“Smitha… Smitha…”
Her mother’s gentle voice called her back, nudging her softly into reality. Smitha blinked open her eyes slowly. She was greeted by her mother’s familiar, warm smile. She returned the smile, though her eyes felt heavy.

As her senses slowly settled, she glanced around the room. Empty bowls of ice cream littered the coffee table. Arjun and Ayisha sat slumped on the sofa, fast asleep—just as she must have been.

“Come, let’s talk over there,” her mom whispered, tiptoeing towards the dining table with cat-like grace. She beckoned Smitha to follow, careful not to wake the others. Smitha quietly stood and trailed after her, casting one last glance at her slumbering friends. As she walked, memories of the night’s events tugged at her mind.

“How are you feeling?” Meera asked softly, setting a familiar cup of hot chocolate in front of her daughter—a childhood favourite. Her voice remained low, gentle.

“I’m alright,” Smitha murmured, settling into the chair. She wrapped her fingers around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her hands. A sip later, she glanced up at her mother. Under the dim lights, Meera’s face seemed more worn than usual. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, deeper than Smitha had ever seen, as if she hadn’t slept in days.

Her mother, Meera, wasn’t one to tire easily. A historian by profession, she worked at the museum across town—just a short metro ride away. Even back when she juggled work and her post-graduation classes, Smitha couldn’t recall her ever looking this drained.

“Dad told me everything,” Meera began softly.

Before she could continue, Smitha cut in, her voice low but urgent. “Where’s Dad? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“He’s gone to the edge of the lake. I was about to—”

Meera’s sentence was broken by Smitha’s sharp gasp.
“Oh no!” Smitha exclaimed, instinctively clapping a hand over her mouth. She shot a worried glance at her friends. Thankfully, they only stirred slightly, still lost in sleep.

Meera reached out and gently placed her hand over Smitha’s. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ve already informed the police. Your dad hasn’t gone alone. I know you’re scared, but try to be brave.”

Her mother’s steady, soothing words settled the knot in Smitha’s chest. She nodded, exhaling slowly before taking another sip of her warm chocolate, focusing on its familiar comfort.

After a moment, Meera spoke again, drawing Smitha’s attention back.
“Your father called me about fifteen minutes ago,” she continued, keeping her voice calm. “Prakash Uncle wants you to visit the scene at the lake. He feels something about it doesn’t quite match what you described.”

Smitha’s eyes flicked briefly to her sleeping friends, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She pushed back her chair and stood. “Let’s go,” she said quietly.

“No dear, not yet. Sit down and finish your drink. There’s more I need to tell you,” Meera continued.

Smitha hesitated, then slowly sank back into her seat. “Something more?” she echoed, the sinking feeling creeping in. She could sense it—something her parents hadn’t told her yet. Something heavier. Something they’d been holding back.

“Have you ever wondered why we pushed you to learn martial arts from such a young age?” her mom asked gently. “Why, even when you felt like giving up, we insisted you continue? Why a family of academics would prioritise something so demanding, even if it meant compromising your studies?”

Smitha nodded slowly. It was a question she had carried in the back of her mind for years but never dared voice aloud. Her family had always emphasised academics—yet with her, there had been relentless pressure to excel physically too. On top of martial arts, she had been pushed to compete in track events and gymnastics. She’d often feared if she asked, they’d only pile on more expectations—more disciplines, more study, more perfection. So she had kept her curiosity buried.

Her mom’s next words, however, caught her completely off guard.

“When you were still a little baby inside me,” Meera began softly, “I received a prophecy. It told me to protect you… to prepare you for the hardships of the world. That’s why we chose this path for you.”

Smitha stared at her, mouth slightly open. “But… that could mean so many things! Preparing for the world could simply mean making sure I studied well, had a stable life…” she argued, her voice still hushed but edged with disbelief.

Meera shook her head. “Prophecies aren’t always given in words,” she said quietly. “Sometimes, they’re clear visions—unmistakable. In my vision, I saw you. Not as a child, but as a teenager. Strong and determined, your body full of life, practising your fighting skills with vigour. It was no ordinary dream.”

Smitha’s eyebrows furrowed, her rational side refusing to give in. “But… but… it could have been a dream! Only priests are supposed to have visions, not…” she trailed off, her tone rising slightly with exasperation.

“No, my dear. Listen to my story first,” her mom said firmly, leaving no room for doubt. “I felt the same way as you. But I did my research.” She paused briefly, her gaze softening. “You already know I carried a little divine energy within me… It’s gone now.” A faint sigh escaped her lips, tinged with sadness.

Smitha’s chest tightened. She could sense how hard her mother was trying, despite bearing the weight of losing her divinity. She had heard others describe it—like losing a part of your own body… maybe even worse.

Meera continued, her voice steady but low. “My father always told me to keep it a secret. That if others found out, someone might try to exploit me. I didn’t understand back then. But when I became a historian, I started digging deeper.”

She glanced at Smitha before continuing, “Divinity isn’t something inherited, like wealth or title. It’s given. Chosen. Those who carried it were once seen as prophets. They could choose their path—whether to serve in temples or live as they wished. Most chose the temple life.

But everything changed about a hundred years ago. Many young men from our land were sent to fight in World War I under the British Empire. Families had no choice. Most never returned.”

Smitha leaned in, listening as her mom’s tone turned sombre.

“The priests who remained behind consolidated their power. Without the returning generations, they passed down the priesthood within families, as if divinity could be inherited like a surname.”

Meera paused for a moment, letting the weight of the story settle before she spoke again.

“But time moved on. The truth faded. And yet… young children still kept being born with divine power—power far stronger than the priests’, whose abilities weakened generation after generation.” Her voice dropped. “But none of those children survived. They died mysteriously, never making it past adolescence.”

A chill ran down Smitha’s spine. “So…” her voice faltered, her mind piecing the implications together.

Her mother nodded gravely. “Yes. That’s why our family has kept it a secret. And why we must continue to.”

“Then… why did you receive such a prophecy about me? Do I have divine powers?” Smitha finally blurted, unable to bear the weight of unanswered questions.

Her mother shook her head gently. “No, my dear. You don’t possess divinity. But Ayisha does.” She glanced at the sleeping girl on the sofa. “She doesn’t know it herself—not yet. Though I suspect her mother might’ve told her by now.” Meera sighed softly. “When the two of you became close, we thought it was simply God’s will. But I still don’t fully understand the meaning behind my vision.”

Smitha’s gaze flickered between her mother and her friend. Her throat tightened, emotions swirling inside her like a storm. “I… I don’t know, Mom,” she whispered, her voice trembling on the verge of tears.

Without another word, Meera rose from her chair and pulled Smitha into a tight embrace, holding her daughter as though shielding her from the burdens of the world.

After a long pause, Smitha drew back, wiping her eyes. Her voice, though soft, held a quiet strength. “I’m fine now, Mom,” she murmured. “We’re part of God’s game now, whether we like it or not.”

There was a glimmer of something new in her eyes—a flicker of acceptance, of resolve. She knew she couldn’t run from this reality any longer. The sooner she faced it, the better.

“But Mom,” Smitha pressed as Meera sank back into the dining chair. “How did the temple priest receive the prophecy? He shouldn’t have any divinity, right?”

Meera sighed, resting her hands on the table. “I don’t know,” she admitted quietly. “Sometimes, strong visions ripple through the world so powerfully that they touch even those without divinity. It’s rare, but it happens. Maybe that’s why it was delivered to him as spoken words rather than a clear vision like mine.” She glanced at Smitha thoughtfully. “That’s my guess.”

Smitha nodded slowly, absorbing her mother’s explanation. The reality of their situation weighed heavily on her shoulders, but she understood—there was no escaping it now. “What do we do next?” she asked, her voice steadier this time.

“For now,” Meera said gently, offering her a small smile, “you finish your hot chocolate. Then we’ll head back to the lake’s edge. Your dad and Prakash Uncle are already there.”

She stood and walked quietly toward the sofa, casting a fond glance at the two friends still dozing. “I’ll wake up Arjun and Ayisha. I’ve made hot chocolate for everyone,” she added, her tone light but calm, as though grounding them all before the next steps.

— To be continued…