Chapter 2: Ghosts and Devtas

On this day, as usual, I was preparing soup for Aunty Kamala.

The kitchen was filled with the smell of simmering lentils and ghee. I washed coriander leaves, chopped ginger, and waited for the familiar hiss of the Hawkins pressure cooker. Outside, a koel called, and the wind fluttered the edge of my dupatta. For Aunty Kamala, the soup had to be just right—her evening ritual never skipped. Each day here was stitched with small comforts.

The Judge brought a distinguished guest from the Heavenly Sabha to the Bridge of No Return, searching for someone.

The Bridge was more crowded than usual—whispers spread like wildfire: 'Who is this special guest?' The Judge, usually unflappable, walked ahead with hurried steps, his forehead shining with nervous sweat. Even the dead souls paused, curiosity piqued by the arrival of someone from the Heavenly Sabha—a rare event that always caused a flutter.

"Priya, have you seen a woman named Meera?" he asked.

The Judge’s voice was grave, respectful, but I sensed the urgency beneath his calm. The name hung in the air. For a moment, the kitchen’s warmth vanished, replaced by the icy touch of memory. My hand stilled above the soup, spoon trembling.

I looked up, dazed.

All noise faded. My heart thudded so loudly I was sure the Judge could hear. There he was—the one person I never thought I’d see again, his form cloaked in the dazzling aura of a Devta. Time seemed to pause, like the world itself holding its breath.

The one who had come was my husband from my previous life—the very Devta who had descended to the mortal world for his own trial.

The sight of him made my knees weak, as if some old wound had split open all over again. Even now, after everything, his presence brought a storm of emotions: fear, anger, longing, and something dark I couldn’t name. The others glanced at him with awe, but I shrank into myself, wishing I could vanish into the shadows.

He had taken the name Arjun, ripped out my spine, and cast me into the Valley of Shadowed Decay, all to create a divine body for his childhood sweetheart in the mortal world.

Some wounds never heal. I remembered the pain: his hands—once gentle—turning cruel, the helplessness as my world shattered. As I remembered, my fingers unconsciously traced the old scar at the base of my spine, grounding the memory in my body. For a man to betray his own wife for another, to cast her aside as if she were nothing—such things, people say, happen only in soap operas, but my life had become one. My breath caught, the taste of old blood at the back of my throat.

But in this life, I have never set foot in the mortal world…

Yet, standing here, the memories pressed in from all sides, heavier than the humid summer air before a thunderstorm. My hands shook, but I clung to the present: this was my world now, not his. I had not returned to that hell; I was safe—at least, for now.