WHISPERS OF LINGORM : A One-Shot Anthology - Chapter 17: Chapter 17

Ling's POV
I never denied the existence of gods. I just... never believed they were mine to reach. Maybe that's the curse of growing up in a world where every answer has an equation, every reaction a formula, every system a pattern to break down and understand. I am, after all, a technical mind-a robotics and AI major at Chulalongkorn University-built to chase certainty, designed to find logic in chaos. I'm trained to believe that if something can't be proven, it doesn't belong in the realm of truth.
But grief...Grief doesn't care about logic. My mother always said that sometimes, when life refuses to make sense, you stop seeking reasons and start seeking peace. That belief is not always about truth-it's about hope.
She is the softest person I've ever known. The kind of woman who lights candles for every god with the same reverence, whispers quiet prayers with a devotion I never understood, and folds her hands like she's handing over her soul in gratitude, not hoping for miracles.
She believes all gods are the same power, seen through different eyes. That faith is not about rituals-it's about sincerity. And though I never shared that faith, I always respected it. Always.
But now...She lies in a hospital bed, body weak, breath shallow, pain wrapped around her like an unwanted second skin. And I don't know what else to do. The science I've trusted all my life has no answers. The medicine isn't working. The machines aren't saving her.
So I'm here. In her temple.
Not because I believe. But because She is my everything. Barefoot, hands pressed in an awkward prayer, eyes shut in uncertainty. Standing before a deity she loved, hoping that maybe her god listens to me because I've never asked for anything before. And I don't know what I'm doing-what to say, how to kneel, how to speak into the silence that feels so vast and holy.
In my head, all I could see was her. Her face. Her pain. Her unwavering faith. And I just stood there. Unmoving. Unknowing. Unanchored.
Until a voice cut through the fog of my mind. "Take the Aarti."
Soft. Clear. Feminine. Like the first breeze after a long summer. I opened my eyes. And there she was. The girl holding the silver plate of flame. And for a moment, the temple faded.
Her eyes were warm and earthy-an impossible mix of golden amber and burnt cinnamon. Her hair, sun-kissed blonde, framed a face so soft it looked like it belonged in watercolor. Her features were delicate, sweet, and quietly radiant, as if she hadn't even realized how much light she carried.
She had a cloth draped over her head, just like my mother always did during puja. And when I didn't respond, she smiled again, a little awkwardly. "Umm... quickly take the aarti, others are waiting too.", I froze. "How do I... I mean... what to do?"
She looked at me for a moment. And then chuckled softly. Just a quiet curve of understanding, as if she'd seen a thousand lost people like me before, and still thought we deserved grace. She said nothing, only moved her hand in a slow, practiced circle above the flame, then touched it gently to my head. Then again-for me her hand hovered above the flame then my head-paused like a silent blessing, and then swept down my shoulders, my chest, as if she was dusting away something invisible and heavy. Her lips moved, but I didn't hear the words. Maybe I wasn't meant to. Maybe it wasn't about the sound, but the intention.
I just... felt it.
Something warm. Something unspoken. Something that wrapped around my ribs and held me still. And then, she was gone.
Just like that.
Disappearing into the soft sea of saris and chants and incense smoke, like a dream the temple had breathed into reality for just one moment-just for me.
Outside the temple - twilight whispers and jasmine-laced prayers lingering in the air, I was walking away from the temple, but it felt like some piece of me stayed behind.
Maybe the part that still hadn't found the answer. Or maybe the part that didn't want to leave her behind.
She was there again-just outside-her voice trailing into the dusk like soft river water over stone. On a call, unaware that she had just become a question in my mind I didn't know how to ask. There was something magnetic about the way her laugh curved through the air, the way her dupatta caught the wind like it had a memory of its own.
And I wanted to thank her.
For praying on my behalf, for being kind to a stranger, for making something sacred feel less foreign.
But the words never left my mouth.
I stood there, wrapped in hesitation, letting courage waver in my throat. Until the universe intervened. She dropped her handkerchief. Soft blue, like the sky just before it folds into night. It slipped from her hand unnoticed, a gentle flutter to the ground that felt like an invitation.
And something in me shifted. Without thinking, I moved-ran, almost-as if returning that small piece of cloth meant restoring some unnamed balance. I picked it up and called out, my voice cutting through the fading orange light. "Excuse me, miss-white kurti!", She paused mid-step, turning toward me. And there she was-sunlight brushing her cheeks, her brows lifting in soft surprise. Her kurti was simple, stitched with scattered bursts of color like someone had embroidered dreams into the fabric. She wore it with jeans and that and duppata as my mother used to wrap around herself on quiet evenings when she prayed for everything and everyone except herself. She looked... beautiful.
But not in a way that made your heart race. In a way that makes your heart feel full.
I stepped forward, holding the cloth between us like some sort of offering.
"Your handkerchief," I said, quieter than I meant. Her eyes widened just slightly, then she touched her forehead with the heel of her palm-a soft, amused scolding to herself.
"Ah! I'm so careless sometimes," she chuckled, jogging toward me. The silver bangles on her wrist sang against each other as she moved, and I was close enough now to see the gold flecks in her eyes-like light had decided to rest there.
I placed the handkerchief into her waiting hand. She smiled, warm and unfiltered. The kind of smile that stays with you long after someone's gone. "Thank you," she said quickly, and then, almost as if on instinct, extended her hand to me.
"Hi, I'm Orm."
Orm.
Even her name sounded like something meant to be whispered with reverence.I stared for a moment, then took her hand in mine. There was a stillness in that moment that had nothing to do with silence. Just calm-like the world had paused for a breath, just for us. "Ling," I said, swallowing the tremor in my voice. "And... thank you. For the prayer. Inside." and she just smiled.
Her name was still lingering in my mind like the aftertaste of something sweet.
Orm.
I repeated it silently as we began walking, not really intending to walk together-but we didn't part either. Just two strangers, brushing shoulders with fate, too hesitant to call it that.
She tucked the handkerchief back into her bag, smiling to herself, and then spoke without turning to me, her voice still laced with that same softness that had drawn me in from the start.
"I was actually trying to find a place to stay for the next ten days," she said casually, glancing around, eyes scanning the narrow street. "I just arrived yesterday."
"Ten days?" I repeated, surprised. She nodded. "I'm here for a workshop and a project. My final year of medical studies-this is kind of the biggest phase. Sort of like... our proving ground before we officially become doctors." Her words were confident, but there was something tired beneath them. Like someone who had fought really hard to be where they stood, but still couldn't quite let themselves relax. Her phone was still in her hand, screen lit up with a paused call log. Probably trying to coordinate, trying to figure things out while keeping that warm, collected smile on her face.
"You don't live here?" I asked. "No," she said, chuckling faintly. "I live in India. This is my first time coming here alone. My dad's actually Thai, but he settled in India after marrying my mom. She's Indian. They met when he was working in Mumbai-he was an orphan, came there for a job, and never left." Something about the way she told it-like it was normal, like it didn't carry layers of history and hope-made my chest ache a little. "That's strange," I said, without thinking. "My parents too. My mom is Indian, and my dad was Thai. They met in India. But she moved here to start her business, and they stayed. Until..." I paused. The words didn't need to be finished. She understood.
"Oh, I am sorry..." she said softly, and in that moment, our stories stood across from each other-like reflections in a glass we hadn't realized we were holding. "Yeah..." I added, quieter this time. "It's just my mom and me now."
We walked in silence after that. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like we had uncovered a thread between us, stitched by parallel beginnings. She suddenly looked at me again, eyes glowing under the streetlight. "You know... Navratri started today." I blinked. "Oh, yeah. My mom does puja sometimes. But I've never really asked much about it."
Orm smiled, a little nostalgically. "It's... nine nights of devotion to different forms of the Goddess. Power. Love. Destruction. Creation. Each day holds a color, a prayer, a purpose. Back home, it's like the air itself changes. The sounds, the smell of the sweets, the rhythm of the prayers... it's something else."
Her voice trailed off. "I can't be there this time. But I'll still celebrate here. Even if it's just in spirit." We stopped walking as we reached the parking lot, her ride still nowhere in sight. I pulled out my phone, dialing my mother's nurse to confirm what time the equipment was arriving. Heart monitors, portable IVs, oxygen support-everything needed to bring her home today. Because hospitals never suited her. She hated the sterile air, the echoing silence, the soft pity in nurses' eyes. I knew she wouldn't heal there. I had to bring her back to where love lived.
But while I was mid-call, I heard Orm's voice again-this time a little strained. "Rent's impossible near the hospital. And I can't live too far. My assigned shift starts tomorrow and the schedule is brutal. I've been trying to find someplace since morning..."
I ended my call and turned to her, and maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was reckless. But the words came anyway.
"You can stay with me." She looked stunned. "What?"
"My place," I said again, more certain this time. "It's just me and my mom. You need a place close to the hospital, and I need... help." She blinked. "You want a stranger in your house?"
"I want a doctor in my house," I said with a half-smile, trying to lighten the truth. "I'm bringing my mom home from the hospital tonight. But she's not fully stable yet. She hates staying there, so I've arranged for everything at home. Monitors, meds, nurses. But I still haven't found a full-time in-house doctor who can stay for the next few days." She opened her mouth to argue, and I already knew what she'd say. "I mean, that's kind of a big ask," she said hesitantly. "And we don't even know each other."
"Exactly," I replied gently. "That's why it works." She stared, confused. "I'm not offering out of charity," I continued. "You need a place. I need someone I can trust near my mom. You'll have your own room, it's close to your assigned hospital, and... this solves both our problems."
Orm went quiet for a moment. Her eyes studied me-not suspicious, but cautious. Like she was trying to see if the edges of my words were real or just painted on. And then she softened. "You're serious."
"I am."
She still didn't answer right away. I could see the battle behind her gaze-responsibility against instinct, practicality against whatever unspoken thread had begun to bind us from that first look. "I... I'll think about it," she said. "That's fair," I nodded. "I'll text you my address. If you say no, no hard feelings." And then, because I didn't know what else to do, I added, "And if you say yes... I'll make you the best ginger tea of your life."
She laughed. Genuinely this time.
And I swear-something changed in the air around us. Not the wind. Not the temperature. But something deeper.
"Okay deal" she said.
That Day and Today.
It's Navratri again. One full circle of the moon and sun, and yet-nothing feels the same. Today is Maha Ashtami. The eighth day. The fiercest form of the goddess walks the earth today, and I... I sit suspended in the sky, above clouds that look too soft for the kind of ache inside me. This flight is taking me back. Back to a land I once escaped from. Back to the woman I never truly left. Yes, her. My Orm. I call her that now. Not in front of the world, not out loud-but in the quiet of my chest, she has always been mine. It's taken me a year to gather the broken bones of who I used to be, to break the silence that sat like ash inside my mouth, to look in the mirror and not flinch at the girl who let the most beautiful thing she ever had... walk away.
A year ago, during these same sacred days and nights, Orm stayed with us-just for ten days. Ten days. But she carved herself into our lives like a thousand-year-old prayer being answered softly, without thunder. She lit lamps with my mother every evening, her eyes gentle, her hands steady. She brought holy water each morning, not just for rituals, but with the quiet care of someone who truly believes in healing. And my mother-fragile, fading-began to return. Bit by bit. Color in her cheeks. Warmth in her voice. Hope in her laughter. The doctors hadn't expected it. But it wasn't medicine. It was Orm. Her faith. Her fire. The way she treated every moment like a temple. The way she treated my mother like a story worth saving.
Sometimes, I would stand behind them sometimes-Orm and my mother-watching them talk in Hindi, giggling like old friends. They used to tease me, call me "logic ki dukaan" ( Shop of Logic/ Logic worm) for not understanding half the things they joked about. I'd roll my eyes, but deep down, something warm would curl inside my chest. For the first time, I saw what it meant to belong. To have someone fold themselves into your family like they were always meant to be there.
And in those ten days... something happened between us too. Something unspoken but undeniable. We went from strangers to something dangerously close to soulmates-if such a thing exists. But I never said anything. I couldn't. Because even though I knew how I felt about her... I had no idea how she felt about me. And she wasn't staying. She didn't live here. She had to go back, and I-I was terrified. Of facing her departure. Of the silence that would come after. So I made a decision. I told myself I'd confess when she was about to leave. That I'd gather the courage, even if it shattered me.
But on the day she left, I broke my own promise. She waited for me. My mother waited with her. But I never showed up. I couldn't. I was a coward, and watching her leave... I knew I wouldn't survive it. So I stayed back. In the shadows. Silent. Watching the woman I loved walk away-without knowing that I did.
I didn't contact her. Not once. Not even when my chest ached with every passing day. She reached out-mostly to my mother-and I'd listen quietly from the hallway, heart pounding like a drum I couldn't silence. But I never spoke. Never asked. Never knew whether she still thought of me, or if someone else had taken the space I once dreamed of filling.
And yet, despite all my logic, all my atheism, something in me changed. Drastically. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was the way my mother smiled when she mentioned her name. But I started going to the temple. Every single day. The same one Orm used to drag me to. I sat before a goddess I had once mocked-and I prayed. For my mother's health. For Orm's happiness. For peace to grow in places I never watered. Somewhere in that quiet devotion, I found belief. Not in gods, maybe. But in love. In the possibility that some things are real even when we can't explain them.
And so now-on this sacred day, this fierce, divine Maha Ashtami-I'm returning. With no promises. No expectations. Just this fire in my chest and a heart that's finally ready to speak. I don't know if she's still waiting. I don't know if someone else holds her hand now. But I know this: I'm done running. I'm done hiding behind fear. I'm going to find her. And this time, I will tell her everything. I will fall at her feet if I have to. I will whisper all the words I couldn't that day. That she changed me. That she made a home out of a girl who only knew how to burn her own bridges. That I love her. Always did. Always will.
I was standing in front of her house.
It was 11:30 p.m., the kind of night where the sky forgets its stars but the heart remembers everything it ever tried to bury. A step away from the gate, I stood frozen, my phone opened in my hand, staring at the address I had typed months ago-no, a year ago. A single line that I had secretly saved the day I heard Orm casually share it on a call. I didn't know why I noted it back then. Maybe I didn't want to admit how desperately I clung to anything that led back to her. But now, as I stood here, on the edge of what was once us, I was quietly thankful to my past self.
"Good job," I whispered under my breath. A weak, crooked smile flickered across my lips. And then I looked up. Her house wasn't asleep. It was glowing. From the outside, it looked like it was dressed in celebration-fairy lights shimmering like stars caught in a net, flowers hanging like laughter from the balconies, and the air itself throbbed with the rhythm of instruments and voices. Loud. Alive. But not chaotic.
It wasn't just music. It was devotion.
The beats weren't from any DJ. They were bhajans-devotional songs I remembered Orm once whispering about to my mother. Something about how every Ashtami at their home was marked with a sacred celebration. She had a word for it. Jagran, I think? I wasn't sure. I never paid attention back then.
But standing here, heart pounding, breath shallow, I knew without doubt-this was it.
The very event Orm and my mother had once discussed, sitting side by side like kindred spirits, two women who never needed translation to understand each other. And just as I was about to take a step, someone came and stood right in front of me.
An elderly woman. Stern yet warm. She looked me up and down with careful eyes, eyes that studied people with a history of wisdom. She said something in Hindi. I didn't understand it-of course I didn't. I never bothered to learn Hindi beyond a few scattered phrases. I told myself it was disinterest, but maybe it was denial. A wall I'd built between myself and anything that made me feel too much.
But even without understanding the words, I could feel the question on her face. Her tone was gentle, curious.
So I just said, softly, "Orm. I want to meet Orm." Something in my accent must've told her I wasn't from around here, because her expression softened immediately. She switched to English.
"You're her friend?" she asked, tilting her head. I nodded. She smiled faintly. "Please come inside." And I followed her. We walked through the gate and into what felt like another world.
A garden transformed into a sacred realm. Gigantic statues of deities stood at the center-Mata Rani, as they call her in India. In Thailand, we call her Phra Mae Uma Devi. The divine feminine. Fierce, protective, eternal. Around her stood idols of other gods, the smoke of incense twirling in the air like whispered prayers. A stage had been set, a sacred fire lit, the beginnings of a hawan glowing in gold and red. But what struck me most wasn't the grandeur.
It was peace.
People sat cross-legged on mattresses, palms pressed together, eyes closed or shining with unshed tears as they sang-voices united in worship, surrendering their hearts in the melody of something bigger than themselves. Despite the volume of instruments and amplified sound, it didn't feel like noise. It felt like stillness. A kind of silence that lives inside devotion.
And there I stood, on the edge of this world, a foreigner who once didn't believe. A girl who had mocked these very rituals. But now-now they felt like they were calling me home. The woman who brought me in whispered to someone, probably asking them to fetch Orm. I stood alone, heart thundering in my chest like it knew the storm was coming. One year. One year of silence. One year of ache. One year of every unsaid word lingering between us like a ghost. Would she forgive me? Would she feel what I felt? Or had time taught her how to forget me?
Then-
I saw her.
She was walking in, adjusting the pleats of her saree-a saree, something I never imagined her wearing, and yet... it felt so her. A blend of grace and quiet strength. Crimson borders kissed her skin as if even fabric wanted to worship her. Her hair was half-tied, loose strands falling against her cheek, the glow of temple lights casting halos around her face.
And just as she smoothed the last fold of her saree-She looked up. Her gaze locked with mine. She stopped. Mid-step. Like the earth beneath her paused, just to let the moment breathe. Her eyes widened. Her lips parted-soft, silent, full of disbelief. In that split second, everything else disappeared. The lights. The chants. The people. The gods.
There was just her and me.
Our eyes clung to each other like we were afraid to blink and lose this miracle. And then-I saw it. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. And almost unknowingly, a tear fell from mine too.
Then-she ran.
Her feet barely touched the ground as she rushed toward me.
And I-without thinking, without breathing-dropped my bags and ran to her. The world faded behind us.
And then, suddenly-She was in my arms. Wrapped tightly, desperately, like she wanted to fold herself into my chest and never leave again. Her fingers fisted the back of my kurta, her body trembling like a storm had finally passed but left her raw.
"I hate you," she whispered, voice breaking against my shoulder. "I hate you for disappearing like that...", I held her tighter. "I know... I know... I'm sorry..."
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, her lashes heavy with tears, nose red, face flushed, voice shaking-"I waited for you every single day, Ling... every single day. And then I stopped waiting. Because it hurts too much. But why-why now? Why tonight?", I cupped her face gently, brushing her tears with my thumbs. "Because it's Ashtami. And the goddess you believe in... she finally dragged me here."
Her breath hitched. And then-she broke into another sob, crashing into my chest again like it was the only home she ever wanted. And I held her. I held her like I would never, ever let go again.
The aarti was in full flow. Bells chimed, conches blew, and the rich scent of camphor, sandalwood, and incense filled the air. Everyone stood with folded hands-silent prayers on their lips, eyes closed in devotion. I stood beside her, our shoulders brushing gently. In that sacred stillness, the only sound louder than the bhajans was the thunder of my heart, trying to comprehend that after all the chaos, after all the separation-I was standing next to her again. My Orm.
Once the aarti ended, it was time for everyone to receive it, to take in the warmth of the divine flame and seek blessings. I slowly moved back, standing quietly at the very end, away from the crowd-somehow still half-afraid, still wondering if this moment was even real. And then... she came. Thaal (plate) in her hands, walking softly toward me like a memory stepping out of a prayer. That smile-God, that same heart-arresting smile-appeared on her lips. The smile that had always made my world stop and start at the same time. She held the aarti out to me and said gently, "Take Aarti."
It was the same line. The exact same words she had said to me the first time we met. But this time, she didn't wait for a reply-just like before. She simply closed her eyes, raised the thaal slightly, and with the softest whisper of care, placed her hand on my head and prayed. For me. Again.
But before she could walk away, I reached out. I caught her hand, gently but firmly, and brought it down. And then I did what I had never done before. I placed both my hands over the flame and then moved them to her head-blessing her back. Like my mother had taught me. Like you bless someone you love more than your own soul. For her happiness. Her peace. Her life. Orm's eyes widened, shimmering with a mix of surprise and something else-something warm and full of heart. Joy. She looked at me like I had given her the world.
Someone came and took the thaal from her hand, passing it on for the rest of the crowd. And then-without a second thought-I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around her, pulled her close into a tight embrace. My fingers curled behind her back like I was afraid she'd disappear again. And I kissed her forehead slowly, tenderly-like a promise. Looking into her eyes, I whispered,
"I love you, Orm."
She didn't even blink before whispering back with a teary smile,
"I love you, meri logic ki dukaan."
I chuckled, my heart broke and healed all in one moment. I don't know how the world kept moving. I don't know how the flames still danced, or the bhajans still played. Because for me, everything stood still. All I could feel was her heartbeat against mine. All I could hear was her breath. All I could see were her eyes-wet, soft, and glowing like a miracle. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. No past. No pain. No mistakes.
Just us. Me and Orm.
One day, just casually, my mom looked up from her puja and said, "You know, her name... Orm... it sounds like the Hindu most sacred chant 'OM'-the primal sound of the universe. It means peace, oneness, and creation."
Yes.
Peace. Oneness. Creation.
Of chaos in my chest, and calm in my soul. Of memories, of madness, of moments that refused to fade.
She isn't just named like the chant. She is my chant. My prayer. My answer.