The soft chime of temple bells echoed through the morning air, mingling with the scent of incense and sandalwood. The courtyard of the ancient mandir buzzed quietly with movement—priests in saffron dhotis reciting mantras, and devotees with folded hands paying their respects. Amid them, Avyant Rathore sat alone near the sacred fire, clad in a simple white dhoti. His upper body was bare, marked only by a faint thread of janeyu across his chest. His broad shoulders were still, posture upright, eyes lowered. There was a solemn dignity to him, a rare softness in his usual sharp features.

The morning sun filtered through the peepal leaves, casting dappled shadows over the stone floor. Before him, a banana leaf was laid out, and a silver thali held the offerings—white rice, black sesame seeds, ghee, and a few coins. The priest seated across from him began chanting the mantras, his voice deep and rhythmic.