The Silent Festival

The village square was under the moonlight at its fullest, softening the edges of mud-brick homes and bathing the assembled gathering in silver. Mannn stood at the edge of the gathering, a tangle of awe and unease in his heart, as the Silent Festival got under way at dusk-older than the village itself-as a ritual to honor the unseen spirits of the grove. No invitation was sent for him; he was an outsider-a wanderer with no claim in their traditions-but a villager's quiet nod had drawn him in, and the grove's indelible pull since the dream of fire and flute would not let him stay away. The locket hung heavy against his chest, a shadow memory of Lila clinging to him-more sharply, for now the lotus petals were folded into his cloth, their faint sweetness a reminder of her; divine woman whose touch still burned in his dreams.

The crowd was silent, their serene faces turned to the center of the square, where the low platform cloaked in marigold and sandalwood stood. No drums, no chants, no voices broke the silence as the power of the festivity lay in stillness-a communion with the divine through presence alone. Mannn shifted, his bare feet scuffing the earth. Out of place, he felt himself. A man who had all noise within-too much grief, too much longing, and even the echo of his own shouted demands, everything came crashing back to him in that moment before the grove. Yet he stayed, drawn by the same instinct that had led him to the river, to the unstruck bell, to the petals on his mat.

A priestess ascended the platform, her white sari shinning in the moonlight, movements slow and deliberate. She held a brass lamp in which flame flickered quite steady defying the mild breeze. The crowd parted the way before her forms circle, and by some unseen compulsion, Mannn found himself moving forward, rather guided by invisible hands. He joined the circle still with that half-hesitating breath, aware of the subtle eyes of the villagers-some curious, some reserved. He was stranger loitering in the grove, who didn't bother anybody about his dreams, and whose neck bore a locket like a wound. The priestess raised the lamp, and then silence deepened, a creature that pressed against the skin of Mannn, urging him to be still.

With a gesture, the ritual began: the priestess circled the lamp three times, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. The villagers echoed her movements, raising their hands in unison, palms open to the sky. Mannn hesitated and then raised his trembling hands in supplication. It grew warm, thick air with familiar presence-hers-now the divine woman, even as he could not see her. His pulse raced, and he scanned the milling throng through shadows and beyond the grove to the other side of the square. Nothing. Only the moon, the flame of the lamp, the silent devotion of the village.

And then the beginning of his being blood against palms, light as a feather, which should lay him burningly. His fingers twitched, and he turned as one expects to greet a villager too close. But no one stands beside him. The touch came again-tender, her fingers grazing his, soft but electric-and lit a fire in his veins. Mannn's breath stopped in his notes, his eyes flicked. Demon here, under no veil, whose melody parades about in the silence. The fire would not burn-the fire was holy, warmth like love, like divinity, like home. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation anchor him, and for a moment, the world was only her touch, her nearness, her unspoken promise.

The priestess put down the lamp, and the crowd began to move, forming a procession toward the grove. Mannn went after her. He was oblivious to all this; the aliveness of his hand still tingled where she had touched him. The people drifted along in silence, soft-footed on the earth, peaceful faces, which Mannn envied. He wanted that peace, craved it, but his heart was a storm. Her touch, Lila's memory, the lotus petals, the dream of Krishna and Shiva, made him unworthy of this ritual, this village, this goddess who seemed to choose him. The size of his failures loomed large: the nights he wept instead of praying, the days he wandered instead of rebuilding, the love lost because he hadn't been enough to save Lila.

The procession reached the grove where the banyan trees stood guard, tracing paths with their roots in the moonlight. The priestess suddenly came to a halt at a clearing where a small altar held offerings of rice, flowers, and ghee. The villagers knelt, and so did Mannn, sinking into the cool earth. Silence now was absolute; the grove itself was breathless. He felt her again, not touch but presence-as though she stood just behind him, her breath warm on his neck. The skin prickled, and he struggled with the impulse to turn, worried she would disappear, worried she wasn't there to begin with.

The silence was shattered by a child's gasp. Shrill and piercing, the sound opened Mannn's eyes wide; he followed the sound. A girl not older than seven stood a few paces away, eyes wide open, looking at him, or rather at a space next to him. A small hand pointed, shaking with trepidation, less a finger and more a lance through the air. "The lady," she hissed. The villagers began to stir from their calmness, but no one else seemed to have witnessed the same thing. The priestess approached the girl, her visage collected yet curious, kneeling down to listen. The girl spoke softly, intently. "She is there with him. The lady in the light."

Mannn's heart jolted. He turned and scanned the air beside him, seeing only shadows and moonlight. The villagers' gazes switched to him, some in awe, the others in suspicion. The girl's words floated in the air, a truth which he remotely felt but was unable to justify. She had seen her, the divine woman, standing by his side, visible and real only to an innocent gaze of a child. It was a realization, a gift, a burden: confirming her presence yet darkening her mystery even more. Why him? Why now? Here he was, a man broken by loss, almost an unworthy one to receive her attention. 

The priestess led the girl back to her mom, cooing gently; the ritual resumed, yet the silence now felt fragile. On his knees again, Mannn clenched his fists. His mind whirled with doubts and wonder. The child's vision burned in him, that spark of something divine he could not ignore. But with it came the old familiar ache—he was unworthy, he had failed. Lila had died because I could not save her, because my love had not been enough. I had failed to protect her, failed to keep our promises, failed to be the man she had believed in. And now this grove, this goddess, seemed to be asking for more than I could give.

The priestess's scattering of flower petals over the altar marked the end of the ritual, the fragrance of the blossoms drifting away, like a prayer. The villagers stood and began to walk away towards the village, soft-eyed and reverent, their feet scarcely heard on the forest path. Mannn remained, unable to stir, his knees still pressed to the ground. The grove was quiet once again, but she remained-a light warmth in the air and a whisper in his blood. He traced where she had touched him with his hand, the sensation still clear, and a shiver ran down his spine. It was sensual but more-that it was sacred-if this connection was destiny, then it terrified him.

He stood, his legs trembling, and crossed to the altar. The offerings lay silver in the moonlight-simple but heavy with village faith. Mannn had no offering to give, only a heart-greatly wounded and weary. He thought of Lila; of her laughter, her gentle hands, and the guilt heaped upon him once more. Was desiring this pull, this holy fire, a betrayal of her? Or was the divine woman a bridge to something far greater: a love beyond loss? He did not know, and not-knowing was the wound. 

A rustle behind made him look over his shoulder, but it had just been the wind stirring the banyan leaves. He pictured her there, her crimson sari shimmering in moonlight, eyes locked with his. The child's chant echoed- the lady in the light- and Mannn's chest tightened. Both the living and dead had haunted him, with Lila and himself, the worth-a-man mourned. He wanted to be worthy of this moment, this grove, this woman who could see him when even he could not. But smothering over him was a dark doubt he could not shake. 

With the break of dawn past the horizon, a rose with pink and gold, Mannn would return to the village. The square was empty now, the evening's magic quickly fading. Mannn sat by his mat, his locket in one hand, the lotus petals next to it. He brushed his fingers along the edges of the petals; soft against the hardness of his thoughts. The child's vision was a gift but a challenge: a summons to embrace his unworthiness and forge ahead regardless. He did not know if he could, but the grove, the goddess, seemed to believe he could. 

The day dawned, the village springing to life-chiddren chattered and laughed, women tottered with pots of water, and the men attended the fields. Mannn watched, an outsider yet bound to this place, to her. The locket was heavy, a memory of Lila tethering him, but the petals were light, a promise of something new. He closed his eyes, her touch still burning in his hand, and whispered a prayer, not for answers but for courage. The grove was silent, but Mannn felt her, a presence that would guide him, haunt him, love him until he was ready to comprehend.