AKSHAT SINGHANIA - A literature professor in Singania Institute of Arts and Commerce. He is soft and caring person
with a tough exterior, who doesn't believe in love or marriage because of his parent's broken relationship and his ex wife's betrayal...
Five long months had crawled by, and yet for Akshat, every dawn still felt like a wound reopening. Time moved, seasons shifted, festivals came and went, but inside him there was only stillness,an emptiness carved into his bones. The only thing left in him, the only pulse that kept him alive, was her. Amrit.
And so, every morning before the world awoke, Akshat climbed the steps of the old Shiva temple at the edge of the city. Not to sit inside, not to simply fold his hands. He came barefoot, head bowed, carrying a brass vessel of water and a broom. He poured the water carefully across the wide temple stairs, letting it stream down each step like a ritual, then bent low to wipe and scrub, the broom scratching against the stone.
The same Akshat Singhania who once commanded boardrooms, who once arrived at places with chauffeurs and security, now knelt with sleeves rolled up, his hands raw from work, his forehead damp with sweat. At first, people stared in shock. The wealthy heir, the author of a best-selling book, the man who had everything,sweeping temple stairs at dawn? It was too much for them to believe.
Whispers spread like wildfire. “Have you seen him? Akshat Singhania, scrubbing the temple floor like a sevak.” Some called it madness. “He’s lost his mind. Someone take him to a hospital before he ruins himself.” Others romanticized it. “He’s doing tapasya for his missing wife. Faith like this moves mountains.” Newspapers wrote pieces about him, neighbors gossiped, strangers stared when he passed.
For Akshat, this was not for the world. This was for her. This was for the faith she had left behind like a lamp for him to follow through the darkness.
Each day when he bent over those cold, ancient steps, pouring water, wiping stone, he felt something shift inside him. Not peace, not relief,but strength. Hope. A flicker of belonging. He felt her near him, her words brushing against his ears like the softest whisper: “Faith will keep you alive.”
The priest, a man who had watched him for months now with both awe and compassion, stepped forward as Akshat rinsed the last of the water. The air carried the faint scent of incense, bells ringing softly inside the sanctum.
“Beta,” the priest said gently, his voice warm in the cool dawn, “ye pura saaf ho chuka hai.”
Akshat paused, his chest rising and falling, sweat glistening on his forehead.
Akshat rose from the stairs. His body ached, his palms stung from scrubbing, but something pulled him inward, into the sanctum itself. Barefoot, he stepped over the cool threshold, the fragrance of ghee lamps and sandalwood curling around him like invisible threads.
The idols gleamed faintly in the golden glow,Lord Shiva in his eternal stillness, Parvati with her serene smile, Nandi standing guard. Devotees usually left quickly after darshan, but Akshat lingered. He picked up the brass lota, filled it with water, and with careful hands, washed the stone feet of the idols. His fingers trembled as he wiped away dust with a clean white cloth, moving slowly, reverently, as if each stroke was touching the divine itself.
