Outside the temple gates, the air buzzed with urgency.
An ambulance stood parked nearby, its lights still blinking though the siren had long been silenced. A small medical team moved briskly among the shaken devotees—checking pulses, wrapping minor injuries, offering water and reassurance.
Bani Dadi sat on a low stone bench, a medic gently examining her wrist. Dust clung to the edge of her saree, her breath still uneven—but she was alive.
And deeply shaken.
Pranati stood a little distance away, holding her bag close, her injured ankle aching now that the adrenaline had worn off. She watched silently, ready to step in again if needed, though every muscle in her body begged her to sit.
When the medic finally nodded and stepped aside, Bani Dadi looked up.
Her gaze found Pranati immediately.
She rose slowly, ignoring the protest in her knees, and walked toward her.
"My child…" Bani Dadi said softly, her voice trembling—not from fear anymore, but from gratitude. She reached out and held Pranati's hands between her own. "If you hadn't been there… I don't even want to think what could have happened." Her eyes glistened. "May God bless you. May He always protect you."
Pranati looked startled, almost embarrassed.
"Oh—no, please," she said quickly, shaking her head. "It wasn't a big thing. Anyone would've done the same."
Bani Dadi smiled gently. "Not everyone runs toward danger."
Pranati shrugged, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "She reminded me of my grandma," she said simply. "If it were her… I'd hope someone would help her too."
Bani Dadi's hand tightened around hers, emotion pooling quietly in her eyes.
She lifted one hand and caressed Pranati's head affectionately. "What is your name, beta?"
"Pranati," she replied. Then, almost instinctively—habit overtaking emotion—she reached into her bag and pulled out a neat card. "I run a small home-delivery food service. If you ever need anything—meals, tiffins, special diets…" She smiled sheepishly and handed it over. "This is my card."
Bani Dadi looked at the card, then back at Pranati, a soft laugh escaping her. "Even after all this, you're still thinking about work?"
Pranati grinned. "Survival instinct. And rent."
Bani Dadi chuckled warmly, folding the card carefully and slipping it into her purse as though it were something precious.
Just then, Arnav approached.
The moment Bani Dadi saw him, her composure broke. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, clutching him tightly.
"My child…" she murmured, pressing her cheek against his shoulder.
Arnav held her firmly, his jaw tightening for a moment as relief finally found a place to settle. He closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself in the fact that she was safe.
Only then did he turn to Pranati.
He didn't rush his words.
Didn't dramatize them.
He simply met her eyes.
"Thank you," he said, his voice low, sincere. "For saving her."
Pranati waved it off again, uncomfortable with the weight being placed on her actions. "I didn't save anyone. I just… helped."
Arnav studied her for a second longer than necessary.
She didn't see herself as brave.
That, somehow, unsettled him more than anything else that had happened inside the temple.
Bani Dadi looked at the two of them—standing there, bound by a moment neither fully understood yet—and a strange, unnameable feeling stirred quietly in her heart.
She said nothing.
But her fingers curled protectively around the edge of her purse—around Pranati's card.
Pranati limped toward her scooter, every step careful, measured. The ankle throbbed now—sharp, persistent—no longer dulled by adrenaline. She reached the bike and steadied herself against the handle, taking a slow breath before attempting to swing her leg over.
"Wait."
Arnav's voice came from behind her.
She turned slightly, not fully facing him. "I'm fine," she said automatically, as if she'd been saying those words her whole life.
"You're not," Arnav replied evenly, his gaze dropping briefly to her ankle before returning to her face. "You shouldn't be riding like this."
Pranati exhaled, half amused, half tired. "I don't really have a choice. I can't leave my scooter here."
He studied her for a second, then nodded once—accepting the logic, if not the situation.
"Stay here," he said.
Before she could respond, he turned and walked back toward Bani Dadi.
She watched him go, curious but distracted, adjusting the strap of her bag and testing her weight again—wincing despite herself.
Arnav stopped beside his grandmother. "Driver ko call kar dijiye," he said quietly, placing the car keys into her hand. "He's nearby. He'll come."
Bani Dadi looked at the keys, then at him, immediately understanding. "You're not coming with me?"
"I'll drop her," Arnav said simply.
Bani Dadi followed his gaze to where Pranati stood beside her scooter, trying not to show how much pain she was in. A gentle smile touched the old woman's lips.
"Go and drop Pranati dear," she said, pressing the keys back into his palm for a moment before closing his fingers around them. "And drive safely."
Arnav hesitated only a second, then nodded.
As he turned to leave, he paused. "Dadi… what did you say her name was?"
Bani Dadi blinked, then smiled softly, as if amused by the question. "That sweet girl?" she said, pointing subtly toward Pranati. "Pranati."
Arnav followed the line of her finger.
So that's her name.
Pranati.
The name settled quietly in his mind—soft, steady, unexpected.
He nodded once, more to himself than to his grandmother, and walked back toward her.
Bani Dadi watched him go, her eyes lingering on the space between them, on the way fate had already begun weaving threads neither of them could yet see.