Meanwhile, the next morning.
Sunlight slipped through the thin curtains of the small room, landing softly across Pranati's face. She stirred, stretching lazily, then let out a wide, unrestrained yawn.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Then frowned.
She sat up slowly.
"…Wait."
Her eyes darted around the room as if expecting something to jump out at her. Nothing did. No collapsing walls. No falling debris. No suffocating fear clawing at her chest.
A slow smile crept onto her lips.
She turned slightly, addressing an unseen audience with mock seriousness.
"Can you believe this? For the first time ever, I—Pranati Kaur—woke up without a nightmare."
She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Or is it called a morning mare? Because they usually come in the morning."
She waved the thought away. "Whatever."
She glanced instinctively toward the small framed image of Lord Shiva near her bed.
Her expression softened, losing its playfulness for just a second.
"Looks like you finally listened," she said gently. "On Maha Shivratri of all days." She placed her palms together briefly.
"Thank you for taking away the bad dreams. Best gift ever."
Swinging her legs off the bed, she stood up, rolling her shoulders, energy returning to her voice. "Alright then," she declared, clapping once.
"No nightmares, no fear, no drama."
She grinned at her reflection in the mirror.
"Let's make this day a blast."
Outside, the morning carried an unfamiliar stillness—calm before something vast began to stir.
Pranati stepped out of the room dressed in a flowing golden lehenga, tiny floral motifs catching the light with every movement. Her hair was left loose, cascading down her back, swaying gently as she walked. There was something unburdened about her today — lighter, freer — as if the weight of her dreams had loosened its grip.
Outside, the chawl courtyard had transformed.
Oil lamps flickered along the edges. Marigold garlands framed a modest yet radiant Lord Shiva idol, ash-smeared, serene, eternal. The air hummed with bells, incense, and quiet devotion.
Siya and the other girls gathered around her, smiles wide. Together, they took their positions.
The first beat of the damru echoed.
Their feet struck the ground in unison as the chant rose.
"Om Namah Shivaya."
Not shouted.
Not rushed.
Spoken like a surrender.
Pranati's hands folded briefly in prayer before unfurling into motion.
As the dance began, the stotram flowed from their lips.
"Jatatavigalajjala pravahapavitasthale…"
Pranati lifted her arms, wrists fluid, tracing the image of water pouring from tangled locks —
the sacred Ganga flowing from Shiva's matted hair,purifying the earth.
Her movements softened,reverent, as if she herself were that stream.
"Galeavalambya lambitam bhujangatungamalikam…"
She turned, fingers curling gracefully, mimicking the serpent coiled around Shiva's neck —
symbol of fear conquered,of death worn as an ornament.
The rhythm deepened.
"Damad damad damaddama ninadavadamarvayam…"
Their feet struck harder now, anklets ringing —
the cosmic beat of the damru,the sound from which creation itself was born.
Pranati spun,her lehenga flaring like fire caught in motion.
"Chakara chandtandavam tanotu nah shivah shivam."
The Tandava — fierce, divine, destructive yet protective —
may Shiva's dance bless us with auspiciousness.
Her face changed here.
No smile.
Only intensity.
The next verse rose like a storm.
"Jata kata hasambhrama bhramanilimpanirjhari…"
Her hair whipped around as she turned sharply —
the wild energy of Shiva's locks,alive with celestial force.
"Dhagadhagadhagajjva lalalata pattapavake…"
She struck the air with her palm —
the fire blazing on Shiva's forehead,burning ignorance itself.
Yet her eyes remained calm.
"Kishora chandrashekhare ratih pratikshanam mama."
Her movements softened again —
the crescent moon resting gently on Shiva's head,a reminder of balance.
The courtyard fell silent except for the chant.
"Dharadharendranandini vilasabandhubandhura…"
Pranati's hands shaped the mountains, then the river —
Shiva as the eternal companion of nature,beloved of the Ganga.
"Krupakatakshadhorani nirudhadurdharapadi…"
She lowered her gaze, palms open —
seeking his compassion,his glance of grace that removes even the hardest obstacles.
A flicker of pain crossed her face as her injured ankle protested— but she did not stop.
She adjusted.Flowed. Continued.
"Kvachidigambare manovinodametuvastuni."
Bare, unadorned, beyond illusion —
Shiva as the one who frees the mind from attachment.
The final verse carried awe.
"Jata bhujangapingala sphuratphanamaniprabha…"
Her fingers rippled like living serpents —
their jeweled hoods glowing with power.
"Kadambakunkuma dravapralipta digvadhumukhe…"
She traced color through the air —
the universe itself painted by his presence.
"Mano vinodamadbhutam bibhartu bhutabhartari."
And finally, she stilled.
May the Lord of all beings,the bearer of wonders, reside in our hearts.
As the last syllable faded, Pranati brought her palms together, breath uneven, eyes lifted to the idol of Shiva.
For a moment — just a moment — it felt as though the idol watched back.
Not as stone.
But as witness.
Unaware to her…
She had danced not just in devotion.
But in alignment.