March 17, 2025 · Kolkata
The locust-green sky over Dakshineswar was heavy with the last breath of winter. Dawn's first light ghosted across the Hooghly's surface, setting ripples to silver fire. Deva Mitra inhaled the river breeze—tinged with incense, jasmine blooms, and the distant roar of morning trains—and murmured his prayer at the Kali temple's sweeping marble steps. Today was the culmination of his thirty-first year, and the seventh anniversary of his love with Priya Sen.
He traced the ornate carvings of Ma Kali's lotus pedestal with a fingertip, whispering, "Om Kalikayai Namah," then left a single blue lotus petal as an offering. The wind stirred the saffron flags overhead, carrying the faint echo of temple bells as if the goddess herself blessed his day.
Priya appeared around the corner of the ghat's crowded landing, sari draped in cheerful teal, bangles tinkling like distant laughter. She waved before her eyes even found him; her smile was the sunburst to his dawn.
"Good morning, birthday boy," she called, climbing the worn stone steps in easy grace.
Deva's chest throbbed with warmth. "Happy anniversary," he replied, meeting her halfway. He offered his arm, and she tucked her fingers into his crook. They descended together, the air alive with vendors setting up flower stalls, street-food cooks firing up brass woks, and the sigh of morning prayer.
They paused at the paneer-chicken kabab stall, where vapor rose in pearl-clouds from spitting oil. Priya pressed a bright orange marigold into his hand, plucking a steamed dumpling from the steamer basket. She held it to his lips. "Taste the beginning of our seventh year."
He bit into the soft dough, ribboned with fragrant coriander, and nodded. "Perfect," he said, eyes warm. He handed her a dumpling. "To us."
Afternoon · Shyambazar
By mid-morning they'd wandered into the narrow lanes of Shyambazar, past jar-glass vinyl shops echoing Rabindra Sangeet, past bookstalls bursting with dusty hardcovers and fresh-printed poetry chapbooks. Deva led her to the Delta Lotus Sanctum's Kolkata branch—a modest courtyard tucked behind peeling shutters, marked by a carved wooden peacock symbol. Monks in saffron kurtas chanted sutras beneath mosquito nets.
Priya whispered, "It feels sacred here."
He nodded. "Seven years of studying Prāṇa-̣Vidyā, tapping life-energy through that very window." He pointed to a stained-glass pane depicting a lotus in bloom. "Every breath I draw here has strengthened me."
She slipped her hand into his. "And I've watched you grow more luminous than that lotus," she said softly.
He brushed a kiss onto the back of her hand. "Let me give you something."
From his satchel he withdrew a small box wrapped in gold-leaf paper. Priya's breath caught; she eased open the lid. Inside lay a slender talwar—its short blade etched in swirling runes and its hilt embossed with a lotus motif.
"It's forged from divya-metal," he said, heart thumping, "and tempered under the first light of the Spirit Peaks." He touched the blade's curve. "It glows only in the hands of your devotion."
Tears pooled in her eyes. She traced the runes with a trembling fingertip. "It's beautiful… Deva."
He touched her cheek. "Just as you."
She rose and brought her arms around him in a sudden, fierce embrace. "I love you," she whispered.
He closed his eyes and held her, as though he could fuse their two souls into one perfect moment.
Evening · Burrabazar Canal Flats
Late afternoon light stretched long shadows over the narrow flat he'd inherited from his grandmother. The one-bedroom apartment looked onto a hidden canal off Burrabazar Road, water stained emerald by bathwater and monsoon rains. Inside, the walls were lined with worn bookshelves—his grandmother's collection of Sanskrit sutras and modern classics. A garlanded photograph of his parents smiled down from the mantle.
Priya swept aside the gauzy curtain and peered past the mosquito netting. "It's all so… quiet."
He laughed softly. "It's our sanctuary tonight. I've asked Grandma to stay with my sister. We'll have the place to ourselves."
She perched on the low wooden cot draped in a crimson quilt. He set a simple supper on the floor—daal, steamed rice, aloo torkari, and sweet kheer topped with crushed pistachios. They ate by lantern light as shadows danced on the peeling water-stained walls.
Afterward, he guided her to the small balcony overlooking the canal. A string of clay lamps flickered in the dusk. Rickshaws rumbled by and the faint honk of a passing tram drifted across the water.
He reached inside his shirt and brought out the emerald-green ring—the Divya Ojas stone she'd gifted him at the sanctum. Its warmth pulsed like a heartbeat. "I gave you the sword," he said. "You gave me this." He slipped the ring onto her finger.
Her eyes glowed. "Now we share each surge of energy."
He cupped her face. "I want tonight to last forever."
She smiled, a slow dawning. "Then stay with me."
They drew close beneath the string of lamps. He kissed her gently, as though tasting every promise she'd ever given him. Outside, the world held its breath.
Night · The Final Cup
Later, he led her inside to the tiny kitchenette. He'd arranged a small table for two near the window. Candles were set in brass cups, their flame reflected in the dusty glass. Priya flicked them on, bathing the room in amber glow.
He produced an antique brass teapot—hand-hammered by his grandmother's generation—and two cups. "I found this in your mother's heirloom chest," he said. "Thought you might like it."
She placed a gentle hand on his. "It's perfect."
He spooned in loose-leaf tea infused with holy basil, rose petals, and a rare spice from the Western Ghats—their wedding-day blend. "It's special," he said. "I want you to have every blessing in a cup."
She leaned closer as the kettle hissed. When he poured the deep amber tea into her cup, their hands touched at the rim. He offered her his cup first.
She sipped, savoring the fragrance, then passed it back. He lifted his, tasting the warmth—and then a sharper note, metallic at the back of his tongue.
His eyes fluttered. "Priya?" he said, voice thick.
She placed her empty cup on the table. Her expression flickered between concern and something colder he couldn't name. "Are you all right?"
He set his cup down. His hand shook as he brought it to his throat. "The tea… I… it tastes odd."
She knelt beside him, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"
He pounded a fist against his chest. "My heart… it feels like it's on fire." His legs buckled and he stumbled against the table.
She caught him, face contorted in panic. "Deva, look at me! Talk to me!"
He saw the flicker of tears—then something else: resolve, steel beneath her fear. He pressed on her shoulder. "Priya… help me…"
She lifted his chin with trembling fingers. "I… I'm calling Grandma… the neighbor…"
He clutched her hand uselessly. The room tilted. The candles wavered and the echos of their laughter earlier faded into a tortured gasp.
She fumbled for her phone. "Please, Deva—stay with me."
His vision blazed white. He saw the swirl of rose petals on the table. He saw the brass teapot. He saw her face bending over him, eyes glossy with tears.
Her finger fell on the emergency call button. He faintly heard her voice, panicked, pleading, "Please send help… he's… he's dying…"
His heart lurched. His last coherent thought was: after seven years, after every sunrise and prayer—this was how it ended. Betrayed by the one he loved most.
He whispered her name, a single breath: "Priya…"
And then the world went black.