He simply smiled and closed his eyes again.
Anjali looked from his face to the sun-drenched peaks, to Kavya who was already running to hug her father. She remembered the sadhu’s words. The cold hadn’t been her enemy. It had been the chisel that cracked her heart open.
They trudged on. The steep climb to Himkoti was the crux. The wind was relentless, and for the first time, Anjali felt the cold seep into her bones—a cold that mirrored the emptiness Rohit had left behind. A wave of bitterness washed over her. Why did she come? The Goddess was silent. The mountain was indifferent.
The month of January had wrapped the Trikuta Mountains in a fierce, crystalline embrace. For most, the biting cold and the threat of snow made the climb to the sacred cave of Vaishno Devi an act of madness. For Anjali Sharma, it was an act of desperate necessity.
Then, near the Himkoti café, they saw him. An old sadhu, sitting on a flat rock, oblivious to the cold. He wore only a thin saffron robe. His eyes were closed, and his skin was wrinkled like a dried apple. But when they approached, he opened his eyes—clear, warm, and impossibly kind.