Chapter 5: The Seal of the Lotus

3

When I woke again, I was back at the River of Forgetfulness.

The air was thick with humidity, the smell of wet earth rising after the first monsoon rain. The river flowed gently, as if it had never known the weight of sorrow. I lay on a mat, wrapped in a thin cotton sheet, my body aching but whole.

Second Didi had returned from the mortal world, drained of all power, weeping day and night over a lover’s betrayal and wishing for death.

Her cries echoed through the halls, haunting us all. She spoke of promises broken, of dreams shattered. Aunty Kamala sat by her side, stroking her hair, singing old lullabies from their childhood. The pain of heartbreak is the same, no matter how many lives you live.

Aunty Kamala brewed Forget-Worry Soup for her, saving her life.

She worked through the night, her hands steady, her face drawn with worry. The soup simmered on the fire, filling the air with the scent of spices and hope. She circled the pot three times with a sprig of tulsi, muttering a prayer under her breath—a ritual for protection as old as memory. Second Didi drank it slowly, tears mingling with each sip. By morning, her sobs had faded to quiet sniffles.

Eldest Didi, having lost all passion, erected a small Buddha idol in her office, saying she wanted to cultivate her character.

She sat cross-legged before the idol, eyes closed in meditation. The others whispered that she was trying to find peace, to cleanse her soul of the stains of love. Incense drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of jasmine from the garden. She rarely spoke now, but her presence was calming—a reminder that healing was possible, if only you tried.

'One by one, neither here nor there,' Aunty Kamala muttered as she found me and sighed.

She shook her head, her gold earrings swaying. 'Bachchi, tum logon ko kya ho gaya hai? Sabke sab uljhan mein phans gaye ho.' Her tone was affectionate but exasperated, like a mother who has seen too many children fall and scrape their knees.

"Priya, it’s your turn to go to the mortal world next month."

Her words sent a jolt through me. The thought of returning to that world filled me with dread. I pressed my lips together, refusing to meet her eyes.

The memories stabbed at me like steel needles, leaving me full of holes.

Every thought was a wound, every memory a fresh cut. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold the pieces together. The ache in my chest would not go away.

"I’m not going. The mortal world isn’t worth it."

My voice was barely more than a whisper. Aunty Kamala’s eyes softened, but she did not argue. She knew better than anyone what the world could do to a woman’s heart.

Aunty Kamala pressed on: "If you don’t go to the mortal world for your trial, how will you ascend? Haven’t you always wanted to reach the Heavenly Sabha?"

She poured me a cup of chai, the steam curling between us. 'Beta, bina kasht ke safalta kaise milegi? Tumhari kismet mein kuch bada likha hai.' Her words were gentle, but carried the weight of truth. I stared into the tea, watching the milk swirl, searching for answers I could not find.

"If you can’t reach the Heavenly Sabha, how will you ever find your birth mother..."

The mention of my birth mother was a blow I had not expected. I clutched the edge of my shawl, memories of an old lullaby rising unbidden. Somewhere, out there, was a woman who had once held me close—who might even now be waiting for my return.

Birth mother?

The word echoed in my mind, strange and distant. I had spent so long trying to forget, but the longing remained—a small, stubborn flame that refused to die.

Since I was abandoned, what is there to search for?

I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter, that I was better off alone. But in the quiet hours of the night, I dreamed of her—her face always hidden, her arms always open.

I shook my head.

'Let it go, Priya,' I told myself. Some wounds are too old to heal.

"I’m not going. I’ll just stay here at the River of Forgetfulness."

My voice was firmer now. I looked out at the river, watching the sunlight dance on the water. Here, at least, I was safe. Here, I could pretend the past did not exist.

I still don’t know why I wasn’t utterly destroyed, but for now, being able to remain safely by this river is enough. I don’t dare ask for more.

Some days, I think the river itself saved me—its waters washing away the last traces of pain. I let myself drift, content to be nameless, forgotten, invisible. Safety was enough.

Lost in my memories, I was covered in wounds.

Even in this haven, the past clung to me. My dreams were full of shadows—Arjun’s voice, Sneha’s laughter, my own cries echoing in the darkness.

Arjun’s voice echoed in my mind, cold as ice: "Yeh kya, meetha daal rahi ho? Kamala Aunty ki recipe hai na?"

I flinched at the memory, fingers clenching around the edge of my dupatta. No matter how far I ran, I could not escape his voice. It haunted me, a spectre in the quiet hours before dawn.

I steadied myself, searching desperately for any excuse, but couldn’t find a convincing one.

I racked my brain, trying to remember Aunty Kamala’s words—some story, some lie I could use. But my mind was blank, wiped clean by fear.

Arjun stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the birthmark on my wrist.

I felt his gaze like a physical touch—hot, probing, unforgiving. I curled my hand into a fist, hiding the mark as best I could.

"This black lotus..."

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I felt exposed, vulnerable, my secrets laid bare.

I quickly pulled my sleeve over it, my whole body tense.

Sweat trickled down my back. The air felt thick, suffocating. I forced myself to breathe, counting each inhale, each exhale.

"The sugar is Aunty Kamala’s secret recipe. Is there a problem, Devta?" I replied.

My voice was steady, but inside I was trembling. I met his gaze, daring him to challenge me. Around us, the kitchen grew silent—everyone waiting to see what would happen next.

Aunty Kamala suddenly appeared in front of me, shielding me from Arjun’s piercing gaze.

She moved with surprising speed for someone her age, her frame straight and unyielding. Her eyes flashed, daring him to try anything. I felt her hand on my shoulder—warm and firm, her bangles jangling a warning as she stepped between me and Arjun. The sound was a shield, the touch an anchor; I let my breath steady under her protection.

As soon as she spoke, the pressure in the air intensified.

It was as if a thunderstorm had rolled into the room—static crackling, tension mounting. I bowed my head, grateful for her protection.

I bowed my head even lower. In the distance, the Judge came running, trembling, to calm Arjun: "Devta, please restrain your anger, please."

The Judge’s voice was high and nervous, words tumbling over each other. He wrung his hands, eyes darting between Aunty Kamala and Arjun, desperate to keep the peace.

"This official has searched every soul who crossed the Bridge of No Return in the past hundred years, but found no such person."

His words were careful, precise. I could see the fear in his eyes—one wrong move, and the Devta’s wrath would fall upon us all.

"Devta, Sneha is waiting for you outside the underworld."

The mention of Sneha was enough. The tension eased, just a little, as Arjun’s focus shifted. I let out a silent breath, relief flooding through me.

The oppressive force vanished instantly.

It was like the first cool breeze after a heatwave—everyone straightened, shoulders relaxing, eyes darting in relief.

"Enough," Arjun snapped, then hurried away.

His words were curt, final. He strode from the room, his back straight, head high. I watched him go, unable to look away.

I looked up, hatred burning in my heart as I watched Arjun’s departing figure. The loathing inside me made the black lotus on my wrist sear with pain, as if some force was surging up within me.

My breath came short and fast, the fire inside me burning hotter than ever before. For the first time, I let myself feel the full force of my anger—let it fill me, fuel me. The pain in my wrist was almost a relief—a reminder that I was still alive.

Suddenly, Aunty Kamala spat out a mouthful of blood.

The sight shocked us all. Her sari was stained red, her face twisted in pain. I rushed to her side, panic rising in my chest.

"Damn it, that fellow’s divine power is overwhelming. He almost made me drink my own Forget-Worry Soup," she cursed.

Her voice was raspy, but defiant. She wiped her mouth with the edge of her pallu, glaring in the direction Arjun had gone. The others exchanged nervous glances—if even Aunty Kamala was shaken, we were all in danger.

The Judge wiped his sweating forehead, trying to calm her: "Aunty, the Devta hasn’t gone far yet..."

He glanced over his shoulder, voice low and urgent. 'Kripya shaant ho jaiye, Aunty. Aapko bhi kuch ho gaya toh hum sab gaya kaam se.'

"Devta, my foot! Back in the Four Seas and Eight Wastelands, I had nothing, but I still made a name for myself, even if I had no real power."

She sat up straighter, pride shining in her eyes. 'Woh toh Devta hai, toh kya hua? Main bhi kam nahi hoon. Zindagi ne bahut kuch sikhaya hai mujhe.' Her defiance was a shield, her words a sword. The others nodded, comforted by her strength.

"So what if he’s a Devta? Hmph!"

She crossed her arms, chin jutting out. For a moment, the old Kamala was back—unbreakable, unyielding.

Suddenly, the Bridge of No Return shook as if the earth itself was trembling. The black lotus on my wrist drew a seal that spread across the sky.

A rumble echoed through the halls, dust falling from the rafters. The mark on my wrist burned, lines of light racing up my arm and out into the world. The sky above the river darkened, clouds swirling around a brilliant seal shaped like a lotus in full bloom. Gasps rang out as everyone stared, transfixed by the power unleashed.

Aunty Kamala was horrified. "Priya, stop at once!"

She grabbed my hand, her grip tight, her face pale with fear. 'Beta, yeh kya kar rahi hai? Apne aap ko sambhaal!'

Arjun, who had just left, turned around and began walking back towards me, step by step...

My nails dug into my palm, drawing tiny crescents of blood, but I didn’t flinch. Not this time. His footsteps echoed like thunder, each one bringing him closer. His eyes locked on mine, full of fury and something else—fear, perhaps? For the first time, I felt the power within me, ancient and unstoppable. The river roared in my ears, and I knew: the past would not hold me prisoner any longer.

As his shadow fell across the threshold, I realised—for the first time, he was afraid of me.