The bell was still swaying gently when she arrived. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, she saw a boy sitting on the temple step. He was dark as a monsoon cloud, with peacock feathers tucked behind his ear, and he was eating butter from a clay pot with his fingers.
One evening, a strange thing happened. The town’s ancient temple bell began ringing by itself at midnight. No wind, no rope-puller, no bird. Just the deep, resonant dong rolling across the sleeping streets. People woke up terrified. The priests muttered about bad omens. The next night, it happened again. And again.
"Krishna," she breathed.
Nandana Krishna Soumya was named by her grandmother, who had insisted on all three names. "Nandana" means daughter, the one who brings joy. "Krishna" was for the dark, playful god. "Soumya" meant gentle, soft, and luminous. It was a heavy cargo of meaning for a single child, but Nandana grew into each name like a tree growing into the hollows of a rock.
"Who are you?" Nandana whispered.
She shook her head.
On the fourth night, Nandana crept out of bed. She didn’t feel fear—only a strange pull, like a thread tied to her navel. She walked barefoot to the temple. The rain had stopped. The air smelled of jasmine and wet stone. nandana krishna soumya
She looked at the bell. She looked at his smile. She remembered her grandmother's stories—the one about the god who loved butter, who played the flute, who pulled the universe like a toy on a string.