Yami

Chapter 35, Banaras Kand

The saffron kiss of dawn paints the rippling Ganges as Vikram's car glides to a halt near the ancient ghats of Banaras. His brow furrows with unspoken tension as his gaze sweeps the awakening city.

"We need to be quick," he murmurs, his voice laced with urgency. "My family home isn't far."Butterflies erupt in my stomach, a kaleidoscope of trepidation and anticipation. Meeting Vikram's family, unraveling the threads of my own shrouded past—the prospect both thrills and terrifies me.

Stepping out of the car, we weave through a labyrinthine maze of narrow alleys. Rickshaws clatter by, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the muted tones of slumbering shops gradually coming alive. The air vibrates with the rhythmic clang of opening shutters and the melodious call to prayer, rising like a fragrant mist from hidden temples.Our path leads to a magnificent carved archway guarded by two stoic stone elephants. Vikram murmurs a barely audible phrase, and the heavy teak door swings open with a sigh, revealing a hidden courtyard. Lush mango trees, their branches adorned with emerald blossoms, cast dappled patterns on the sun-washed flagstones.

A stately haveli, its red sandstone glowing with the warm hues of the rising sun, emerges before us. Time seems to have etched its passage onto the weathered facade, each imperfection a testament to generations past. Vikram ascends the intricately carved steps, his hand resting gently on the small of my back, urging me forward. My heart thrums a frantic tattoo against my ribs.The rhythmic creak of an opening door announces our arrival. An elderly woman, her silver hair escaping its braid like moonlight spilling from a cloud, steps onto the balcony. Her eyes, the same captivating emerald as Vikram's, widen in surprise."Maa, Look who I've brought" Vikram says softly, his voice tinged with an emotion I can't quite decipher.The woman engulfs him in a fierce embrace, her frail frame belying the strength of her affection. Then, her gaze turns to me, sharp and assessing, like sunlight piercing through the dappled leaves. I fidget under her scrutiny, the weight of her unspoken questions a tangible presence."Yami, this is my mother, Rukmini," Vikram introduces me, his voice laced with a hint of trepidation. "Maa, she...""Yamini," Rukmini breathes, her voice thick with unshed tears. Her eyes, welling up like rain-fed pools, hold a universe of unspoken stories. Before I can react, she pulls me into a crushing hug, the scent of cardamom and القديمة (agariya) incense clinging to her saree.I stand frozen, shock rendering me speechless. How does she know my real name? A myriad of questions explodes within me, but only one bursts free from my trembling lips."You know me?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.Rukmini nods, a single tear tracing a glistening path down her cheek. "Like my own daughter," she rasps, her voice choked with emotion. "We all thought you were lost to us, forever. Only Vikram had a hope that you were alive my child and look it was true all this time."A hundred unanswered questions clamor for attention, but one rises above the din, urgent and insistent. "You know who I am! how?"Her voice thick with longing, a melody that resonated with a forgotten chord within me. "But first, come. Let the Ganga cleanse you. Join us for the morning aarti."The holy river, bathed in the golden caress of the rising sun, is more than just a cleansing of my skin. It feels like a baptism, washing away the layers of confusion and fear that have clung to me since my amnesia. As I emerge, Rukmini presents me with a simple yet elegant yellow saree, its fabric whispering tales of tradition. Tiny bindis, like jeweled tears, and delicate bangles adorn the cloth.My fingers, accustomed to the clinking ease of zippers, fumble with the unfamiliar folds of the saree. Self-consciousness gnaws at me as I try to drape the fabric, the steps a confusing dance of pleats and tucks. A soft chuckle breaks through my struggle, and Rukmini appears beside me, her touch as gentle as the morning breeze.With practiced ease, she guides my hands, transforming the saree into a graceful embrace against my skin. "Why wouldn't it fit?" she murmurs, her gaze lingering on the intricate blouse that seems to mold perfectly to my form. "It's yours, beti. you wore it the last time you were here."The words, cryptic yet strangely comforting. Mine? How could something so familiar be so utterly unknown? The questions coiled within me, multiplying with each passing moment.Rukmini, sensing the turmoil, takes me to aarti. The aarti is a symphony of light and chant, the rising sun painting the Ganges in celestial hues. Standing beside Rukmini, the rhythmic ebb and flow of the ritual seems to echo a forgotten pulse within me. And then, it is just us, Rukmini and I, in the serene dining room.She sits me down, her silver braid glinting like moonlight against the crimson silk saree. With practiced grace, she places steaming dishes before me, her movements reminiscent of a forgotten lullaby. As I bring a morsel to my lips, a memory flickers, a phantom sensation of warm hands feeding me soft morsels, humming a melody as sweet as honey. My mother. If she were here, wouldn't she feed me like this, her eyes brimming with the same soft affection?I look up, searching for a hint of my mother in Rukmini's face, but it is Vikram's features I find reflected there, softened by time and love. Where is Vikram and his family? The question hangs unspoken in the air, a void amidst the sudden intimacy.Rukmini, sensing my unspoken query, offers a faint smile. "They are attending to certain...matters," she says vaguely, her gaze flitting towards the closed windows. "Matters that pertain to your safety, beti."Her words, veiled as they are, ignite a spark of curiosity within me. My forgotten past seems to be not just a personal void but a tangled web of secrets that others are actively weaving. And amidst it all, Vikram stands as my anchor, his presence a reassuring constant in this shifting landscape of unknowns.As Rukmini finishes feeding me, a silent pact forms between us.It's evening, the unveiling of Vikram's family sheding light on his extraordinary lineage. His twin sisters, Ishu and Nishu, move with an air of captivating grace, their laughter laced with the subtle power of their intoxicating pheromones, their power. Vikram's father, a figure of stoic authority, speaks little, but the intricate mudras he forms hint at his mastery over powerful, arcane forces.