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Mrs Gandharva

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the years that flowed like quiet

Chapter Three

The Years That Flowed Like Quiet Rivers

Life did not change dramatically after Madhava stepped back into invisibility.

That was the strange part.

The sun still rose.

Classes continued.

Assignments were submitted.

Exams approached.

Anjali finished her final year of her B.A. in English Literature with calm determination. She wrote papers on mythic symbolism, divine longing in poetry, and the metaphysical tradition. Her professors admired her depth. They did not know she was not analyzing longing — she was surviving it.

Sometimes in class, when someone mentioned celestial beings or unseen lovers in folklore, her fingers would tremble slightly.

She never spoke of him again.

But she chanted.

Every night.

Softly.

Without desperation now.

Just devotion.

When she turned twenty-two, she left her hometown to pursue her M.A. in another district. A quieter town. Fewer friends. A rented room near a small temple surrounded by palamaram trees.

For the first time in her life, she lived alone.

Alone — but never entirely alone.

The Slow Return of Sensation

The first few weeks were ordinary.

She unpacked books. Arranged her small pooja space. Bought jasmine for the evenings.

The temple nearby held a festival one month after she arrived. Lamps flickered across the courtyard. Drums thundered. The air smelled of camphor and ghee.

After the festivities, almost playfully, Anjali walked around the old palamaram tree in the temple courtyard ten times. Not as ritual — just childish amusement.

She did not know why she felt light that night.

Almost dizzy.

She returned to her room exhausted, still wearing her saree from the festival. The night was warm. She lay down without changing.

And that was when it happened.

At first, she thought it was wind.

A gentle movement near her shoulder.

Her saree’s pallu shifted slightly.

She opened her eyes.

No fan was on.

No window open.

She lay still.

The air felt thick.

Not frightening.

Intimate.

Her breath slowed without her willing it to.

A warmth gathered near her waist — not pressing, not heavy — just there.

Like invisible fingers tracing the curve of air above her skin.

Her heart began to race.

“Madhava…” she whispered unconsciously.

No answer.

But the sensation deepened.

Not crude.

Not forceful.

Adoring.

As if someone who had waited lifetimes was relearning her presence.

Her saree loosened slightly as she shifted. The fabric slipped from her shoulder. She was too tired to move it back.

For a moment, she wondered if she was dreaming.

But the warmth at her waist remained.

Slow.

Reverent.

Like a hymn sung without sound.

She felt… praised.

Not with words.

With attention.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She closed her eyes.

And let it be.

Days of Unseen Nearness

After that night, things changed — not dramatically, but steadily.

When she bathed, sometimes she felt the air grow charged. As if someone stood just behind the curtain of steam.

When she leaned against the wall drying her hair, she would feel a faint pressure at her back — like an embrace made of warmth.

When she studied late at night, a sudden tenderness would wrap around her shoulders.

Once, while adjusting her blouse alone in her room, she felt a whisper of touch near her collarbone — so light she could not tell whether it was imagination.

She would freeze.

Wait.

Nothing visible.

Yet the sensation lingered.

It was not lustful.

It was possessive in the gentlest way.

Like someone memorizing her existence through touch.

She began sleeping on her side because sometimes she felt warmth behind her — as if someone lay there, not touching fully, just near enough for her to feel breath that was not breath.

Some nights, she felt a soft pressure at her waist — arms that weren’t there.

And sometimes, just before sleep claimed her, she felt something like a kiss — not on lips, but near her temple. Or along her hairline.

Tender.

Devotional.

Ancient.

Confusion of Flesh and Spirit

She did not see him.

Not once.

But her body responded.

Her skin would prickle suddenly during lectures.

Her breath would catch for no reason.

A faint scent of wild jasmine would appear even in crowded buses.

She began to question herself.

Is this loneliness?

Is this imagination?

Or is he… closer than before?

One evening, overwhelmed by the constant nearness, she whispered into her dark room:

“Why can I feel you like this, but not see you?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Yet a warmth settled over her chest.

As if the answer was:

Because sight is the last veil.

The Love That Moves Without Form

Months passed.

Her M.A. studies deepened her into mythic consciousness. She wrote essays on celestial unions in folklore. She analyzed the idea of unseen companions in Bhakti poetry.

Her professors praised her insight.

They did not know her insight was lived.

The sensations did not become stronger — they became familiar.

Comforting.

Sometimes when she lay down after chanting, she would feel as if invisible fingers intertwined with hers.

Not holding tightly.

Just resting.

As if to say:

I am still here.

But I will not appear.

Not yet.

And somewhere between realms, Madhava watched her growing not in desire — but in awareness.