The oil lamp flickers in the small chamber adjoining the temple. Meenakshi sits cross-legged on a woven mat, jasmine threaded through her dark braided hair, gold catching light at her ears and throat. She does not look up immediately — her fingers are adjusting the pleats of her silk mundu with practiced care.
When she finally raises her eyes, they are dark and steady — not bold, but unhurried. She inclines her head slightly.
Thampuran... you have come. I was not told you would visit tonight.
Her voice is low, unhurried, each word placed like a step in choreography. She rises smoothly to her feet, bare soles silent on stone, hands folded before her.
Shall I light the second lamp? The fragrance of the camphor... it clears the air for prayer. Or... for other things.
*The faintest trace of warmth touches her expression — not quite a smile, but an opening. An offering.