Durga's POV

I sat at the edge of the Ganga ghat, the water flowing. The moon light spreading on the silent river. Making it shine even more but my mind, It felt dark. Lost in something..

She... really died. My mother. And even now, the thought alone stole the breath from my lungs My so-called father-her husband-he hadn't cared. Not for her. Not for me. Not for anything that mattered.

I despise the word marriage if this is what it looks like. I despise men like him-arrogant, domineering, stuck in some twisted old-world mindset. A daughter is just... a waste to him. Only Mahadev can teach him how worthless such a mentality is... how meaningless his very existence.

He hated me before I even drew my first breath. Hated me without seeing me, without knowing me. And now... now I return that hatred. I hate him even though I don't know him. Don't even know his name. I refuse to carry his name. Not ever.

The name my mother gave me-my real identity-is mine and mine alone. I swear on Ganga Maiya... I will die defending it.

I remained seated, letting the cool breeze mix with the warmth of the sun, when a familiar presence landed beside me with a familiar nudge.

"Oye... yahan kya kar rahi hai?"
(Hey... what are you doing here?)

Manglu... Mangal Nath. My childhood best friend. Yes, a boy. And yes, a boy and a girl can be just friends. We already were.

I gave him a faint smile.

Describing Manglu is impossible-he's stubborn, loyal, infuriating... and unshakable. He stays beside me, even when I scold him. Even when I forget he's there. My partner-in-crime. My cover. My only confidant. The one who sees both the fire and the softness inside me.

He snorted in front of me. "Kya?? Ek seedha-saadha ladka samajh ke taad rahi hai?"
(What?? Thinking I'm staring at a simple, ordinary guy?)

"Chal bey... jhingur kahin ka... tujhse taadu? Amitabh Bachchan mar gaye kya?"
(Come on, you little pest... am I staring at you? Have Amitabh Bachchan died?) I shot back.

"Haan haan... ye sab chhod... tere college ke forms aa gaye... mai do le aaya."
(Yeah yeah... forget all that... your college forms have arrived... I brought two.)

"Do kyu? Mai ek insaan do baar form dalu?"
(Why two? Am I supposed to submit forms twice for one person?)

"Are pagal... tu jaayegi toh mai kahan akela rahunga?"
(Are you crazy... if you go, where will I stay all alone?)

"Abe mithai vaale... jaake mithaiyan bna... mera das nahi baitha hai."
(Hey sweet-seller... go make sweets... You aren't my servent.)

"Tu bole toh ban jau," he teased.
(I'll become it if you tell me to,) I glared, and for a brief moment the weight on my chest lifted, replaced by laughter.

AUTHOR'S POV

Morning Time.

With the rhythmic chant of ancient mantras, the flames of the sacred fire roared high, licking the darkened temple hall.
A man, sculpted like a warrior, placed ahuti into the fire with deliberate precision, each movement sharp, controlled, and edged with unspoken rage.

Around the fire pit, a group of elderly pandits intoned their prayers, their voices weaving a sacred tapestry, amplifying the auspiciousness of the pooja.

But him-Shivendra Chaudhary-he remained untouched by devotion. Muscles tensed under the morning light, sharp jawline shadowed by the flickering flames. His dark eyes reflected no reverence, no surrender-only cold calculation. The pooja was mere ritual; it held no meaning beyond formality.

When the ceremony concluded, he rose, hands folded, he met the gaze of Mahadev's idol head-on, unflinching. There was no gratitude in those eyes. He bore the name of Shiva, yet offered no homage.

A man entered, holding the dakshina. Without lowering his gaze or bowing, Shivendra placed it at the deity's feet and turned away, his steps heavy, resonant, each echo filling the hall with unspoken authority.

His aura was a tangible force-dominating, unyielding. His peoples simply followed him.

Suddenly, on the stairs of temple someone stumbled before him, collapsing at his feet. Shivendra's gaze pierced through the man, sharp enough to draw blood, yet he remained silent.

The trembling man clutched Shivendra's feet, voice choked with fear:
"Sahab... Meri jameen mat cheeno... maaf kardo hume..."
("Sir... please don't take my land... forgive us...")

Shivendra's dark eyes flicked toward his personal assistant, who stepped forward immediately, lifting the man gently but firmly.

The man continued, desperation clear in every word:
"Maaf kardo saheb... jameen na cheeno..."
("Please forgive us, sir... don't take the land...")

For a moment, Shivendra's gaze swept across the courtyard. The crowd watched in silence, anticipation etched in every face. As an elected leader, the MLA of Banaras, every eyes of Banaras were always on him. Any misstep, any hint of cruelty, could tarnish his image and cost him the trust of the people.

Then, a subtle curve touched his lips-a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Slowly, he reached down and grasped the man's folded hands in his.

"Bas itni si baat... jameen tumhari... hak hai tumhara... aur Vada raha... Shivendra Chaudhary me hote... koi Banaras ke ek insaan ka baal tak baak nahi karega..."

("Just a small matter... the land is yours... it is your right... and I promise... as long as Shivendra Chaudhary exists... no one in Banaras will harm a single hair on your head...")

A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd. Applause, hesitant at first, then louder, filled the courtyard. The man, who had fallen trembling moments ago, could barely hold back tears, clutching Shivendra's hand in gratitude:

"Aapka bahut aabhar, Chaudhary sahab..."
("I am immensely grateful, Mr. Chaudhary...")

Shivendra allowed a rare, genuine smile to play at his lips. Motioning to his aide, he handed some money to the man, signaling him to leave.

The courtyard buzzed with awe and respect, the image of Shivendra Chaudhary cemented as a man of both fear yet kund-a true ruler.

After he left, the murmurs of the crowd slowly faded, their attention shifting elsewhere. But Shivendra noticed. His gaze sharpened, cold and piercing.

"Ganga ji mein hath dhone hai hume... Kisi gareeb ko hath laga liya... Na jaane kis khandan ka ho..."

("I need to wash my hands in the Ganga... How dare the poor man touch me... God knows which family he belongs to...")

Without waiting for anyone, he strode toward the ghat. The world seemed to part for him. He didn't just wash his hands; deliberately, he stepped deeper, letting the sacred waters flow over his body.
Slowly, he immersed himself, head dipping under the river, the cool current brushing his skin.

And just a moment later, Durga emerged, her head breaking the surface. She smiled, the sunlight catching the tips of her wet hair, then dipped her hands into the river again.

And just after her, Shivendra lifted his head, closing his eyes to feel the warmth of the sun on his face. The golden rays made him feel superior... until a shadow fell across him.

He opened his eyes.

A woman's shadow. Long, thick hair cascading down her back, the kind of presence that didn't ask for attention-it demanded it.

His pride, unshakable until now, felt an unfamiliar prick. He had never known what it meant to exist in someone else's shadow. Today, that shadow belonged to a woman.

It should have stung. Should have ignited the fury in him, making him vow to destroy her for daring to appear in front of him. But today... he was lost.

Lost in the faint jingle of her earrings as she moved. Lost in the way her hands folded gently over her head. He stood frozen, observing her from behind, the world narrowing to the smallest details of her presence.

She finally turned to leave.

His brows lifted. Her face... the very definition of beauty. Her smile, radiant and effortless. Her eyes, dark and kohl-rimmed, drew him in as if gravity had changed its course. She was everything he didn't know he needed-but now couldn't ignore.

For Shivendra, the city of Banaras fell silent. Everyone disappeared from his vision. There was only her.

Unaware of the storm she had stirred inside him, Durga stepped out of the river, water dripping from her kurti, from her hair. She reached for a towel on the ghat stairs, drying herself, still smiling, still unaware of the chaos she had left in her wake.

Shivendra remained rooted, unable to tear his gaze away... until his personal assistant appeared, breaking the spell.

"Sahab... phone aaya hai."
("Sir... there's a phone call.")

He handed him a phone. Shivendra's eyes lingered on Durga for a heartbeat longer, before the world intruded once again.

He pressed the phone to his ear. The voice on the other end was low and hurried, threaded with urgency.

"Mister Chaudhary... aapne jo jameen chuni hai apni factory ke liye... wahan ke logo ko hatane ke liye humne gunde bheje the... aur koi unhe wahan se bhaga raha hai."

("Mister Chaudhary... the land you chose for your factory... we sent goons to evict the people there... but someone is driving them away.")

"Kaun?" he asked, clipped, the word cold.
("Who?")

"Koi... Durga naam se ladki hai."
("Someone... Durga.") He added.

"Durga..." Shivendra uttered.

The name left his lips like a thrown pebble - small, almost casual - and yet it carried weight.

At the first stair of the ghat, Durga paused, hearing her name. Her eyes searching for the source.
Finding no one looking her way, she shrugged it off and walked on, unaware of the storm it had already set in motion.

Shivendra cut the call. Water clung to his lashes as he pushed himself up from the river, muscles flexing.
His PA handed him a towel; he wrapped it around his shoulders with the same economy of movement he used in business: efficient, absolute.

"Ye contractor se puchun... kaun Durga? Pura naam batao uska. Kis ghar,kis khandan ki hai... hum bhi dekhein... kiske ghar ki beti Shivendra Chaudhary ke kaam ke beech aane ki himmat rakhti hai."

("Should I ask the contractor... who is this Durga? Tell me her full name. Which family she belongs to... we'll see... which family's daughter has the audacity to stand in Shivendra Chaudhary's way?")

"Sahab... Banaras mein ekhi Durga hai jo ye sab kar sakti hai... ladki nahi hai... aandhi hai... sab tabah karke jati hai."

("Sir... the Durga of Banaras... she is not just a girl... she's a storm... she destroys everything in her path.")

"Esi kaun hai... pura naam btao... baap ka naam btao."
("Who is she exactly... tell me her full name... her father's name.")

"Baap maa ka toh naam nahi malum... do buddho ke saath rehti hai... unhone hi use bachpan se paala hai... baaki anath hai... yahan tak najayaz kehte hai sheher use." The PA added more.

("We don't know her parents' names... she lives with two elderly people... they've raised her since childhood... otherwise she's called an orphan... the city even calls her illegitimate.")

The mention of her being not from any high society family drew Shiv's brow together.

"Kya? Kisi khandan ka naam nahi... aur aayi hai Shivendra Chaudhary se bhidne... bulwao use haveli... hum bhi dekhein... kaun si aurat Shivendra Chaudhary ke saamne tik paati hai." He spoke with Pride.  And just walked away.

("What? No family name... and she dares confront Shivendra Chaudhary... summon her to the haveli... I want to see for myself... which woman can stand before Shivendra Chaudhary?")

Meanwhile, after the bath in Ganga ji, Durga walked towards her house.
She had barely crossed the threshold of her narrow courtyard when Mangal came stumbling in, breathless.

Durga glanced up, the corner of her mouth already lifting in that easy, careless smile she wore like armour.

"Kahan ki khel jot kar aaya hai tu bail?"
("Where have you been, you ox-off ploughing some mischief?")

Mangal dropped onto the low step as if the weight of the world had finally found him. He tried to catch his breath before he spoke, every word tumbling out raw.

"Meri khet bhul ja... Teri fasal gayi beta..."
("Forget about my fields... your crop is ruined, child...")

Durga's smile faltered just a fraction-concern sharpening the edges of her face.

"Kya matlab??"
("What do you mean??")

Mangal's fingers trembled as he ran them through his hair. He looked at her, then past her, as though the news had a shape that needed room to breathe.

"Tujhe Shivendra Chaudhary ne bulwaya hai... Apni haveli..."
("Shivendra Chaudhary has summoned you... to his haveli...")

For a heartbeat the courtyard held its breath with them. The loose clay pot on the step seemed suddenly very loud. Kamal Ji and Kamala ji's pulse ticked in her throat. The word "Haveli" landed heavy-like a stone thrown into a still pond-sending ripples of danger and possibility in all directions.

"Vo kyun? Kuch kiya hai tune Durga??" Kamla ji asked concerned.

But Durga only shook her head. She sighed and looked at Mangal.
"MLA sahab ka nyota thukra toh nahi sakte..jaatein hain kal unse milne..Bahut suna hai,pehli baar aane saamne bhi ho jaaye aakhir.." she spoke proudly.
Too cool. Not even bothered hearing the name of man, Entire city feared about.

For her he was just a man.
Unknown of the fact that he is going to turn her world upside down.

How will be their first meeting? What new turns their fate will take?
What happens when a narrow minded man like Shivendra who cared about nothing but family's high name will cross path with Durga who refused to keep her father's name ever-the entire city calls her Najayaj.

What fluttered into Shiva's heart? Is he falling for Durga on the very first sight. Unknown she is only girl who can crash his ego?

To know more, join the new journey of Durga and Shiv only with Gauri.

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