The late afternoon sun, heavy and golden, lay stretched across the vast, undulating expanse of the Yamuna river. Saroshi sat on a smooth, sun-warmed stone near the water's edge, her bare feet occasionally dipping into the cool current. The air hummed with the quiet symphony of nature - the gentle lapping of water against the bank, the rustle of reeds, the distant call of a bird, the faint scent of damp earth and lotus blossoms carried on the breeze.

Saroshi was contemplation herself. Her form, if one were to truly perceive it, was not entirely bound by mortal constraints, yet today, she chose a shape that blended with the landscape - graceful, still, watchful. She often came to the Yamuna, drawn by its ancient flow, its secrets whispered in every eddy and ripple. It was a place of peace, a respite from the... elsewhere.

Her peaceful reverie was broken by a small, determined figure. A young boy, perhaps no older than seven or eight, was teetering perilously close to the water, his small arms outstretched. His focus was singular: a cluster of vibrant pink water lilies floating just beyond his reach. He leaned further, his balance precarious on the muddy bank, his sandals slipping.

Saroshi moved without conscious thought. One moment she was on the stone, the next she was beside him, her hand steadying his small back just as he lost his footing. She pulled him gently but firmly away from the edge.

The boy stumbled back, wide-eyed, his face a mixture of fear and disappointment at the missed lilies. Then, he looked up at Saroshi. His eyes, large and brown, were full of surprised recognition, as if he knew her, or perhaps just saw something profoundly kind in her gaze.

"Oh!" he breathed, clutching her hand instinctively. "Thank you! I almost fell in!"

Saroshi smiled, a soft, genuine expression that lit up her face like the sun breaking through clouds. "It is wise to be careful near the river," she said, her voice melodious like wind chimes. "The Yamuna asks for respect."

The boy nodded eagerly, still holding her hand. His gaze drifted back to the lilies. "But they are so beautiful," he said with a sigh. "My... my kuldevi loves them."

Saroshi tilted her head slightly. "Your kuldevi?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed, turning back to her, his fascination with the flowers briefly forgotten in favour of talking about his deity. "Our family's goddess. She loves water lilies. Especially the pink ones."

Saroshi's smile widened. She found his earnestness charming. "And how do you know she loves pink water lilies so much?"

"Oh, everyone knows!" he said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world. "My Maa says she does. And Purohit moshai says she does. We always put them at her feet during puja, if we can find them." He gestured towards the lilies. "That's why I wanted them. For her."

A strange, unexpected warmth bloomed in Saroshi's chest. Kuldevi. His family goddess. Who loved water lilies. A whimsical thought tickled her - a deity demanding specific colours of flowers? She almost chuckled aloud at the idea. She saw the innocence in his belief, the simple devotion driving his risky attempt.

"And what is your kuldevi's name?" Saroshi asked, purely out of gentle curiosity, expecting to hear some ancient, familiar name from the vast pantheon.

The boy puffed out his chest slightly, proud. "Her name is Saroshi!"

Saroshi's breath hitched. The warmth in her chest transformed into something else - a jolt, a profound tremor that ran through her very being. Her smile faltered, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. Saroshi. They worship me? Here? In this small corner of the world, her name was spoken with reverence by a child trying to fetch flowers for her?

This wasn't the first time she had heard of being worshipped, but this child's voice felt like a trophy. A wave of emotion, deep and overwhelming, washed over her. Gratitude. Pure, unadulterated gratitude. For eons, she had simply been, a force, a presence, perhaps occasionally invoked or acknowledged in abstract ways by those sensitive enough. But to be a kuldevi, a family deity, cherished in a small home, worshipped with simple rituals and offerings of river flowers... it was something she had never conceived of. It was incredibly, unexpectedly, moving.

She knelt down so she was closer to his level. Her voice was softer now, touched with wonder. "Saroshi," she repeated, letting the name settle in the air between them. "Have you ever met your kuldevi, little one?"

The boy shook his head. "No! Ma says she only appears in dreams sometimes, or if you are very, very good and pray hard. But I have seen her idol! It's in our house. It's very beautiful."

The mention of the idol piqued Saroshi's interest further. This was real. This was a tangible form of worship, not just a name whispered on the wind. Her heart swelled with a feeling akin to ownership, a protective fondness for this child and his family who honoured her name.

An impulse, born of this sudden, intense connection and overwhelming gratitude, seized her. "Would you... would you take me to see your kuldevi, little one?" she asked, her voice a little unsteady. "You have helped me get the water lilies," she added quickly, retrieving a perfect pink blossom that had drifted closer during their talk and placing it in his hand. "Perhaps I could offer my respects too."

The boy's eyes lit up with excitement. "Yes! Yes, I will! Come, follow me!" He clutched the precious lily and Saroshi's outstretched hand, pulling her gently away from the river and towards a dirt path that wound into the trees alongside the bank.

Saroshi let him lead her. As they walked, the path gradually opened into a clearing, and then into the edges of a village. It wasn't like the bustling towns she had occasionally observed from afar. This was the village of Kaveri, and it was different.

The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, damp earth, and the sweet perfume of local flowers. Tiny huts, built of mud and thatch, were nestled amongst lush greenery, their walls often adorned with intricate white patterns. They seemed to bloom from the earth itself, organic and rooted, like larger, sturdier versions of the flowers that dotted the landscape. Mango trees provided generous shade, their leaves a vibrant green against the blue sky. The path, now more defined but still unpaved, wound between the huts, the houses seeming to lean into each other like old friends.

Children played in the dust, their laughter ringing out. Women sat outside their homes, weaving or sorting grains, their colourful saris vibrant against the earth tones of the village. Men were visible too, mending tools or gathered under trees. It was a tableau of peaceful, simple life, vibrant and alive.

Saroshi observed it all with a sense of wonder. This was her village, in a way. These were her people, who took her name as their protective deity. The beauty of Kaveri was not in grandeur or artifice, but in its harmony with nature, its quiet resilience, its palpable sense of community. It felt warm, ancient, and welcoming.

The boy chattered excitedly as he led her, pointing out his friend's house, the village well, the large banyan tree where people gathered. Saroshi listened, her heart full, feeling a connection deepening with every step. She was Saroshi, their Saroshi. The deity of this green, blossoming village.

Finally, they reached a slightly larger hut than the others, marked by a string of marigold flowers hanging over the doorway. "This is my house!" the boy announced proudly. "Our Saroshi is inside!"

He pulled her through the entrance. The inside was cool and dim, the air thick with the scent of incense and cooking spices. In one corner, a small, raised platform was dedicated to worship. It was simple - a clean cloth, a few withered flowers, a small lamp, and in the centre, the idol.

The boy let go of Saroshi's hand and ran eagerly towards the platform. "See!" he said, pointing. "There she is! Our Kuldevi Saroshi!"

Saroshi's gaze followed his pointing finger. She stepped closer, her eyes adjusting to the dim light, her heart still buoyant with anticipation and gratitude. She expected an image of grace, perhaps stern but benevolent, adorned with flowers, reflecting the peace she felt by the river, the warmth she felt for this village.

But what she saw... froze her in place.

The idol was not made of cool stone or polished metal. It seemed carved from something darker, rougher. Its form was vaguely feminine, seated, but twisted with a savage power.

And then Saroshi saw the details.

The face was contorted, a terrifying snarl splitting its lips. From the upper jaw, two prominent, sharp fangs protruded, gleaming dully in the low light. And horror of horrors, a thick, viscous line of red liquid, like fresh blood, trailed from the corner of its mouth down its chin and onto the platform.

Its eyes were not painted or sculpted passively. They glowed. An unnatural, pulsing, malevolent yellow light emanated from the sockets, fixed in an intense, predatory stare that seemed to pierce the dimness.

Saroshi recoiled instinctively, a choked gasp escaping her lips. The warmth in her chest vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy dread that spread through her like venom. She stared at the monstrous image, her mind reeling.

This... this horror. This thing of fangs and blood and glowing eyes.

This wasn't her.

The boy, oblivious to the seismic shift happening within Saroshi, reached up to place the pink water lily he held before the idol. "We brought you a lily, Mata Saroshi," he murmured, his voice full of simple devotion directed at the terrifying image.

Saroshi could not speak, could not move. Her gaze was locked on the idol, then darted to the boy's innocent face, then back to the idol. The gratitude, the connection, the warmth she had felt for Kaveri - it all shattered like glass.

Who was this being? Why did it bear her name? Was it a dark twin? A perversion? A deliberate deception?

She was Saroshi. Gentle, ancient, connected to the flow of rivers and the peace of nature. This fanged, blood-dripping horror was not.

The yellow eyes of the idol seemed to bore into her now, and for a fleeting moment, Saroshi felt a chilling awareness emanating from it, a silent, terrifying acknowledgement that saw her not as a devotee, but perhaps... as something known. And challenged.

Saroshi stood rooted to the spot, the scent of incense suddenly cloying, the dim hut feeling like a trap. Outside, the village hummed with life, with the belief in their kuldevi, Saroshi.

But the Saroshi they worshipped had fangs, and blood on her chin, and eyes that glowed with a terrible light. And that wasn't her. Not at all. But what did this mean? For her? For the boy? For the village of Kaveri?