SHE WHO ASCENDS

SHE WAKES

The sky was split by thunder.

For five days and nights, Adyaa remained missing. Tara barely slept. Search parties combed through fields, temples, and riverbanks. The village buzzed with whispers—some said Adyaa had eloped, others hinted at something darker.

On the sixth day, the rain stopped.

Tara noticed something others didn’t: faint threads of red across the grass near the old cremation ground. It led her through the forest, into the hollow beneath an abandoned British watchtower.

There, in a nest of mud and broken stone, she found her sister.

Adyaa lay curled in on herself, bruised and bleeding, her body bare, her soul shattered. Her eyes were open, but they saw nothing.

Tara wrapped her shawl around her and carried her home, whispering over and over, “I’VE GOT YOU. I’VE GOT YOU.”

At the hospital, the doctors confirmed the nightmare. Adyaa had been r***d. Multiple times.

The truth emerged quickly: Four boys. Locals. All from well-known families.

But one name chilled the room—Aman Thakur. Son of MLA Harish Thakur, the most powerful man in the district.

Tara thought the arrests would follow immediately.

But instead, silence.

The police promised they were “investigating.” They said things like “WE NEED SOLID EVIDENCE,” and “WE DON’T WANT TO CAUSE UNNECESSARY PANIC.” The station head even dared to say, “BOYS MAKE MISTAKES.”

The case stalled. Witnesses changed their statements. Files “went missing.” Even the doctor who signed the report received a sudden transfer.

Tara knew exactly what was happening.

They were protecting him.

Protecting all of them.

One night, as her father wept outside and Adyaa lay mute in bed, Tara walked barefoot to the temple of Maa Kali. Midnight cloaked the village in silence. Even the dogs did not bark.

The priest tried to stop her. “CHILD, THE TEMPLE IS CLOSED—”

But Tara did not stop.

She stepped into the sanctum, soaked in rain, eyes burning.

Before the fierce statue of Maa Kali, tongue red, necklace of skulls hanging heavy, Tara knelt.

“I BEGGED THE LAW,” she whispered. “I BEGGED THE MEN IN UNIFORM. I BEGGED THE MEN IN POWER. NONE OF THEM HEARD ME.”

She looked up.

“BUT YOU HEAR ME, DON’T YOU, MA?”

The diya flickered violently.

“YOU ARE THE ONE WHO SWALLOWED DEMONS. YOU WEAR THEIR HEADS AROUND YOUR NECK. YOU ARE NOT GENTLE. YOU ARE FIRE. GIVE ME YOUR FIRE, MA.”

Her voice rose.

“GIVE ME YOUR STRENGTH. NOT TO CRY. NOT TO FORGIVE. BUT TO PUNISH. TO DESTROY THE ONES WHO TORE HER APART AND WALKED AWAY LAUGHING.”

The bells rang above her head—unmoved by wind or hand.

Tara stood. She dipped her fingers into the vermilion at the goddess’s feet and smeared it across her forehead in a bold red s***h.

“I TAKE YOUR AASHIRVAAD,” she whispered. “NOT FOR PEACE. BUT FOR VENGEANCE.”

Outside, thunder cracked.

Inside, the flame flared blue.

And in the stillness, Tara heard something deep in her bones:

“GO, MY DAUGHTER. BURN THE EVIL. I WALK WITH YOU NOW.”