Author's pov

Uttarakhand , a state of beautiful nature , climate , lush forest , Himalayas , rivers and it's kind people; also known as "Dev bhumi" LAND OF GODS for it's spiritual significance, with famous pilgrimage sites like the Char Dham Yatra and cities like Haridwar and Rishikesh.

And Kedarnath is one of the four Dhams. Kedarnath, a beautiful temple nestled among the Himalayan peaks, is visited by millions of devotees every year, seeking the blessings of Lord Shiva.

A girl in a blue anarkali kurti is climbing the stairs holding a basket of offerings, garlands of flowers and sweets. She turns and says to her mother, "Mummy, come quickly." Her mother looks at her and smiles.And she replies to her ," I am coming , wait, let your father take the things."

She looks ahead and sees Kedarnath Temple. She huffs from tiredness and says to herself, finally Mahadev has arrived. She looks ahead and sees the Kedarnath Temple. She huffs from tiredness and says to herself, "Finally, we've arrived. Mahadev, just a little while longer, and then I'll see you.Har Har Mahadev."

Her younger sister comes dressed in a faded pink kurti and jacket with black eyes shoulder length hairs swaying because of breeze and says, "I am tired, let me have a quick darshan now".

She looks at her and says," hey Myra, don't say this, it was Mahadev's wish that we came here, otherwise we would still be studying in Delhi."

Their parents come and say, "Shall we go?" Both answered in unison " yes, of course."

They also move forward with all the devotees. Everywhere, only one voice is heard: Har Har Mahadev. Together, they enter, chanting Har Har Mahadev.

the chill of the mountain air lingered even inside the Kedarnath temple. The stone walls, ancient and echoing with centuries of devotion, glowed faintly in the golden flicker of oil lamps. The air smelled of ghee, sandalwood, and wet earth. Bells chimed softly in rhythm with priests chanting mantras that seemed to pulse through the very ground.

Ishika walked beside her parents and little sister, holding the small brass plate of offerings .... bel leaves, flowers, and a lamp flickering like her heartbeat. Her mother whispered a prayer, her father folded his hands, and her sister kept looking around wide-eyed, her anklets tinkling lightly against the stone floor.

And then — she saw him.

A boy ? no, a man ? yes but still boy dressed in a mustard-yellow kurta and crisp white pajama, a pure white stole draped around his neck like serenity itself. He sat cross-legged right before the Shivling, spine straight, eyes closed, his face calm in the holy haze of incense smoke. His lips moved silently as he performed the Aavahani mudra, summoning the divine presence ;graceful, fluid, confident. Then came the Trilokya Mohini .... his palms forming circles, a soft clap thrice, echoing faintly in the marble air. The Shakti mudra, then Nirvana Moksha, ending finally with the Sikha mudra , every gesture carrying a rhythm, a purpose, a power.

Something about the moment wrapped around Ishika’s chest - not love, but something softer… that pull of curiosity, of wonder. Maybe attraction wrapped in devotion. Maybe destiny wrapped in coincidence.

Before she could even blink twice, her little sister tugged her dupatta.
“Ishika didi, come here!”

She turned, startled, her voice slightly breathless —
“Yes… coming!”

But her eyes — they lingered for one last heartbeat on the boy in yellow.
The temple bells rang louder, as if the mountains themselves had noticed.

The temple bells still echoed softly behind them .... a blend of devotion and dusk as Shivansh Singhania, 18 years old, rose gracefully from his prayer. The final trail of incense smoke swirled like a whisper around him. His calm voice broke the silence - deep, steady, almost too mature for his age.

“I’m done,” he said simply.

His friends and siblings turned toward him.

“We too!” one of them replied, dusting off his kurta as if completing a divine task deserved celebration.

Shivansh smiled faintly. That peaceful, almost old-soul kind of smile -the kind that never really reached the lips, but softened the eyes.

“Now let’s go out and see the Himalayas!”

That came from Mishka, his 17-year-old sister ; all sunshine and sass. Her eyes sparkled brighter than her phone screen.

“Yes, yes! I want to click pictures for my Instagram!”

Abhir, her twin and Shivansh’s younger brother, rolled his eyes dramatically.

“This girl only cares about pictures. Not peace.”

“You both again fighting?” ...came Saksham Kapoor, Shivansh’s best friend, walking in with his usual grin, mischief practically stitched into his tone.

“Let’s go, guys,” Kunal Patel added, practical as ever. “We’ve to catch that train at midnight, don’t forget.”

Shivansh nodded silently, sliding his stole over his shoulder, his posture straight and unbothered that quiet kind of composed you only find in mountain air and certain hearts.

They stepped out into the crisp evening chill. The crowd buzzed pilgrims moving, bells ringing, chants fading into the wind. And just then something brushed past him.

A flutter of blue dupatta ; soft, fleeting, like a wave of color cutting through the monotone of smoke and saffron. He turned slightly, instinctively - but all he caught was a hand, delicate, with a crescent moon mark etched faintly on the wrist.

He blinked once. Twice.
And then -- nothing.

His friends called him, laughing about something dumb, pulling him along toward the temple stairs. Shivansh exhaled and followed, the laughter wrapping around him — but somewhere between the chants and the cold air, that blue flutter and crescent mark stayed in the back of his mind.

A sign, maybe.
Or just a moment.
But it lingered.

The group made their way toward the Shankaracharya Samadhi, where silence reigned like a sacred rhythm. The wind whispered through the stone corridors, and the fragrance of camphor still hung in the air. Devotees moved quietly, heads bowed, while the snow peaks of Kedarnath stood guard in the distance — eternal and unmoved.

Mishka, in her bright pink sweater and excitement brighter still, tugged at her brother’s sleeve.

“Shivansh bhai, click my pictures na! The light’s perfect!”

Shivansh exhaled, that half-annoyed, half-amused big-brother tone already loading.

“Mishi, first take blessings… then pictures.”

She huffed but nodded, folding her hands before the Samadhi, eyes closed for exactly three seconds ... devotion done, camera mode on.

They all took blessings together -Shivansh, calm and reverent; Kunal, murmuring something about peace; Saksham, pretending to be serious for once; and the twins, already whispering and giggling before they even stepped out.

Then came the laughter, the chaos, the clicks. Mishka posed like a pro influencer ... adjusting her hair, turning toward the temple light, flashing a grin that could make the Himalayas blush. Abhir, poor soul, was stuck behind the camera once again.

“Mishi, I’m tired of being your cameraman,” he grumbled, pressing the shutter like he was filing taxes.

Without missing a pose, Mishka smirked and said sweetly -

“Silently click pictures, or I won’t do your math homework.”

That shut him right up.

Meanwhile, Saksham stretched with a groan.

“Guys, I’m hungry. Like bhookh se mar jaunga hungry.”

Kunal nodded in agreement.

“Yaarrr, me too. Let’s find something to eat. Maggi in the mountains? Divine experience.”

Shivansh just smiled faintly the calm amid all their noise adjusting his shawl as he watched them argue and laugh.

The golden sunset hit the mountain peaks, painting them in honey and fire. Somewhere between laughter and blessings, something about the evening felt like the calm before a story begins.

The chill in the Kedarnath air bit softly at their cheeks, but the little roadside dhaba buzzed with warmth ...the hiss of boiling water, the scent of ginger tea, and that nostalgic, unbeatable smell of Maggi masala drifting through the air.

Ishika sat cross-legged on the wooden bench, her laughter blending with her sister Myra’s. Their parents sat just behind them, sipping tea and sharing quiet smiles. Ishika twirled the noodles with her fork, blowing on them before taking a bite . the kind of mountain Maggi that somehow always tasted like happiness.

Then, the bell above the dhaba door jingled.
A group entered ... loud, warm, laughing - the kind of energy that instantly filled every corner.

She didn’t look up at first.
Didn’t need to.
Because from the corner of her eye, she already felt that faint pull again the presence she couldn’t name.

Her heart skipped the smallest beat as her gaze flicked, almost accidentally.
There he was.
The same guy.
The one who had sat before the Shivling, hands folded, eyes closed .. the boy in the yellow kurta now replaced by a jacket and calm laughter.

She blinked, telling herself -

“Yeh toh wahi hai… jo Shivling ke samne tha.”

Then quickly scolded her own thoughts -

“Ishika, stupid. Focus on Maggi.”

She looked down, cheeks a little warmer than they should be in that cold air, stirring her Maggi like it was the most interesting thing in the Himalayas.

But she could hear them ;the group, the teasing.

“I want Maggi… and momos too! And chips — blue one!”

That was a girl’s voice — cheerful and demanding.

“Shut up, Mishka! You planning to eat the whole dhaba or what?!”

Laughter broke out — easy, full, echoing against the metal walls.

Ishika’s lips twitched in spite of herself. The sound of his voice soft but steady was there, somewhere in that laughter.

“Dii… where you lost?” Myra asked, sipping her Frooti, eyebrows raised.

Ishika blinked.

“Nothing… give me water na.”

She took the bottle and looked away, pretending to drink, pretending not to notice that just two tables away — fate had decided to sit and have Maggi too.