He nodded. "And you are Nandana. My joyful one. But there’s a third name they gave you. Soumya. Gentle light. Do you know why?"
The bell rang one last time—softly, like a question answered.
The bell was still swaying gently when she arrived. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, she saw a boy sitting on the temple step. He was dark as a monsoon cloud, with peacock feathers tucked behind his ear, and he was eating butter from a clay pot with his fingers. nandana krishna soumya
And she would go back to lighting a small bronze lamp, humming a tune no one else could hear.
She shook her head.
When Nandana woke up the next morning, she was in her own bed, her feet still dusty from the temple floor. The bell never rang at midnight again. But something had changed inside her.
Nandana Krishna Soumya was named by her grandmother, who had insisted on all three names. "Nandana" means daughter, the one who brings joy. "Krishna" was for the dark, playful god. "Soumya" meant gentle, soft, and luminous. It was a heavy cargo of meaning for a single child, but Nandana grew into each name like a tree growing into the hollows of a rock. He nodded
She looked at the bell. She looked at his smile. She remembered her grandmother's stories—the one about the god who loved butter, who played the flute, who pulled the universe like a toy on a string.