On a roadside in the outer region of Shunyagarbha, Rhea, Sia, Isha, and Zoya were walking together in silence.
Without any warning, Zoya’s lips curved into an amused smile.
Then she began to sing, her voice carrying a playful rhythm that drifted through the street.
ହେ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ, ରେ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ।
ହୋ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ, ରେ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ।।
ହେ… ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ କନକଲତା,
ହସି ପଦେ କହାଲୋ କଥା ।
ହାଏ… ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ କନକଲତା,
ହସି ପଦେ କହାଲୋ କଥା ।।
Her cheerful voice flowed through the roadside like an invisible current.
ହଇଗୋ ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ, ଗୋ ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ ।
ଏ ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ, ଗୋ ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ ।।
The world felt briefly like it had tuned itself to a single playful melody.
A few pedestrians turned their heads.
Not fully stopping.
Not fully ignoring either.
That in-between reaction where people pretend they are not interested, while clearly being interested.
ହାଏ… ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ ନଇଁ ଯାଉଛେ ମଥା ଗୋ,
ନାଇଁକର ନାଇଁକର ଅଥା ।
ଏ… ଲାଜେ ଲାଜେ ନଇଁ ଯାଉଛେ ମଥା ଗୋ,
ନାଇଁକର ନାଇଁକର ଅଥା ।।
Zoya walked with an easy sway, singing without hesitation, as if the street itself was her stage and the passing crowd merely an audience that hadn’t paid for tickets but stayed anyway out of curiosity.
Sia walked beside her, listening more than reacting, the kind of silence that didn’t interrupt the song but gently held it in place.
Behind them, Isha and Rhea followed, their presence forming a loose rhythm of footsteps—unplanned percussion to Zoya’s voice.
ସପନ ରଜା ସପନ, ସପନ ରଜା ସପନ ।
ରାନି ତାଗେ ସୁତା ମାଲେ ହେଲାତ ଗୁଁଥା ।।
ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ…
The final refrain slipped into the air, curling between vehicles, signboards, and the warm evening light.
The moment Zoya’s song reached its end, something quietly extraordinary happened.
Zoya fell silent, yet she kept walking.
Then an old man in the crowd carried the song forward.
ଇ ଆଖି ଆସିଛେ କେତେ ସପନ,
ଏ ଜୀବର୍ ଧନ ଜୀବର୍ ଜୀବନ ଗଲା ରତନ ରେ ।
ହେ… ଇ ଆଖି ଆସିଛେ କେତେ ସପନ,
ଏ ଜୀବର୍ ଧନ ଜୀବର୍ ଜୀବନ ଗଲା ରତନ ରେ ।।
The crowd turned toward him.
Even Zoya, Sia, Isha, and Rhea slowly looked over.
Then another woman in the crowd joined in with the next verse.
ମନେ ମଲି ମହକନ ଗୋ,
ମନେ ମଲି ମହକନ,
ମନେ ମଲି ମହକନ ।
Again, every head turned toward her.
A nearby woman completed the line and continued the song.
ଆହା ମୋର୍ ଧନ କେଡ଼େ ମିଲନ, ଛନ ଛନ ହେସି ମନ।
ହାଏ..ଆହା ମୋର୍ ଧନ କେଡ଼େ ମିଲନ, ଛନ ଛନ ହେସି ମନ।।
A man at a tea stall paused mid-pour.
A cyclist slowed for half a second longer than necessary, then found himself nodding to the beat as though it were traffic law.
A group near the tea stall started tapping feet without noticing.
Someone in a shop doorway began clapping once… then twice… then just gave up pretending it was accidental.
ଦିହି ଖଞ୍ଜି ଗଲା ସାଙ୍ଗର୍ ସରିସା,
ଦିହି ଖଞ୍ଜି ଗଲା ସାଙ୍ଗର୍ ସରିସା ।
ଟୁହୁ ଟୁହୁ ମନେ କରେ ସୁରୁତା ।।
One by one, pedestrians unconsciously matched the rhythm.
Feet began tapping.
Heads bobbed.
Hands clapped in time.
Before anyone realized it, the entire roadside had become part of the song.
ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ ରଙ୍ଗବତୀ…
Even those who had no idea why they were smiling found themselves moving with the beat.
The lively melody had quietly swept through the crowd, turning an ordinary walk into a festival that lasted only a few moments.
No one had planned it.
No one had announced it.
Yet strangers who had never met were singing together as though they had rehearsed for years.
For a few fleeting moments, the busy streets of Shunyagarbha forgot they were streets.
They became a celebration.
Meanwhile…
At Urvashi’s estate, the warm evening felt quiet.
The sunlight bathed the estate in a soft golden glow, carefully painting every corner with warmth.
A gentle breeze wandered through the sprawling gardens, stirring the leaves just enough to set them whispering.
Urvashi’s mother was seated on a chair in the garden.
Behind her stood Shanti Lata.
Birds occasionally crossed the evening sky, their distant calls fading into the quiet.
The main gate opened slowly.
A white Toyota Fortuner rolled quietly through the estate’s front gate and followed the driveway toward the residence.
Its polished exterior caught the golden evening light, reflecting it in soft, warm hues as it glided to a gentle stop at the entrance.
High above the gardens, several small service drones glided silently along their routine patrols, their presence so ordinary that no one paid them any attention.
The driver’s door opened smoothly.
Urvashi’s father stepped out of the white Toyota Fortuner.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and looked across the tranquil estate.
The evening breeze gently brushed past him, carrying the fragrance of the gardens.
His eyes soon settled on Urvashi’s mother, who remained seated in the garden.
Behind her, Shanti Lata quietly observed his approach without saying a word.
As he drew closer, the gentle smile on his face slowly faded.
Urvashi’s mother remained seated, her gaze fixed on the gardens, yet it was clear she wasn’t truly looking at him.
Urvashi’s father stopped in front of her.
“Urvashi’s mother…
has something bad happened?
Why are you so upset?”
Urvashi’s mother didn’t reply.
He slowly shifted his gaze to Shanti Lata, silently seeking an explanation for his wife’s sorrow.
Yet all he found was the same sadness reflected in Shanti Lata’s eyes.
Urvashi’s father remained silent for a moment.
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
“Shanti Lata…” he said quietly.
“What happened?”
Shanti Lata hesitated.
Urvashi’s mother still did not speak.
The silence between them deepened.
He turned slightly toward his wife again, concern sharpening in his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said more firmly now.
“What is going on?”
Urvashi’s mother finally moved her gaze, but only slightly.
Her voice came out low, as if it had been held back for too long.
“Bhagavat…” she said softly, barely audible.
The name alone made the air feel heavier.
Urvashi’s father’s brows tightened slightly, confusion deepening rather than clarity forming.
“What about him?” he asked quickly.
Shanti Lata remained still behind Urvashi’s mother, her silence unusually sharp.
A distant bird crossed the evening sky, its call faint and fading, as if even sound did not wish to stay long in the garden.
His gaze moved between them again, searching their faces for a clear answer.
Shanti Lata finally opened her lips.
Her voice came, careful and fractured at the edges.
“Bhenei…
the thing is Bhagavat is injured.”
The word landed like a small crack in glass.
For a second, nothing moved.
Even the breeze seemed to hesitate mid-step.
“…Injured?” Urvashi’s father repeated, as if repeating it would make it a lie.
Shanti Lata gave a faint nod.
Urvashi’s mother’s eyes stayed lowered, but the tension in her shoulders spoke louder than any words she hadn’t said.
Urvashi’s father exhaled sharply.
“Injured how?” His voice sharpened now.
“Accident?
Attack?
What exactly happened?”
Shanti Lata didn’t answer immediately.
That silence itself answered too much.
His gaze hardened.
Then Shanti Lata spoke, each word carefully placed, like stepping over broken ground.
“We don’t know, Urvi brought him injured.”
The air went still again.
But this time, it wasn’t quiet.
It felt sealed.
Urvashi’s father’s expression changed.
Confusion collapsed into something far colder and heavier.
“And where is he now?”
Shanti Lata answered softly.
“Unconscious.
On his bed.”
*
*
*
Ekalavyaa was going to her house with her mother.
The road they were walking along was unusually quiet, as if even the usual noise of Shunyagarbha had stepped aside to let their footsteps pass.
Her mother walked slightly ahead, holding a small cloth bag close to her side.
Ekalavyaa followed just behind, matching her pace without speaking.
A soft evening wind brushed through the street, tugging lightly at their clothes and slipping between passing shadows.
Ekalavyaa glanced up at the beautiful evening sky.
Her mother didn’t look back, but her voice came gently after a while.
“Walk carefully… don’t drift off into your thoughts again.”
Ekalavyaa blinked, then gave a small nod.
“I’m not drifting,” she replied softly, though her tone betrayed the opposite.
Her mother let out a faint, knowing exhale.
They continued walking together, the rhythm of their steps syncing slowly, like two different silences learning how to move as one.
“Did you meet your Idol?” Her mother asked.
Ekalavyaa flinched slightly at the sudden direct question.
“Maa!
In Mahabharat, who were the ‘Greatest Archer’?” Ekalavyaa asked to her mother.
Her mother stopped walking.
Then turned toward Ekalavyaa.
But didn’t answer her question.
Ekalavyaa stopped as well, suddenly feeling awkward.
“Uh…
um…
No, I couldn’t meet my Idol.
I think she wasn’t at the university.”
Her mother remained silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on Ekalavyaa.
Not the kind of silence that forgets a question exists, but the kind that stores it away for later.
Her eyes studied Ekalavyaa with a calm, unreadable focus.
Then she spoke, gently but firmly.
“Her name?
And don’t say that you don’t even know her name yet.”
Ekalavyaa froze for a second.
The question didn’t feel loud, but it landed exactly where her thoughts had no defense.
“I… I know her,” she said quickly, then hesitated.
“I just… don’t know how to explain properly.”
Her mother didn’t move.
Not even a blink.
That calm stillness made the air feel slightly heavier, like the street itself had slowed down to listen.
Ekalavyaa swallowed.
“She… she’s someone from the university.
Everyone talks about her.
That’s why I called her my idol.”
A pause followed.
Then, softer, almost defensive:
“I didn’t mean anything strange.”
Her mother finally shifted her gaze away from her face and looked ahead again, continuing to walk.
Ekalavyaa hesitated before following.
For a few steps, only their footsteps spoke.
Then her mother’s voice came again, steady and quiet.
“People you admire are easy to name when they matter to you.”
Ekalavyaa looked up slightly.
Her mother continued.
“If you can’t say her name… then maybe she isn’t just admiration.”
The words didn’t accuse.
But they rearranged the air.
Ekalavyaa’s steps slowed for half a second.
“…I can say it,” she muttered.
“I just don’t think it is important right now.”
A faint pause followed.
Then, as though even the wind was waiting for the answer—
“What is her name?” Her mother asked again.
Ekalavyaa’s mouth opened.
Then closed again.
For a rare moment, the usually quick words inside her mind seemed to trip over each other like they had lost the map.
“I… her name is—”
She stopped.
Her gaze drifted sideways toward the half-lit road, as if the answer might be written somewhere between the streetlights and the moving shadows.
Her mother kept walking.
Not rushing her, not rescuing her.
Just waiting—
That waiting made it worse.
Ekalavyaa let out a small breath.
“It’s not that I forgot,” she said quietly.
“It’s just… I heard so many people call her different things.”
A pause.
Then, more quietly.
“Some call her by name.
Some just… call her Idol.”
Her fingers tightened and then loosened again.
“She doesn’t feel like one fixed thing to everyone.”
Her mother’s expression didn’t change, but her voice softened just a fraction.
“Still,” she said, “people you look up to always have a name you remember without effort.”
Ekalavyaa slowed again.
This time, she didn’t avoid the question.
She looked down, then spoke clearly.
“Meenakshi.”
The name didn’t echo loudly in the air.
It didn’t need to,
It simply settled.
Like a stone dropped into still water, the silence around it changed shape.
Ekalavyaa glanced up immediately after saying it, half expecting approval, half expecting correction.
But her mother didn’t react at first.
Not a smile.
Not surprise.
Not disappointment.
She just kept walking.
“Full name?” A direct question.
Ekalavyaa hesitated for a second.
“Meenakshi Pradhan.”
For a brief moment, the world seemed to pause.
Even the evening seemed to hold its breath, as if checking whether the answer was final or merely a stepping stone.
Evening isn’t just a time.
It’s when the world forgets to stay strict for a while.