Sacred Stone,The Rise of Athavan

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. It took some time for everyone to adjust to the presence of a stranger in their home. Every morning, when Dhiviya woke up at 5:30 AM to get ready for work, she would get goosebumps whenever she passed the prayer room. Athavan would be meditating, chanting the Shiva mantra 1,008 times. One morning, Guna woke up early and checked the radio, TV, and Bluetooth speakers, convinced that Archana had turned on devotional music—only to realize it was Athavan's continuous chanting.

Athavan had a habit of practicing yoga before his meditation. One night, Guna came home at 3:30 AM after drinking with his friends. Trying to sneak in silently, he tiptoed into his room—only to be met with a terrifying sight. His brother-in-law was standing on his head, his legs crossed in the air in a perfect yoga pose. Guna, still drunk, let out a scream, his soul nearly leaving his body. His parents woke up, scolded him for drinking, and gave him a slap each. After that incident, the family began referring to Athavan as "Yogi" behind his back, amused by his daily meditation, yoga, and his constant reading of the Bhagavad Gita whenever he had free time.

Despite his ascetic practices, Athavan had an unexpected habit—he cooked. Every morning, by the time Dhiviya was ready to leave for work, he had already prepared a simple yet delicious breakfast for her. This had started on the very first day after the wedding. That morning, Dhiviya had been rushing to leave, already late for work, but Athavan had insisted she sit down and eat before heading out. Initially, she was irritated by his demand—until she took a bite. The food was incredible. In fact, it was even better than her mother's cooking. The coffee? It was leagues beyond her favorite Starbucks and Zeus coffee.

The next morning, she left her favorite tumbler on the dining table, hoping for extra coffee, though too embarrassed to ask. Athavan, however, ignored it and simply prepared coffee in a small cup with another simple yet delicious breakfast. She wanted more but lacked the courage to request it. But Athavan, perceptive as ever, understood. Before she could leave the house disappointed, he handed her a takeaway bag with food and coffee. She was shocked but pleasantly surprised. It was a silent yet romantic gesture. From that day forward, she found herself waking up with anticipation, looking forward to his magic in the kitchen. They didn't talk much, but they both enjoyed these quiet, intimate moments.

Archana noticed these silent exchanges between them each morning. She smiled, silently praying to God for her daughter's happiness.

As time passed, Athavan also started bonding with the family. Every morning, he prepared breakfast for everyone. At first, Guna refused to eat his food, claiming he would never touch anything made by his brother-in-law. But his curiosity got the better of him. One morning, when no one was looking, he secretly tried the dal rice Athavan had made—and it was so good that he ended up finishing the entire bowl. Athavan, watching from a corner, chuckled. Guna, rushing to eat in secret, ended up choking. Without hesitation, Athavan poured coffee into a cup and handed it to him. Guna, feeling awkward, quickly washed his plate just as his parents entered the house.

Archana glanced at the empty bowl and frowned. "Where's the food?"

Before Guna could respond, Athavan stepped in. "Atte, I ate it. I was very hungry. I'll cook again for you."

Guna gave him a thankful look before escaping out the door.

Despite the growing bond within the family, trouble was brewing outside. The neighborhood had started gossiping.

"Did you hear? Dhiviya married a Yogi."

The nickname had stuck. Ever since Athavan moved in, he frequently visited the neighborhood temple, helping clean, meditate, and even garden around the premises. His presence had become a hot topic. Some neighbors even looked down on Dhiviya's parents for getting her married to someone who, in their eyes, resembled a temple priest rather than a wealthy man.

One particularly nosy woman confronted Archana. "Why did you ruin your daughter's life?"

Archana was speechless. What could she say? That they had married Dhiviya off for money? That Athavan was actually rich? Even they struggled to reconcile his simple, ascetic lifestyle with the image of the educated degree-holder they had been told about before the wedding.

Athavan was a man of few words. After his long speech on the first day, he had barely spoken since. Either he read the Bhagavad Gita, meditated, visited the temple, or cooked incredible food for the family. The family had a thousand questions about him but didn't know how to start a conversation.

One evening, Vasanthan was ambushed by an old rival from the neighborhood—the father of a man he had once refused as a suitor for Dhiviya. The rejected proposal had been from a known criminal, a drug dealer. Now, the man sneered at him.

"You looked down on my son and chose a temple priest instead? Look at your son-in-law—chanting, cooking, sweeping the temple. What a joke. I don't understand what kind of life you prefer for your kids. In case your daughter decides to divorce him, look for me. i try to convince my son."

Vasanthan clenched his fists but said nothing. The words stung. Had he made a mistake? Regret gnawed at him as he climbed the stairs to his apartment, his mind heavy with doubts. The stress became too much. Halfway up, he clutched his chest and sat down on the stairs, gasping for breath. He had no energy to climb further. His vision blurred. The world around him faded to black.

A passing neighbor glanced at him but scoffed. "Drunk again?" the man muttered, walking away without helping.

Vasanthan lay there, unconscious, while life carried on around him, unaware of the crisis unfolding in his own home.