Chapter 10 (Where the Flame Meets the Wind)
The divine echo of the conch still lingered in the air as Gopika turned slowly, her tear-streaked face lifting toward the sound of the heavy doors creaking open. Her breath caught.
Framed in the temple’s doorway stood a regal woman—Mithila Modi.
She was draped in a flowing red silk saree, her hair tied in a neat bun. Traditional jewelry adorned her neck and ears, and a large crimson bindi marked her forehead—a seal of strength and grace. Her very presence radiated warmth and quiet authority.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other—Gopika trembling in silence, Mithila composed and smiling, though her eyes held a knowing depth that pierced through Gopika’s grief.
Mithila stepped forward with unhurried grace. She approached the idol of Kanha, folded her hands, closed her eyes, and offered a silent prayer. Gopika stood frozen—unsure, ashamed, and yet inexplicably drawn to this woman who seemed to belong to both this world and something beyond it.
When the prayer ended, Mithila turned and greeted her with a soft smile.
“Gopika?” she said gently.
Gopika blinked, startled. “Ji…?”
“You must be wondering who I am,” Mithila said, her voice calm and comforting, like a prayer whispered at dawn. “I’m Mithila Modi—Saksham’s badi maa. And yours, if you’ll allow me. You can call me Maaji.”
Gopika’s breath hitched. “You... know me?”
“I know enough,” Mithila said kindly. “About your silence, your strength, your guilt… and your goodness. I’ve watched over this house even in my absence. And I know you’re caught in a storm where doing the right thing feels like betrayal.”
The words sent a chill down Gopika’s spine. Her lips parted in disbelief. “But... how? I don’t understand…”
Mithila raised a gentle hand. “You don’t have to. Not yet. What matters is—you’re not alone in this pain. I came here for a reason. Because today, Kanha didn’t just hear your cries. He answered.”
Gopika looked at her, dazed, the emotional wreckage within her barely held together.
“Why would He send you to me?” she asked.
Mithila stepped closer, her voice steady, her eyes like the calm before a storm.
“Because sometimes, Kanha sends guidance not through miracles—but through people. Just as He did with Arjun in the Mahabharata.”
Gopika looked down. “But I’m no Arjun. I’m not brave.”
“You are,” Mithila said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You just don’t know it yet. But I do. I’ve seen it—in the way you endure, in the way you love, even in the way you break.”
Her voice was calm but unwavering.
“Come,” she said, guiding Gopika toward the sanctum. “Sit with me.”
Still stunned, Gopika obeyed.
They sat side by side on the cool marble floor. Mithila didn’t ask for details. She didn’t need to. Gopika’s trembling hands, her lowered eyes, her broken posture—everything had already spoken.
“You feel betrayed,” Mithila said softly. “By the one you trusted… and by the one you worship.”
Gopika nodded. Her voice had deserted her.
“I once stood here like you. Angry. Lost. Telling Kanha I would never trust again,” Mithila said, her gaze fixed on the idol. “And do you know what He showed me?”
Gopika looked up, her eyes wide with the kind of curiosity that only rises from pain.
“That life isn’t always about protection,” Mithila continued. “Sometimes, it’s about awakening.”
She turned to Gopika. “You’re not a helpless girl waiting to be saved. You’re a woman whose heart still beats—even after breaking. That’s not weakness. That’s strength.”
Gopika’s voice cracked. “But I feel like a fool. I thought he loved me. I thought I mattered.”
“You did,” Mithila said gently. “And you still do. But not everyone who sees your light is meant to hold it. Some are only there to reflect it—so you can finally see it yourself.”
The weight of those words sank into Gopika’s chest.
“Why are you being kind to me?” she asked. “Why not blame me like I blame myself?”
“Because I see someone standing at the edge of her dharma,” Mithila said, her voice strong yet tender. “Just like Arjun once did on the battlefield. And like Krishna guided him, let me guide you. Don’t let fear or guilt cloud your duty to truth.”
A hush fell over the temple. Gopika stared at her, stunned—not just by her knowledge, but by her unwavering steadiness.
“You remind me of Arjun,” Mithila said again, softer this time.
Gopika frowned slightly. “You already said that.”
Mithila smiled. “Yes. Because sometimes, we need to hear it more than once to believe it.”
Gopika looked down, her voice a whisper. “And what did Krishna do for Arjun?”
“He guided him,” Mithila replied. “He didn’t remove the war or erase the betrayal. He showed Arjun his strength—his dharma.”
Gopika swallowed. “And what is mine?”
“To rise,” Mithila said. “Not to prove anything to others, but to yourself. You are not less because you were deceived. You are more because you dared to love, to trust, to feel.”
“I don’t know how to start,” Gopika admitted.
“You already have,” Mithila said with a soft smile.
She placed a hand over Gopika’s heart. “Let this hurt forge you—not undo you.”
The diya between them flickered again—its flame rising taller, as if the divine itself responded.
Mithila stood and offered her hand. “Come. Let’s wipe the tears, straighten the spine, and walk forward—not as someone waiting to be chosen... but as someone who already knows her worth.”
With a deep breath, Gopika placed her hand in Mithila’s. The moment their fingers touched, something shifted.
The weight on her chest lifted. Her steps steadied.
And for the first time in days, she felt herself rising—not just to stand, but to become.
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To be continued.
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