Chapter 1: The Accusation and the Awakening

The junior didi, still just learning the basics of sadhana, actually dared to falsely accuse the powerful protagonist—now at the advanced sadhana stage—of stealing the Prakriti Suvarna Mani. At first, Ananya could hardly believe it. Her hands instinctively clutched her mala beads, the familiar wooden spheres digging into her palm as disbelief and anxiety churned inside her.

A mosquito buzzed lazily near the temple bell, ignored by the gossiping aunties. The air in the ashram, thick with the scent of sandalwood and incense, seemed to tremble with anticipation at such a scandal. The Prakriti Suvarna Mani wasn’t just any stone; it was the pride of their lineage, often shown to new initiates before Guruji’s morning discourse.

The two faced off in the main hall, their tension thick as the midday heat.

The main hall, echoing with the faint notes of tanpura, was alive with hushed excitement. The marble floors still bore the faint traces of yesterday’s rangoli, and every eye, hidden or bold, was fixed on the confrontation. Someone’s steel tiffin clanged in the corridor; nobody cared.

Such a dramatic scene unfolded in a certain women-centric novel.

It was the kind of plot twist you’d find in the latest bestseller at the railway station bookstall, or maybe acted out on a high-voltage evening in one of those serials everyone’s mother secretly watched between cutting bhindi and stirring the dal.

Everyone in the ashram believed the white-lotus junior didi.

Of course, what else would you expect? In every joint family or ashram, the innocent-looking, soft-spoken one always gets the benefit of the doubt. Chalo, that’s how these things go—log toh waise bhi baat banate hain.

In the end, her own fiancé, the same senior bhaiya she’d trusted since childhood, was the one who destroyed her—her death whispered about for years in the ashram corridors.

There’s always a senior bhaiya—brooding, misunderstood, and ultimately, the one to swing the sword. In the book, his cold eyes and trembling hands were described with so much drama you could almost hear the shehnai turn somber.

Rohan closed the book, unable to calm down for a long time.

He sat cross-legged on his creaking hostel cot, fanning himself with a half-torn notebook, thinking: Bas, if I were that woman... His chai had gone cold; he hadn’t even realized.

He grumbled aloud, picking up a pillow and chucking it at the peeling wall. "Kya bakwaas! If I were Ananya, na, I’d show these people real sadhana." He pictured himself in a crisp white saree, eyes blazing, sending those fakes running for cover. Kya mazaak bana diya protagonist ka?

The very next moment—

His hostel room shimmered, the fan’s whirr slowing, and suddenly he was tumbling—like falling into a cold river during Chhath puja.

He lost consciousness.