Chapter 1: Ashram Days and Fox Ties

I once practiced dual sadhana with a fox spirit for many years!

Back then, mornings arrived with sunlight peeking through the neem trees, dappling the ashram courtyard in gold. The early breeze always carried the clang of the temple bell and the lingering aroma of fresh incense and poha from the kitchen. My heart was a mess of curiosity and restlessness, never guessing where those days would take me.

In the end, I cut every tie, left him behind without even a backward glance, and walked straight into moksha.

When I left, not a single goodbye touched my lips. I walked barefoot across the cool stone floor, my dupatta fluttering behind me, letting the last bits of feeling drop away. Moksha tasted like bittersweet tulsi—freedom, but with a burn at the back of the throat.

He turned cold that instant, declaring that from now on, he’d never bother with heartless, ruthless women again!

A distant thunderclap startled even the crows in the banyan tree into silence. He spat those words like poison, his fox eyes brimming with something that looked a lot like heartbreak. But I couldn’t turn back. Not even once.

Later, the rules up there changed, and I was packed off to the mortal world. Only by regrowing threads of affection could I earn my way back!

The winds of fate never stick to the script. The dharmic laws above took a U-turn, and suddenly my stone-cold heart became my own undoing. I landed below, my celestial shine stripped away, forced to wander through mortal dust—unless I could string together new bonds of affection, like mango leaves over a wedding door.

And of course, the fox spirit heard about this and rushed over before I could even unpack!

The universe loves a little drama. The ink on my exile wasn’t even dry when word spread through the yaksha grapevine. That fox spirit—never one to let a story end quietly—burst onto the scene, fur on edge, eyes wild with old grudges and something more.

In a remote mountain mandir, he flung off his kurta and climbed right onto my bed!

The mandir was so deep in the hills, even the postman would get lost. The night air smelled thick of raat ki rani. Suddenly, he was there—no warning, just a soft rustle as his kurta dropped, and then he was beside me, black onyx eyes glinting in the candlelight.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not that I can’t forget you! I just swore to personally break your path of heartlessness!”

He said it like a full-on filmi hero, stubborn as a kid refusing to share his jalebi. Even after three centuries, Rohan could make an entrance like he was born for the big screen.

I nudged his tail off my lap and shot him a warning look: “Control your tail, mister. My fiancé wouldn’t approve!”

Somewhere in the valley, a nightjar called out, as if to echo the awkwardness. I forced a nervous smile, adjusted the pallu of my saree, and gave him my best ‘shaant ho jao’ glare. But foxes never listen.