Sharvani, clutching her cloth bag in one hand and a metal trunk in another, looks at Vama, who is blowing the conch inside the puja room of the cottage. Her eyes close on her own accord, as if trying to shut all the senses down and capture the divine tune in her memories for one last time.

Once she crosses the gates of the temple as Shiva's bride, she will no longer come back to her grandmother's home.

Vama meanwhile blows the conch with all her might, which is surprising for a frail old woman like her, but emotions often get the best of us, making one immensely weak or immensely strong at times. The loud sound of the conch reverberates through the chamber, making goosebumps rise on Sharvani's skin. Then slowly, the sound fades to nothingness, and both the old lady and Sharvani open their eyes and look at each other, their farewell messages conveyed just through their eyes.

For if a word escapes from either's lips, the tear dams in their eyes would break loose.

Achutya, smelling like fresh sandalwood, enters the cottage and bows to Vama in reverence. She blesses him by raising her palm, a small smile gracing her lips that says, "Bless you, my son. May the gods be happy with you always."

Sharvani, dressed in a cream, well-pinned saree with flower jewellery adorning her hair and thin wrists, looks at Achutya, who quickly takes her belongings and places them inside the palanquin, sent specially from the temple to welcome Sharvani, or their goddess.

Vama walks to the palanquin, her thin, bony fingers grazing over the thickly decorated fabric of the palanquin cover. The cover, stitched with designs of a young bride with a musical troupe, looks lovely, yet slightly worn out, but still maintains its faded beauty intact.

If only the temple dancers could maintain their once-famous extravagant lifestyles, the palanquin would appear like that of the wealthy noblewomen.

The night goddess has long gone to the heavens, sending Usha, the goddess of dawn, to alight the sky with her chariot until her brother rises up in the skies in his full golden glory. Usha's racing chariot leaves behind a trail of red and orange, her golden banner, reflecting the arrival of her brother, who shall grace the skies soon.

A few stars play around each other in the purple skies, and observing their twinkling motions, Sharvani's eyes too blink rapidly—or are those tears twinkling in her eyes?

"Come on now, Sharvani. The temple awaits you."

"Yes, brother."

Vama, holding the brass plate for the morning aarti, stands in front of the gate, her eyes steely with tears threatening to spill, yet her body straight and intact, like that of a mother sending away her brave son to a war.

Here, she sends away a daughter.

Surya ascends the skies with his blazing chariot. Out moves Sharvani's palanquin from her cosy grandmother's house to her destined home, and Vama's eyes are cloudy with tears close on their own.

***

Nrityagram's Shiva temple boasted the fine craftsmanship and architectural skill of its people, who contributed to the making of this magnificent temple, a visual delight to the eyes, and an appearance on par with the great temples built by kings in their capital cities.

The temple had received a lot of funding from the head of the village as well as from a few rich temple dancers, whose names were still inscribed on the huge walls of the entrance gate. Sharvani's eyes eagerly take in each and every beautiful sight of the temple as the palanquin nears the entrance.

Achutya had decided to sit beside his sister while accompanying her to the temple. Unlike Sharvani's awed facial expression, his face bears a confused and agitated expression.

'All these years, each and every person living inside the temple waited for their Nateshwari, but today, when the goddess arrives, there is no one to welcome her at the gates. Is this our devotion?' He thinks to himself while peeking outside the curtains to see if someone bothered to care about Sharvani's arrival. 'Perhaps that jealous Niradhara must have ordered everyone to humiliate the goddess this way.'

Sharvani, meanwhile, unaware of her brother's annoyed thoughts, smiles in admiration at the intricately carved sculptures of the temple. Large, life-like dancing sculptures stand gracefully by the gates, as if their stony eyes are welcoming each visitor inside the temple. Lost in admiring the stone marvels, she gasps when she feels a sudden jerk due to the palanquin bearers moving the palanquin to the ground.

"You can gawk at all the sculptures later, Sharvani. This is your home now, and you will have plenty of time to see each of them," says Achutya, who amusedly chuckles at her sister's facial expressions.

Entering the courtyard, Sharvani's anklets jingle lightly as her footsteps pace across the rough, stony pathway. A few women dressed in a single loosely draped saree and wet unbound hair immediately stop in their steps and turn to look at Achutya, who gives a stern look at them, causing the two ladies to gasp silently and then bow down at her.

One of the women touches Sharvani's feet, saying, "We are sorry for not recognising you earlier, Devi, and it is shameful to not receive you with a proper welcome, but we are bound by the orders of our mistress."

Sharvani, touched but slightly embarrassed by having an older woman touch her foot, bends down to kneel, her arms gently raising the woman up. "I am younger than you. I should be touching your feet for blessings."

The other woman smiles kindly and replies, "A goddess like you would touch the feet of us impure ones? We do not want to taint your purity, Nateshwari."

Sharvani, before she could utter any response, saw Achutya shake his head at her and nod at the two women who bow at her once again and run with their wet footprints, making a trail on the stony courtyard to notify all the inhabitants of the temple about the goddess's arrival.

Once the two women are out of sight, Sharvani sighs and says, "What made my mother think that I am a goddess? Have I ever performed a crazy miracle? Is there any proof of my divinity?" Clutching the ends of her cotton saree, she continues in a frustrated tone, "I sometimes feel that all of this is plain nonsense. Now that this temple will see me as the Nateshwari, I will never be Sharvani, a plain, simple girl for them."

Achutya stands motionless, his eyes deep and boring into Sharvani's face. To be clueless about one's identity and powers, especially when destined for a godly fate in a mortal body, is horribly limiting but also a fascinating journey.

'If I see anybody standing up way, then my stick will land up on your shins,' Vama said, striking the stick hard on the wooden board to recite the taal of a jathi, a rhythmic pattern of syllables that ends in a pattern.

A young Achutya sat beside the nattuvangam player, his mind solely concentrating on reciting the correct musical syllables in sync with the rhythm, when he spotted a three-year-old Sharvani automatically stand up on her little feet and thump them on the floor.

Vama did not pay much heed to Sharvani because it was normal for toddlers to react to music, until the little toddler walked to the middle of the room and, under the sunbeams that entered from the tiny holes in the thatched roof, danced the entire piece with the accuracy and skill of a trained dancer.

The girls who were learning under Vama, Achutya, Vama, and the man playing the nattuvangam stopped and stared at the little child, who had just danced as if she had learned the piece for ten years. Sharvani ended her impromptu performance by striking a beautiful pose, a skill mastered by dancers with age and time. Her eyes looked ahead, and in the bright light of the sun, Vama noticed how those eyes did not reflect a child's playful joyous reaction to music and dance, but of a serious artist dedicated to their craft.

'Perhaps Ivati was right. She indeed birthed a goddess. How can a toddler with no training in dance execute such a flawless performance?" said Vama, spellbound at the little girl.

Sharvani slowly transformed back into a naive toddler and ran outside, making Achutya run behind her to ensure she did not trip and hurt herself.

Achutya, too, was a young child and unaware of the complexities of godhood and mortality, but in his eyes that day, Sharvani stood before him as a prodigy, a soul that bound itself to dance.

"You are not just some simple Sharvani," says Achutya, looking at the distant inner complex of the temple that houses the lord, whose abode is the Kailasha.

Rolling her eyes, Sharvani retorts, "Yes, I am the Nateshwari, a goddess, destined to be the deity to guard my fellow dancers and look after the arts. I cannot be a simple girl who enjoys and explores life. I get it. Thanks."

"They all think about you so highly. Imagine what all you can achieve with this power, Sharvani."

"Probably free dancers from the ban by those foreigners?"

Achutya smiles.

Should a god always have a story that revolves around great, brutal battles and a mesmerising showcase of magical powers to establish the supremacy of a heroic deity in the hearts of people?

Achutya thinks to himself, 'I always thought of her as a prodigy more than a revered fabled goddess. She will definitely surprise us.'

***

Niradhara lights a small diya in front of the small idol of the goddess Kali, the goddess associated with Time, Change, Creation, Power, Dissolution and even Death. At her altar placed in the corner of the room, every night, when the temple goes silent, when the sounds of the anklets even fall quiet, does Niradhara express her devotion to the mother goddess.

"They may say to have loved you and be your strongest believer, but is there a stronger believer than me who consciously chooses a dark path every day, so you may finally free me off from this illusionary beautiful world full of thorns? I hope, this new girl is your chosen Nateshwari. I hope she is the goddess. May my end be in her hands, but let this battle not end very easily."

Niradhara's room is always shrouded in darkness except for the small altar of the goddess, a peculiar sight for those who see her room, an opportunity presented to them very rarely.

Lighting up two incense sticks, she moves them around the room twice, and then places them in front of the goddess. Her eyes focus on the flame of the diya, that dance with the surrounding cool breeze of the night.

The large reddish eyes of the goddess look at Niradhara, and like an obedient daughter, Niradhara watches her silent mother goddess until the flame of the holy earthen lamp extinguishes.

She stands up and pulls her black shawl down, draping it around her head and shoulders. In the chill of the late night, she heads off to commit her body to sinful pleasures, a price to pay to be the head of the temple dancers, and to secure some money and position so none of the women fall to extreme poverty and starvation.

'The wandering ascetics claim the soul to be pure

and this body of five elements to be gross —

Oh, mother mine, I am holy only in your presence,

Under your watchful eyes, I am your little daughter,

But what shall I answer for these debauched actions

That I take once the pure flame of my devotion fades away?

My soul is repulsed by this body.

Not even the waters of the pious Ganga can cleanse me.

Only burning in the vicious flames of my sin shall purify me

and lead me back to you, to be a part of your holy being.'

***

I now think that I deviating from the plot, but my life has always been like that. I will still try and work around, but I am still excited to see how this story unfurls, because to be honest, I myself do not have a plan for this story. But, some pictures sometimes align themselves on their own XD