Enjoy another chapter hope u are liking it so far

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As they entered the wide stone pathway leading toward the auditorium complex, the faint hum of activity floated through the air—freshers chattering in uneven clusters, volunteers rushing past with clipboards tucked tightly to their chests, banners fluttering lazily in the warm Banaras breeze. Somewhere nearby, a microphone screeched briefly before settling into silence, followed by a laugh that echoed against old walls carrying decades of stories.

Vaibhav exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of his bag. His fingers fidgeted unconsciously with the zip, opening it slightly and closing it again, a nervous habit he had never quite managed to shake. He looked straight ahead, eyes fixed on the auditorium building as if staring any longer might calm the storm inside him.

“Bhai,” he said quietly, his voice low but loaded with everything he wasn’t saying out loud, “aaj bas ye performance achhe se ho jaye, bas.”

Shiv noticed immediately.

He stopped walking mid-step, the strap of his own bag sliding slightly off his shoulder. Turning toward Vaibhav, he placed a firm yet reassuring hand on his shoulder. The gesture was instinctive, practiced—something Shiv did without thinking whenever someone around him wavered. There was an easy confidence in his posture, the kind that didn’t need to be announced or exaggerated. It simply existed.

“Oh bhai,” Shiv said with a small laugh, shaking his head lightly, “tu itni badi-badi jagah par perform karta hai. Aaj toh ye new students hain—inke samne bhi kar hi lega, mere sher.”

Vaibhav looked at him, the tension still visible in the way his jaw tightened, but something softened in his eyes.

“Why are you stressing, haan?” Shiv continued, leaning in just a little, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret meant only for the two of them. “Aur jab thoda sa bhi darr lage man mein, tujhe pata hi hai kya kehna hai.”

Vaibhav’s lips curved into a small smile, the familiar calm slowly returning, like a wave settling after crashing too hard on the shore. Without another word, both of them spoke together, almost like a reflex learned over years—

“Namah Parvati Pataye, Har Har Mahadev.”

Their voices overlapped softly, grounding them both. The words felt heavier than language—more like an anchor.

Just then, one of their friends jogged up from behind, breathless and buzzing with energy.

“Hey, Vaibhav! Chal, jaldi. Setup bhi karna hai.”

He turned briefly toward Shiv.

“Aur Shiv, tujhe malum hai na—NN, tera anchoring hai. Toh seedha third-year fest club society ke president ke paas ja. Wo wait kar raha hai. Students bhi aana shuru ho jayenge.”

Shiv nodded once, already shifting gears mentally.

“Chal,” the friend said again, tugging Vaibhav along.

Vaibhav went with him toward the auditorium’s backstage entrance, the heavy doors already open, revealing cables sprawled across the floor, blinding lights being adjusted, and hurried silhouettes moving with purpose inside. Shiv watched him disappear for a second—just long enough to send a silent prayer his way—then turned in the opposite direction, heading toward the clubhouse community zone to collect the anchoring sheets from the club president.

At the same time, on the other side of the campus, Shakti and Vaidehi stepped through the massive BHU campus gate and instinctively slowed down, momentarily pausing as the scale of the place unfolded in front of them.

Tall trees lined the pathways like silent guardians. Old buildings stood with quiet authority, their walls carrying history in every crack. Freshers were scattered everywhere—some clicking pictures, some pretending to be confident, some already lost and too shy to admit it.

Shakti adjusted the strap of her bag, taking it all in. There was excitement, yes—but also a strange weight. Like standing at the edge of something vast.

As they took a few steps forward, a slightly flustered girl approached them, her eyes scanning around nervously.

“Hey… are you fresher?” she asked. “Actually, I’m kind of lost. Ye campus itna bada hai, main toh gum hi gayi hoon.”

She let out a long sigh before continuing, “I asked one girl—I think she was a senior. She just told me to go left and turn from there. Aur jab main unke bataye hue jagah pe pahunchi…”

She paused dramatically.

Shakti immediately made a serious face, eyebrows drawn together, leaning in slightly as if bracing for something intense.

The girl whispered, almost in disbelief, “You won’t believe where I reached.”

Vaidehi leaned in too, fully invested.

“I reached near the boys’ washroom gate,” the girl blurted out. “Bhai, ye seniors kaafi khatarnaak lag rahe the.”

For a split second there was silence.

And then all three of them burst out laughing.

The tension melted instantly, like ice under sunlight.

Wiping a tear of laughter, Vaidehi gestured ahead.

“Come, let’s go. The group has shared the route map of the auditorium.”

The girl looked embarrassed, scratching her head.

“Haan, kya hai na… maine bas notification dekha. Shayad map dekha hi nahi.”

Shakti smiled, already walking.

“Come on. Warna humein last seat milegi.”

They began moving toward the auditorium, blending into the steady flow of students.

After a few steps, the girl suddenly gasped.

“Oh bhaiii! Main toh batana hi bhool gayi.”

Shakti and Vaidehi stopped mid-way and turned together.

“Kya hua?” Vaidehi asked. “Kya bhool gayi?”

The girl looked genuinely alarmed.

“Arre, sabse zaruri… sabse important!”

Shakti frowned slightly.

“Kya? Kuch lana tha kya first day mein? Waise ID card toh abhi diye hi nahi hain.”

The girl waved her hand quickly.

“Nahi nahi, ID card nahi. Main toh mere naam ki baat kar rahi hoon.”

Both Shakti and Vaidehi froze for a second—then laughed.

“Ohhh yes!” Vaidehi said. “Your name!”

The girl smiled, finally relaxed.

“Hi, main Avika Mishra hoon—from Mirzapur.”

Shakti raised an eyebrow dramatically.

“Oh bhai, Mirzapur?” she said. “Tab toh tumse bach ke rehna hoga.”

Vaidehi jumped in mock-serious.

“Toh kya hua? Hum hain na. Gorakhpur ke Yogi ji ke rajya mein.”

All three laughed again.

Just then, a teacher approached briskly.

“Girls, what are you doing here? Go fast, or the gate will be closed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” they replied together.

Inside the auditorium, chaos had already settled into order. But the shock awaited them.

Every last seat—occupied.

A volunteer approached.

“Hey girls, front row mein jaake baitho. Wahi bacha hai.”

Avika panicked.

“But that’s for faculty!”

The volunteer pointed.

“Last three chairs. Baaki faculty ke liye.”

Avika groaned softly.

“Aree yaar… first day aur first row.  LKG se 12th tak to last bench pe hi rhi hu aur ye college ka first day hi first row aage kya hoga bholenaath hi jane. "

Vaidehi sighed.

“Chalo warna wo bhi nahi milega.”

They sat.

Moments later, a guy in a yellow kurta stepped onto the stage.

Vaidehi whispered, “Ye seniors itne handsome honge toh main padhungi kaise bhai.”

Shakti nudged her.

“Chup.”

And then—

Shiv stood at the podium.

The auditorium of Banaras Hindu University breathed like an ancient temple that morning.

The air carried the mixed fragrance of fresh marigold garlands, polished wooden floors, and that peculiar nervous excitement only a first day of college can create.

“Mai Shiv Dwivedi…”

His voice filled the hall.

“Namah Parvati Pataye, Har Har Mahadev!”

The chant rose.

Shakti pov

When I first heard the anchor’s voice, something inside me paused.

Not stopped—paused.

Like when you’re walking and suddenly hear a temple bell ring somewhere far away, and for one second, your breath forgets what it was doing.

It was… soothing.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

There was no forced excitement in it, no attempt to impress. Just calm. Steady. Almost… grounded.

The kind of voice that doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push you—just makes you listen.

I tried to look toward the stage, but a volunteer standing right in front of me blocked my view. I leaned a little to the left, then slightly to the right, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the face behind that voice. All I could see was the edge of a yellow kurta and the movement of someone shifting near the podium.

Before I could try again, the sitar performance began.

And just like that, my attention drifted.

The first note was slow—deep.

It didn’t just reach my ears; it settled somewhere inside my chest. Each string vibrated gently, as if it was loosening something knotted deep within me. Since morning, I had been carrying so much without realizing it—the unfamiliar campus, the weight of expectations, the quiet fear of starting over.

The music began undoing all of that.

I had heard about Vaibhav Tiwari on social media before—short clips, reels, comments full of praise. But seeing him live was different. There was discipline in the way he sat, devotion in the way his fingers moved, and humility in the way he bowed his head slightly toward the instrument, as if the sitar was guiding him, not the other way around.

I didn’t realize how still I had become until someone spoke beside us.

“One of you will join for lighting the diya.”

The words barely registered at first.

Before I could even process what was happening, Avika immediately shook her head.

“Noo, mai nahi.”

I turned slightly toward Vaidehi, hoping—almost pleading silently—that she would refuse too.

Instead, she smiled.

“Shakti jayegi.”

I blinked.

Me?

For a second, my mind went blank.

Then everything rushed in at once—people watching, the stage, the faculty sitting in the front row.

“Okk,” I heard myself say, even though I wasn’t entirely sure when I decided that.

As I stood up, my heart started beating faster. Not panic—just awareness. Somewhere inside, a small mischievous thought surfaced, quiet but clear.

Chalo… anchor ka chehra bhi dekh lenge.

Aakhir hai kaun yeh awaaz ka malik?

As I walked toward the stage, the lights felt brighter, the floor colder beneath my feet. I removed my shoes near the edge, careful at first, conscious of every step.

And then—

My foot slipped.

Just slightly. But enough.

For a split second, time froze.

My stomach dropped.

Bas. Ho gayi beizzati.

Pehle din hi.

Sabke saamne.

I braced myself for the fall.

But it never came.

A hand caught mine.

Firm.

Warm.

Protective.

Not rushed. Not panicked.

Just… there.

I gasped softly, more out of surprise than fear, and instinctively lifted my head.

And then—I saw him.

Shiv.

Everything else blurred.

The sitar.

The audience.

The lights.

All of it faded into the background.

His eyes weren’t dramatic. They didn’t widen in shock or soften exaggeratedly. They were steady. Calm. Like someone who knows exactly where he stands—within himself and in the world.

There was no rush in him, no awkwardness. Just quiet assurance.

My heartbeat didn’t stop.

It lost its rhythm.

Like it forgot the pattern it had been following all my life.

Dil ne bas itna kaha—ummm… umm.

I didn’t understand the feeling.

I still don’t.

It wasn’t excitement.

It wasn’t fear.

It was alignment.

Like something had slid into place without asking permission.

“Aap theek hain?” he asked.

His voice sounded the same as it had from the stage—calm, grounded—but closer now. Real.

I nodded quickly, realizing I was still holding his hand.

“Teachers are waiting,” he said gently.

He released my hand.

And the moment his fingers left mine, an inexplicable emptiness settled in—as if warmth had been withdrawn too soon. I felt strangely aware of the space where his hand had been, the air suddenly cooler.

I walked toward the Saraswati idol, aware of his presence behind me without looking back. The diya was placed carefully in my hands. With the chief guest and faculty beside me, I leaned forward and lit it.

The flame flickered softly.

Steady.

Alive.

Something about it felt familiar—like how I suddenly felt inside.

When I returned to my seat, my legs felt lighter and heavier at the same time.

Vaidehi leaned in immediately.

“Ohh girl,” she whispered, eyes sparkling, “I have something for you. I’ll give it to you when we return to the hostel.”

“Kya hai?” I asked, still trying to focus.

She just smiled.

“Surprise.”

Then, softer—“Focus on the performance.”

I tried.

I really did.

The rest of the program continued—faculty members spoke about discipline, opportunity, legacy. Words filled the hall. Applause came and went. Refreshments were served. Conversations bloomed politely.

But my mind kept returning to one thing.

A voice.

A hand.

A moment that lasted barely seconds but stayed longer than it should have.

As we finally walked out of the auditorium, sunlight spilling across the ancient pathways of BHU, I didn’t know it then.

But something had shifted.

Kashi had welcomed me.

And somewhere in its chaos and calm—

Shakti had unknowingly met Shiv.

Not as destiny yet.

But as a beginning.

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