Chapter 6: Alone in the Mandir

Everyone looked at me with contempt, whispers buzzing like mosquitoes in the dark.

"Lip mole—thinks we can’t count? Always up to something."

"Didn’t Ananya say she stole class money? Once a thief, always a thief."

Rohan’s lips curled, almost smug.

I realised instantly: Rohan had switched our slips when he spoke to me. He was so smooth, no one noticed.

"Alright, Meera, you drew to stay here. No cheating. Everyone else, come with me to the nawab’s haveli. Enough drama."

I clenched my fist, voice trembling but determined: "It was you. You switched my slip! Don’t lie!"

Amit grabbed my arm roughly, breath hot on my ear: "Are you mad? Why create a scene? Always making trouble. If you say Rohan switched, he did? Liar. Better off dead."

My wrist ached, bruises blooming, but I bit my lip and stayed silent. Blood filled my mouth—nobody cared.

Rohan chuckled, shaking his head like I was just being ridiculous.

Before leaving, he stood against the sun, hair glowing like fire, and mouthed, "Meera, farewell forever."

They left, footsteps echoing. The mandir felt emptier than ever, the air heavy with abandonment. Only a few of us remained, prayers and mutters filling the stillness, the lingering scent of agarbatti after prayers.

I remembered Amma’s words—'Choti si baat hai, compromise kar lo'—but clenched my fist. Not this time, Amma. Not anymore.

Sneha, the Hindi rep, tried to stop me, "Meera, let’s stay together. Don’t be foolish."

The others muttered, some rolling their eyes: "Why ask her? She always brings bad luck."

Sneha let go, giving me a soft look. I nodded, a silent thank you, and stepped out into the harsh sun.

Leaving the mandir, I walked through Kaveripur’s ancient lanes—hawkers calling, women balancing pots, kids playing gilli-danda. The air was thick with spices, sweat, and marigolds. A cart creaked past; a chaiwala’s cry echoed in the distance.

That night after transmigrating, I’d walked these streets—diyas floating on the river, Ananya dancing on a pleasure boat, the bazaar alive with jalebi sellers and the scent of ghee.

Now, in the blazing sun, laughter, haggling, and rickshaw horns filled the air. No curfew here—just life, hunger, hope.

A plan formed in my mind. I relaxed and spoke to the system, "Exchange all 5 points for gold."

The system replied, indifferent as ever: "You have 8 points. After exchange, only 3 left—3 days to survive. Continue?"

"Yes."

What’s the rush? The game’s just begun. My heart thudded wildly. Three days left. If I fail, no one will even remember my name.