Chapter 7: The Temple of Secrets (India)

The morning in Varanasi was pierced by golden light filtering through the fog over the Ganges. John woke in the cramped guesthouse, his mind still buzzing from yesterday’s conversation with Ajay Rathod. The old man’s words — “Seize the moment in the moment” — echoed in his head like a mantra, mingling with the whisper of Shri Devi, whose eyes in the photograph haunted him. He stood by the window, gazing at the river that shimmered like liquid gold, feeling Varanasi slowly envelop him in its embrace. Today, he was to find the temple where, according to Ajay, Nalini continued Shri Devi’s work. But instead of excitement, John felt unease, as if each step brought him closer to a point of no return.

He gathered his things, tucking his grandfather’s notes into a worn leather bag, and headed to the ghats. Varanasi’s streets hummed with life: pilgrims chanted prayers, vendors shouted prices for incense and flowers, and temple bells rang, as if calling to something greater. John walked slowly, letting the city wrap around him. The scent of sandalwood and smoke mingled with the damp breath of the river, and he felt his thoughts grow clearer, though images of Lucy and Kate still flashed in his mind. Lucy, with her painful words and warm breath. Kate, with her shame and tenderness that made his heart race. He clenched his fists, trying to push those thoughts away. Today was not for them — today was for answers.

The temple Ajay had mentioned stood near Dashashwamedh Ghat, hidden in a narrow alley where sunlight barely pierced the shadows of ancient buildings. Its walls, covered in faded carvings of goddesses and symbols, seemed as old as centuries. John paused at the entrance, feeling the air grow heavier, as if imbued with something invisible. He stepped inside, and the coolness of the stone floor enveloped his feet, contrasting with the hot breath of the street. The interior smelled of jasmine and wax, with the faint chant of mantras echoing from deeper within.

A woman stood by the altar, lighting a lamp. Her movements were slow, almost ritualistic, her dark hair gathered in a tight braid that fell to her waist. She turned, and John’s breath caught. Nalini — it had to be her — was younger than he’d imagined, perhaps in her early thirties. Her eyes, dark and deep, reminded him of Shri Devi’s gaze in the photograph, but they held a cold restraint that made his heart tighten. She wore a simple navy sari with a delicate gold border that hugged her slender frame, accentuating every curve. Yet her posture, her gaze — everything radiated distance, as if she held an invisible wall between herself and the world.

“You are John Coplestone,” she said, her voice low with a slight accent that sounded like a melody, but cold as river water. It wasn’t a question but a statement, as if she knew he would come. “Ajay warned me.”

John nodded, feeling her gaze pierce through him, as if seeing straight into his soul. He wanted to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Nalini stepped closer, her steps silent, her sari rustling like a whisper. She stopped a step away, and John caught the faint scent of her incense — sandalwood with a hint of musk that stirred an odd warmth in him. Her eyes, unwavering, studied him, and in that gaze was something that set his skin ablaze — not overt seduction, but a subtle, almost elusive play that balanced on the edge of coldness and allure.

“You’ve come for your grandfather’s knowledge,” she continued, her voice steady but carrying a tone that made John hold his breath. “But are you ready for it?”

She turned and gestured for him to follow. John did, his heart beating faster. They passed through a narrow corridor, its walls adorned with carvings — dancing figures intertwined in ritual poses that reminded John of his grandfather’s notes on tantric rituals. The air grew thicker, as if charged with an energy he couldn’t explain. Nalini led him in silence, her posture impeccable, but every movement — the slight sway of her hips, the slow turn of her head — seemed deliberate, as if she knew the effect her presence had on him.

They stopped before heavy wooden doors adorned with intricate patterns. Nalini turned to him, her eyes glinting in the dim light.

“This is where Shri Devi shared her knowledge,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that made John’s blood pulse faster. “If you enter… you’d better be sure.”

John’s throat went dry. He recalled Ajay’s words about doors that cannot be closed and his grandfather’s letter warning of danger. But Nalini’s gaze, cold yet magnetic, held him like an invisible chain.
It felt as though she controlled him like a marionette, as if he would do anything she commanded.
She opened the doors, and John followed her inside.

The room was small, lit only by a few oil lamps casting soft shadows on walls covered in ancient symbols. In the center stood a low altar adorned with flowers and fabric, the air heavy with the scent of incense. Nalini gestured to a cushion by the altar, inviting him to sit. Her movements remained restrained, but every gesture — the way she adjusted her sari, the way her fingers brushed the edge of the fabric — felt like part of a ritual that left John feeling both alien and enthralled.

“This is a place of union,” she said, sitting across from him. Her eyes never left his, and in them was something that made his skin burn, though she made no overt move to close the distance. “Shri Devi believed that tantra is not merely physical but a path to the divine. But it requires readiness. Are you ready, John?”

She leaned slightly closer, and her sari slipped just enough to reveal her shoulder. It wasn’t intentional, but John’s breath quickened. Her voice, low and melodic, enveloped him like smoke, and he couldn’t tear his gaze from her eyes, which seemed to see his thoughts. He recalled his grandfather’s notes about rituals uniting body and soul, and felt his own body respond to her presence, despite her coolness.

“What is this ritual?” he asked, his voice hoarse, as if wrestling with himself.

Nalini smiled, but her smile was enigmatic, as if she knew something he didn’t understand.

“A ritual with Shri Devi’s spirit,” she replied, her voice softer, almost a whisper. “She left a part of herself in this place. Through the ritual, you can touch her knowledge. But it requires openness… and courage.”

She rose, her movements fluid like a dance, and approached the altar. Her fingers brushed the flowers, and John noticed her wrist, adorned with a delicate bracelet, glinting in the lamplight. She lit another lamp, and the scent of incense grew heavier, filling the room. John felt his thoughts dissolve like smoke, and images of Lucy and Kate flashed in his mind, but now they seemed distant, like shadows. Nalini returned to him, her eyes gleaming, and she extended her hand, not touching him, but the gesture was like an invitation.

“Sit closer,” she said, her voice like a spell. “The ritual begins with breath. Feel yourself. Feel her.”

John obediently moved closer, feeling the air between them vibrate. Nalini began chanting a mantra, her voice low and hypnotic, and John felt his body relax yet burn with her presence. She didn’t touch him, but her gaze, her voice, her aura — it was like a touch that pierced him to the bone. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, but Shri Devi’s image flashed before him, as if she were truly in the room.

Suddenly, Nalini stopped. Her voice cut off, and John opened his eyes. She was staring at him, her face impassive, but a shadow flickered in her eyes — worry or warning.

“Do you feel her?” she asked, her voice cold but carrying a tone that made his heart race. “Shri Devi is near. But she won’t reveal herself unless you’re ready to let go of everything holding you back.”

John’s thoughts returned to Lucy and Kate. Their faces, their touches, their words. He recalled Ajay’s words: “What can you live with?” Nalini watched him, her cold restraint mixed with an elusive allure that left him feeling lost. He was on the threshold of a ritual, of knowledge that had frightened his grandfather. Was he ready?

She rose, her sari rustling, and pointed to the altar.

“Lie down,” she said, her voice quiet but commanding. “The ritual requires full immersion.”

John’s heart tightened. He lay on the fabric by the altar, feeling the coolness of the floor through the thin material. Nalini stood over him, her silhouette almost unreal in the lamplight. She began chanting again, her voice filling the room like a wave. John closed his eyes, feeling her presence, her voice, her aura pull him into something deeper, something he couldn’t explain. But somewhere in the depths of his mind, his grandfather’s words still echoed: “Be careful.”