The evening sky over the Himachal hills was painted in soft shades of orange and purple, the cool mountain air carrying the faint scent of pine, dust, and incense. Inside a small, makeshift tent, Kridha, ten, sat cross-legged, staring at empty mud utensils. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but her mind was occupied with a heavier worry—how to feed her cousin Vrishti, who was eight, and keep both of them going for another day.

Vrishti tugged gently at Kridha’s skirt.

“Didi… chalo na… mata ki aarti ka samay ho raha hai.”

Kridha glanced at the bare pot, a pang of helplessness squeezing her chest. “Ha… chalo,”

she whispered, forcing a small smile. She rose, and together the two girls stepped into the cool Himachali evening, their bare feet stirring the dust along the narrow path.

They walked toward a sacred spot near a lake, where a neem tree stood, gnarled and wide-branched. Beneath it, someone had left a small photo of Maa Durga, garlanded with faded flowers. Behind the tree, the grand temple of Durga Mata rose, its golden idol gleaming inside, alive with the sounds of priests performing the main aarti. But near the tree, the world was calm and empty—perfect for the sisters’ daily ritual.

Kridha and Vrishti stood in front of the photo. Their hands came together, small palms pressed tightly in prayer. They clapped softly, murmuring words learned by heart over countless evenings, trusting that Maa Durga could hear even their quietest devotion. The neem leaves rustled in the wind, carrying the distant echoes of the temple bells, wrapping the girls in a cocoon of calm and faith.

As they finished, a soft, trembling sound reached their ears—the cry of a small child. Kridha’s eyes widened.

“Vrishti… sun na… ye awaaz kidhar se aa rahi hai?”

Following the sound, they reached the shadow of the temple steps. There, wrapped in a torn piece of cloth, sat a tiny girl no older than five. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her fists rubbed her eyes as she sobbed quietly.

Kridha knelt down, her heart aching.

“Arre… chhoti… tu yahan akeli kyun baithi hai?”

The girl only trembled and sobbed harder. Vrishti crouched beside her, instinctively wrapping a small arm around the child.

“Didi… lagta hai koi isse chod gaya hai… jaise kachra ki tarah,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

Kridha brushed the little girl’s hair back gently. “Rona mat… ab hum hain na. Naam kya hai tera?”

Through hiccups, the child whispered: “Aadhya.”

Kridha looked at Vrishti, then down at Aadhya. For a moment, silence fell, broken only by the distant toll of the temple bells. Three girls—Kridha (10), Vrishti (8), and Aadhya (5)—lost, hungry, and alone in the world, now bound together under the silent, watchful eyes of Maa Durga.

The name was like a prayer left behind by someone who had abandoned the blessing. Kridha looked at Vrishti, then at Aarvi. They were three girls with nothing—no parents, no money, no home beyond a torn tent. But at that moment, in the shadow of the temple bells, something unspoken bound them together.

Kridha (smiling faintly, holding both their hands):

“Chalo… ab hum teen hain. Tere liye bhi jagah hai hamare tent mein.”

For a moment, silence. The temple bells rang again, heavy and deep. Vrishti’s eyes welled up as she turned to her cousin.

“Didi… humne khud 2 din se kuch khaya nahi… isse kaise le jaayenge?”

Kridha looked down at Aadhya—her trembling shoulders, her frightened eyes—and then back at Vrishti.

Hunger was already burning inside her, but something stronger rose above it. She reached out, holding both girls’ hands. Her voice was firm though her lips trembled:

“Bhukh se zyada bada hai saath… aur ab hum teen hain.”

The three of them slowly turned their eyes upward. In the flickering glow of oil lamps, Maa Durga’s fierce yet compassionate figure loomed above them—eyes unblinking, trident shining, like a silent witness to their new bond. That night, under the watchful gaze of the goddess, three broken lives stitched themselves together.

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Thank You

— Author: Akshika Thakkar