoughtfully, her whisper nothing less than a blow of fog on the spotless windows of their luxury car.

"Faith is very powerful, Sara," her sister had said, and Sara had looked at the young, teeming with beauty, eighteen year old teenager who smiled down at her fondly. "When you believe in something, in someone, you'll always want to celebrate that trust, to boast about it to the world. Because faith, is also rare." Her nimble fingers had tucked back the wavy strands from the kid's face. "There are only two relationships you can share with the Almighty, faith or fear. Which one would you prefer?"

"Faith." Sara had answered.

"Why?"

"You said it's powerful."

The slender lips had curled up into a glowing smile. "That's right. What you're seeing outside is a proud display of someone's faith, of their power."

Presently? Sara wants no relationship with the Almighty. Neither of faith, and she certainly would never fear him. He's a body of stones and sand, unfleshed, and those who don't bleed, never know pain. You can't understand a human if you have never felt pain. Because pain is an inherent part of everything that lives and breathes. Pain is an unsaid understanding between mortals, someone else, someone immortal, unseen and intangible, someone who exists beyond space and time, and has never known human emotions, cannot ever be vested with the power of trust.

Power in the hands of an already powerful existence promises nothing but destruction.

"Have you ever been to Mumbai before, Madam Ji?"

Eyes off the window, she meets the driver's inquisitive gaze through the rear view mirror. "Only once."

"Do you like the city?" He continues to probe, interested in keeping the conversation going with the elegant lady in his backseat. He has had rich people hiring his luxury sedan all the time, but only on rare occurrences had people of high status really exuded the air of regality. Rich people are often snobs, and he has damned the fate at the unfairness of the world a lot of times, but then he meets people who define their high standing with the dignity and prestige they carry, rather than the money they own.

"It's.... brimming with people." She nods.

Atul, the name he had introduced himself with, chuckles in amusement. "As many people, that many dreams. After all, it's the city of dreams."

"How is it the city of dreams when it never sleeps?" Gracefully resting her slim arm on the centre armrest, she tilts her head to the right curiously, her dark, open locks swaying to a stop on her thin shoulders.

Having hit the traffic, since it's the rush hour of the day, Atul taps his fingers on the steering, taking his time to come up with a justified answer. "Trust me, if dreams were achieved sleeping eight hours a day, Mumbai would be forever asleep. To make them your reality, you've to fight for them in your reality."

"Then it's a war field." She surmises.

A flash of surprise crosses Atul's dark brown eyes. "True." He concedes, "Because not everyone wins."

She hums, her aureate eyes, resembling molten golds, swiftly move back to gaze outside the window. The city drifts past her, people and buildings alike, superficial and temporary. Sara is brutally cynical in the way she looks at the world. She has hardened herself to every tragedy under the sun, and has felt less and less emotions as time passed.

"We're here," the driver stops the car at the side of the road.

Sara leans closer to the window. The imposing gold plated spire of the Siddhivinayak Temple beams under the sunlight. Sara picks up her purse and opens the door, putting her right leg out, her heel clad foot hitting the pavement. "I'll give you a call when it's time to leave." She informs the driver.

"Sure, Madam Ji."

She steps out, closes the door and clutches the leather straps of her Chanel bag tightly. Putting on her sunglasses, she makes her way across the main road, and releases a troubled breath upon seeing the long queue of the devotees stretching a few hundred metres outside the temple premises.

Sara approaches one of the many roadside stalls, buys the God offerings that consist of coconut, flowers, and a scarf. She pays the woman and holds the tiny little basket to her chest, stretching her neck to gouge out how far the queue went. Exhaling a determined breath, she swings her purse strap over her shoulder and walks to the end of the queue, taking her place behind the last person, who happens to be a woman in a formal dressing, constantly checking the time on her wrist watch.

Their eyes meet and the woman reveals a tired smile. Sara forces one back for the sake of politeness.

"I'm running late for an important meeting and the line isn't moving at all." She grunts, tapping her foot impatiently as she leans to the side and switches on her feet, as if that'll make people move faster.

"Does the temple closes early on Tuesdays?" Sara questions, somewhat confused the woman would prioritise temple visit over an important meeting.

"Oh, no," she smiles, shaking her head and glancing over her shoulder at Sara. "It's Tuesday. I regularly come to Siddhivinayak on Tuesdays."

Sara can't imagine herself abandoning work for faith.

"And you can't miss one Tuesday?" She frowns, looking at the woman perplexed.

The woman looks over, her thick brows dipping low seriously, "If I choose my materialistic needs over my spiritual needs, what does that say of me?"

"But you're still worried of losing the materialistic needs," Sara points to her restless feet.

That stalls the woman unceremoniously. Her face pales in realisation. To her gratitude, an arrival of three black Mercedes stops her from conjuring up an excuse to defend her faith. The cars drive past them, and the woman clicks her tongue in vexation. "These rich people. They just pay and get a VIP entry to the sanctum."

Sara steps aside to look clearly as the three cars come to a smooth stop. Local cops swarm in, shoving the people in the queue behind the barricades, and creating a human-shield for the person about to step out of their luxurious four wheeler. She looks on curiously, until the door opens and a familiar, striking presence reveals itself to stand at six feet half.

Yuvraaj Singh Chauhan buttons his blazer as soon as he's outside of his car. He removes his sunglasses, surveying the crowded area with the usual coldness in his distinct onyx eyes, and drops them in the hands of his loyal secretary.

Sara retreats, off his sight, in her previous place behind the woman's broad frame.

"This way, sir," she hears a man say.

And soon he and his entourage disappear, Sara opens her bag, fishes out a black mask, and puts it on. She prefers to avoid the man as long as she can. Now would be the worst time to face him.

Eventually, the queue starts to move, and Sara slowly moves forward. Upon entering the temple premises, she leaves her heels in the care of a sweet shop owner and pays him fifty rupees to keep them from getting stolen, then she rejoins the queue. Before walking through the security check, she is ordered to remove the mask and not put it on before exiting the temple. She adheres to the strict rule and stuffs the mask in her purse.

The moment her bare feet touch the main hall of the Temple, Sara breathes out shakily. Unforgettable memories swarm in and she curls her empty hand into a fist. It's missing the warmth of the person who had first brought her here.

The cold floor brings an indescribable rush inside her veins, and her eyes automatically chase the shrine of Ganesha sitting inside the innermost sanctum. Holding the basket of the offerings in one hand, she uses the other to bring her dupatta on the crown of her head like a veil, and tosses the shorter end over her shoulder.

Sara moves forward and then abruptly stops when she sees Yuvraaj and his guards in the shorter queue next to her. Isn't he supposed to be prioritised over the common folks? Why is he in the queue like everyone else? Wouldn't his security be compromised?

"Aage badho na, (Move forward)" a woman behind nudges on her back.

Sara compels her feet to keep moving. She brings the veil down, until it's covering her forehead as well. As she slowly reaches the end of the queue, so does he and they end up standing together in front of the God.

They handover their offerings for the God to the main priest and receive flowers from near his feet, blessed with his touch. Their hands extend forward together, and the main priest drops the two marigolds in the open palms.

Since Yuvraaj stands next to her, the cops stationed don't force her to keep moving. She can't unless he does if she doesn't want to catch his attention. So she's stuck. She takes that opportunity to join her hands together and close her eyes.

She has a lot to say to Him, but she knows he doesn't care.

But He needs to know. He needs to know what happened with the woman who had blindly put her faith in Him, and had believed He'd always protect her.

Faith as it turns out, is an illusion.

Avani Rajawat had it, so do million other people like her.

Sara Rajawat doesn't. She's solely here, in His abode, for one reason.

To tell Him.

It's the beginning of a war.

She looks into His eyes, in the eyes that her sister used to believe have always watched them with love and care. Her jaw clenches.

"I'll do what you couldn't. I'll bring justice to my sister."

A strong whip of wind blows from the open entrance of the sanctum and the chiffon fabric slides down her head. Her breath hitches. She struggles to put it back up when the main priest reaches over and smears kumkum in the middle of her brows, reaching for the man next to her with the same finger.

Yuvraaj leans in, hand covering his head in respect, before he stands straight and glances to his right, stiffening at the unexpected presence next to him.

"Sara," he whispers, the name inaudible over the noise around them, but she hears, and quickly pulls over the veil, slinking past him from behind, disappearing back into the sea of devotees.

On her way out, she fishes out her phone from the purse and dials her driver's number.

"Atul, come to the same place you dropped me off. I'll be there in five minutes."

"Okay, Madam Ji,"

Hanging up, she shoves her phone in her purse and heads towards the sweet shop she had entrusted her heels with. She thanks the shop owner and puts on her heels, wasting no time to leave the place. She has to wait only a few seconds before Atul is pulling up in front of her. Opening the door, she slides in and slams it shut. "To the airport."

He nods and the wheels screech off as the car dives back into the busy road.

Taking out her phone from her handbag, she scrolls through the scarce number of contacts in her phonebook and finds her cousin's pretty easily.

He answers on the fifth ring. "Yes?"

"Why did you not tell me Yuvraaj was in Mumbai today?"

A pause. "Sorry? Yuvraaj is in Mumbai? I didn't know that. Did you meet him?"

"Almost." Sara sighs.

"What did he say? Was he... Was he pissed off? I've been avoiding meeting him for a month now."

"Why?" She frowns.

"He's furious I didn't tell him about you."

"So? He's not entitled to know of my whereabouts. Get that through his head the next time you meet him. I owe him no explanation, neither do you."

"I know, but you know how he is."

"A bigoted arsehole." She spits out softly. "The man thinks the world shall bow down to him. That I shall bow down to him. He has never been more wrong." She grits out. The thought of him works her up. She can't stand his shadow, let alone the whole six feet half mountain in flesh. "Find out why was he in Mumbai. I won't put it past him to keep tabs on me. He had always believed he owned me because I once carried his surname."

"I'm sure he had no idea-"

"Still. Please, Rudra." She requests in a tender tone. "You know what I'm back for. The last thing I need is my crazy ex stalking me."

Rudra breathes out tiredly. "Sure, I'll call Zoya and let you know."

"Thanks. I'll be boarding my flight in an hour. I'd appreciate an answer before that."

"Alright, I'm hanging up."

She drops her hand to her lap and stares outside the window to take her mind off the moments that had transpired in the temple.

"How was the darshan, Madam Ji?"

Sara regards Atul with confused eyes. "How it's supposed to be. Time consuming." She shrugs.

He frowns. "Other times I hear people say it was refreshing, like their soul was rejuvenated. This is the first time I'm hearing an answer of this kind."

"Of what kind?"

"You weren't particularly excited about paying the Lord a visit, were you?" He concludes.

"No," she shakes her head.

"You don't believe in him."

"No."

"Then why did you go to him?"

"Someone I loved and looked up to used to believe in him. She trusted him. I guess, I wanted to feel closer to her."

And tell him of the battlefield I'm about to step inside.

Atul smiles, a strange, fascinating glimmer in his eyes.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Faith is so powerful." He says, and Sara stiffens. "Despite not believing in him, it brought you to his doorstep." He meets her eyes through the rear view mirror.

"Faith is very powerful, Sara."

The mellow tone of her sister's voice floats into her memories. Sara swallows the painful block lodged in her throat.

Her phone chimes, breaking the eye contact and she unlocks her phone.

Rudra: He was there for work purpose. He's relocating their fashion magazine publishing company to the headquarters in Jaigarh.

Rudra: strange. He was never interested in Fashion before.

Sara's fingers wrap around the device tightly. Of course he wasn't, until he probably dug into her personal life and found out what position she has undertaken and where she'll start working.

Yuvraaj Singh Chauhan has always been competitive. And he had always won.

But that's because he never had her as an opponent before.