SHE WHO ASCENDS

TWINS OF FLAME AND SKY

Born only minutes apart, they were the perfect mirror and contrast of each other. Tara, with her observant eyes and quiet intensity, loved silence and stars. Adyaa, brimming with raw energy, could never stay still for long—her fists always moving, feet tapping, as if the earth couldn’t contain her spirit.

Their mother, Aarti, was a woman of immense warmth, deeply loving, and known in town for always being there—at school meetings, in the kitchen with steaming rotis, or beside their beds whispering stories that made their imaginations leap. She was the heart of their home. A schoolteacher with a secretive past and a spirit woven from steel and softness, she was also a devout follower of Maa Kali. Her room smelled faintly of sandalwood and jasmine; her altar bore a statue of the dark goddess, adorned with hibiscus and ash.

Aarti’s faith was quiet but unshakable. Every morning began with the ringing of a small temple bell and a whispered chant to Kali Maa—her protector, her power. “Ma kaali sab dekhti hain,” she would tell Tara, placing a thumb smeared with sindoor on her forehead.

Tara absorbed that devotion like breath. She often sat beside her mother, asking questions about life, death, and the invisible threads that bound the universe. Adyaa, on the other hand, rolled her eyes.

> “If Maa Kali’s real,” Adyaa would scoff, “why doesn’t she stop the bad things before they happen?”

Aarti would smile, not with anger but with understanding. “Because even goddesses let us fight our own battles.”

Their father, Rajeev Sharma, a botanist known for his patience and love of silence, was Aarti’s opposite in faith—but her equal in love. He didn’t bow at altars, but he believed in energy, nature, and karma. Together, they raised their daughters with harmony—Aarti guiding their souls, Rajeev shaping their minds.

Tara built solar cookers and charted constellations with Rajeev. Adyaa ran through foggy trails, learning boxing footwork with her mother holding up a pillow like a pad. Every story, every bruised knee, every star sighted or punch landed was celebrated. Evenings were filled with stories from the Devi Mahatmyam, followed by Tara's endless questions about physics and Adyaa's groans of boredom.

Their house was humble, yet alive—echoing with chants, laughter, the clink of steel glasses, and the scent of turmeric and tea. And always, behind it all, the gaze of Maa Kali’s statue watching over them from the corner shrine. But then came the storm

It was the eve of their final exam in seventh grade. Thunder echoed across the hills. Aarti had gone into town for medicines. Hours passed. The storm howled louder.

Then the phone rang.

Aarti’s car had been found mangled at the bottom of a ravine. Burnt. Smashed beyond recognition. But her body was never recovered. Only her mangalsutra, charred but intact, lay near the wreckage. Tara, shaking, took it and never let go. Adyaa stared into the night, fists clenched. No gods. No prayers. Only pain.

Rajeev broke down once. Then he rose, steady and silent, as Aarti would’ve wanted. He raised his daughters alone from that day forward.

"SHE GAVE YOU STRENGTH. I'LL GIVE YOU DIRECTION" He said.

As the years passed, the space between the twins grew wider, not just in interests, but in affection........While Tara immersed herself in her studies, trying to piece together the mysteries of the universe through chemistry, the periodic table, and her deep, silent faith in Maa Kali. Adyaa's world was built from sweat and bruises. She threw herself into boxing with single-minded intensity, driven by a need to control her own destiny, to feel her power in the punch.

Adyaa no longer saw Tara as her sister, not truly. She saw her as weak—soft, sentimental, clinging to old gods and emotions that had no place in Adyaa's harsh, disciplined world. Her grief had calcified into resentment, and every time she saw Tara whispering a prayer to Maa Kali or gently arranging herbs in the kitchen for some chemistry experiment, it grated against her like sandpaper on raw skin.

Where once they had shared secrets, now they shared silence.

Adyaa stopped responding to Tara's questions. She refused to sit near her at dinner. At school, she introduced herself as an only child.

Tars, however, never stopped trying. She brewed Adyaa tea after long training sessions, left notes of encouragement before her boxing matches, and always defended her in front of others—even when Adyaa rolled her eyes or laughed cruelly at her behind her back.

Rajeev noticed the divide, but he didn’t know how to mend it. Aarti had been the bridge between them. Without her, it was like two continents drifting slowly apart with nothing to anchor them.

One night, when Tara offered to bandage Adyaa's bruised knuckles, Adyaa yanked her hand away.

> “DON’T PRETEND TO CARE,” SHE SPAT. “YOU JUST WANT TO PLAY SAINT.”

Tara didn’t respond. She simply left the bandages on the table and walked away, her eyes glassy but unyielding. She would not stop loving her sister, even if her sister no longer loved her back.

In college, they went their separate ways—Adyaa into sports science and professional boxing, Tara into chemical research and spiritual philosophy. They barely spoke.

Adyaa thrived in the ring, becoming known for her ferocity. Her name was on local billboards. She smiled only after victories.

Tara was known as "the alchemist of compassion" in her lab circles, studying chemical reactions that reduced environmental toxins. Her work was published, but her joy came in quieter places: watching a compound change color, lighting incense at her mother’s shrine, and helping her colleagues with warmth that never waned.

Even when Adyaa refused to answer her calls, Tara still messaged her every week: “Hope your training is going well.” “Saw your match—congrats!” “I miss you.”

NO REPLIES.

Years later, while cleaning home, Tara stumbled upon an old photo album. Tucked inside was Aarti’s letter—the one meant for Adyaa.

> "MY WARRIOR ADYAA," IT READ,

"YOU CARRY FIRE IN YOUR FISTS, BUT FIRE NEEDS DIRECTION. YOU MAY HATE YOUR SISTER SOMEDAY, THINKING HER SOFT— BUT KNOW THIS: SOFTNESS CAN SURVIVE WHAT FIRE CANNOT. TARA WILL PROTECT YOU IN WAYS YOU MAY NEVER SEE. WHEN THE TIME COMES, OPEN YOUR HEART, EVEN A LITTLE. THE WORLD WILL NOT ALWAYS BE A RING, AND NOT EVERY ENEMY CAN BE FOUGHT WITH FISTS. YOUR GREATEST STRENGTH WILL BE KNOWING WHEN NOT TO STRIKE."

Tara wept silently as she read it. She didn’t know if she would ever be able to share it with Adyaa—but she folded the letter back carefully and kept it close.

She had traveled miles to attend one of Adyaa’s championship bouts. She sat in the third row, her heart pounding not with nerves but with pride.

When the final bell rang and Adyaa was declared the winner, the crowd erupted. Tara clapped, smiling through tears.

After the match, she waited outside the locker room, holding a flask of ginger tea she had brewed herself. The hallway smelled of sweat and antiseptic. Her coat barely kept out the chill.

When Adyaa finally appeared, bruised and radiant in her victory, Tara rushed forward with a warm smile.

“You were incredible,” she said, offering the tea. “I brought this—thought it might help with the soreness.”

Adyaa didn’t take it. “Why are you here?”

“I just… I wanted to support you.”

Adyaa stared at her coldly. “You always show up when no one asks you to.”

Tara hesitated. “Because I care. I always have.”

Adyaa scoffed, pushing past her. “You don’t belong in my world.”

And for the first time, Tara didn’t argue.

She simply said, “I’ll always be here anyway,” and walked away.

That night, she sat at the home shrine, lit a diya, and prayed not for her sister to love her—but for her to heal, somehow, from whatever pain still made her push everyone away.

After some weeks, in the middle of a high-stakes match, Adyaa took a brutal uppercut to the temple.Medics rushed in. She was taken to a nearby hospital, unconscious, her condition uncertain. The moment Tara heard the news, she didn’t hesitate. She called Rajeev, who had been staying with relatives in Dehradun, and they both rushed to the hospital together.

Rajeev sat beside his daughter and took her hand. For the first time since Aarti's death, Tara saw tears slip down his cheeks.

“I should have stopped her from going too far,” he murmured. “I should’ve... done more.”

Tara placed a hand on his shoulder. “She chose her path. All we can do now is be here.”

Tara read softly from old journals, recited mantras her mother once taught her, and rubbed Adyaa’s feet with oils she had prepared in her chemistry lab—lavender for healing, eucalyptus for clarity.

Rajeev told stories from their childhood—of rain-soaked mango hunts, of the time Adyaa tried to punch a monkey for stealing her snack.

Three days later, Adyaa opened her eyes.

The room was quiet except for the soft hum of machines. Her gaze moved slowly across the ceiling—then to the chair beside her.

Tara was asleep there, head resting on folded arms, the mangalsutra Aarti once wore now tied around her wrist like a talisman.

Rajeev stirred from his corner. “Adyaa?”

Her eyes blinked slowly.

Tara woke up at the sound of her name and met Adyaa’s gaze.

No words.

Just a single tear, slipping down Adyaa’s cheek.