Then he saw her.

The next morning, Raghunandan found the rusted Enfield half-buried in the dunes behind Mookaiya's hut. He rebuilt it with his bare hands, using palm leaves for gaskets, coconut oil for lubricant, and a prayer for a spark plug. When the engine roared to life for the first time, a flock of flamingos rose from the Rameswaram lagoon, and Aadhiya — for that was his new name — knew his sadhana had begun. The story I am about to tell you is not found in any Purana. It is whispered in the back rooms of Madurai's tea stalls, sung by lorry drivers on the NH-44, and carved into the bark of a single banyan tree on the outskirts of Tirunelveli. It is called Ezhu Vattam — The Seven Curves.

He turned to Kala. "Take them."

By the sixth curve, the woman in red began to change. Her sari dried. Her hair lifted, no longer wet, but soft as cotton. Her face, once a mask of tragedy, softened into something almost peaceful.