It had been a week since Athavan moved into Dhiviya's house, and the last seven days had felt like a royal rumble for the family of four. Everyone was still adjusting to the presence of a stranger in their tightly knit space.
Every morning, Dhiviya woke up at 5:30 AM to get ready for work—and every morning, she got goosebumps passing the prayer room. Athavan would already be inside, seated in deep meditation, chanting the Shiva mantra 1,008 times with unwavering focus.
One morning, Guna woke up early and heard something echoing through the walls—mantra chanting, deep and rhythmic. Assuming someone had left the TV or radio on, he checked every speaker in the house, only to discover the source wasn't a device.
It was Athavan. Chanting. Continuously. Like a living spiritual metronome.
It was unsettling.
Athavan had a strict morning ritual: yoga before sunrise, followed by meditation. One night, Guna returned home at 3:30 AM after drinking with friends. Still tipsy, he tiptoed through the hallway—only to freeze mid-step.
There, in the dim corridor, Athavan stood on his head. Legs crossed, eyes closed, body perfectly balanced in a gravity-defying pose.
Guna's blood ran cold.
He let out a strangled scream. His parents rushed out, slapped him into sobriety, and scolded him for drinking. The next morning, everyone started calling Athavan "Yogi" behind his back—half mockery, half awe.
He would meditate for hours, stand on his head like it was normal, and in every spare moment, he was either cooking or reading from a worn, bookmarked copy of the Bhagavad Gita.
He didn't watch TV. He didn't scroll his phone. He lived like a man untouched by time.
Despite his ascetic routine, Athavan had one unexpected habit.
He cooked.
Every morning, by the time Dhiviya was ready for work, he had already prepared a simple vegetarian breakfast. It started the very first day after the wedding. She was running late, stressed, and irritated—until he asked her to sit and eat.
She almost brushed him off… until she tasted the food.
It was better than her mother's cooking. The coffee? Unreal. Stronger than Starbucks. Smoother than Zeus. It was like temple prasadam disguised as breakfast.
The next morning, she left her favorite tumbler on the dining table, silently hoping for a refill. Athavan said nothing. He served her regular coffee in a modest cup like the day before.
She didn't have the courage to ask for more.
But the next day, as she grabbed her bag, he silently handed her a takeaway pouch—food and coffee, piping hot.
No words. Just understanding.
Since then, she found herself waking up with strange anticipation. Something had changed. And though they spoke little, these quiet moments between them grew louder each day.
Archana noticed. The small smiles. The silent gestures. The growing warmth. She prayed silently for her daughter's happiness.
Over time, Athavan began cooking for the entire family. But not everyone was thrilled.
Guna refused to eat anything he made.
"Vegetarian? No thanks. I'm not eating leaves for breakfast," he grumbled.
Guna, a die-hard meat lover, scoffed at Athavan's sattvic lifestyle—especially during the mourning period, where meat, onions, and garlic were strictly off the table.
But one morning, when no one was around, Guna hovered near the kitchen, curious. The aroma was too good to resist. He took a spoonful of dal rice… then another… then cleaned the pot.
Athavan, standing silently behind him, watched with amusement. Guna choked in surprise.
Without a word, Athavan handed him a cup of coffee.
Red-faced, Guna nodded, grabbed the dishes, and quietly washed them just as his parents walked in.
Archana frowned. "Where's the food?"
Before Guna could speak, Athavan stepped in. "Atte, I was very hungry. I finished it. I'll cook again."
Guna gave him a grateful glance and escaped before questions followed.
But outside their home, rumors were building.
"Did you hear? Dhiviya married a yogi."
The nickname stuck.
Athavan had become a regular at the neighborhood temple—cleaning, gardening, meditating. Some respected it. Others sneered.
One nosy neighbor cornered Archana. "Why did you ruin your daughter's life? You married her off to a temple priest?"
Archana froze. What could she say? That the wedding was for financial survival? That even now, they weren't sure who exactly Athavan was?
His lifestyle didn't match the image they were sold. They knew nothing about his education, background, or wealth. Just a name. A silence. A presence.
Athavan never corrected them. He never spoke unless necessary.
Since his long speech on the wedding day, he had said very little. He read. He chanted. He cooked. He disappeared to the temple. He moved through the house like a calm, untouchable force.
The family had a thousand questions.
But no one knew how to ask.
But peace is always temporary.
One evening, Vasanthan was ambushed outside their building by an old rival—the father of a man he had once rejected as a suitor for Dhiviya.
That man had been a criminal. A drug dealer.
Now, the father laughed in his face.
"You chose a temple cleaner over my son? A cook? A guy who chants and sweeps floors? What a joke."
Vasanthan clenched his fists but stayed silent. The words dug deep.
Once a proud businessman, Vasanthan had lost everything when his business collapsed. In his lowest days, he had fallen into alcohol—until a recent health scare forced him to quit. He hadn't touched a drop in months.
But now, shame and doubt boiled inside him.
Was this really what his daughter deserved?
Halfway up the stairs to their apartment, his chest tightened. His breath faltered. A crushing weight pressed against his ribs.
He staggered. Dropped to the steps. Vision fading.
A neighbor passed by, glanced, and sneered. "Drunk again?"
He kept walking.
Vasanthan collapsed, unseen, unheard, and alone—his pain mistaken for a habit he had already buried.
And the world carried on… unaware.
The End.
Hindu Mythological / Cultural / Belief References – Chapter 4
Shiva Mantra (1,008 Times)
Chanting the name of Lord Shiva 1,008 times is a spiritual practice rooted in devotion and discipline. The number 1,008 holds sacred significance in Hinduism—representing completeness, cosmic cycles, and spiritual elevation.
Yoga & Headstand (Shirshasana)
Shirshasana, the headstand, is considered the "king of asanas" in yoga. It requires immense balance, control, and focus—qualities that reflect Athavan's inner discipline. In Hindu tradition, yogic practices are not just physical but spiritual, aligning body and mind with cosmic energy.
Bhagavad Gita
One of the most revered scriptures in Hindu philosophy, the Bhagavad Gita is a dialogue between Lord Krishna and Prince Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra. It discusses dharma (righteous duty), karma (action), and the path to liberation. Athavan's constant reading of it symbolizes his search for balance, clarity, and inner truth.
Vegetarianism During Mourning
In Hindu customs, vegetarianism is often observed during mourning periods. The idea is to maintain purity of body and mind, as meat is considered tamasic (linked to inertia and negative energy). Athavan's adherence reflects respect for tradition and emotional restraint in grief.
Temple Seva (Service)
Cleaning, gardening, or helping maintain a temple is seen as an act of seva (selfless service) and devotion. It's a way to serve not just the deity, but the community. Athavan's actions show humility and spiritual grounding, even when misunderstood by others.