This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Swimming-Asparagus81 on 2026-07-30 20:06:29+00:00.

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I didn’t go to Ashara searching for God. I went because eight-year old Kiara had some homework.

She was bouncing on the plane seat across from me, feet swinging, eyes wide. “Ayan, what if I get first prize?”

I grinned. “Oh, you won’t.”

Her face crumpled.

I nudged her, “They’ll have to disqualify you kiddo. Too much cuteness, it’s unfair to the other kids.”

Mira, by the window, aimed a world-class eye roll at me. Naina, Mira’s older sister, just shook her head. Naina's husband Rohit, chuckled. Kiara, their daughter, giggled. I wasn’t related to any of them. I was just Mira’s best friend. Somehow, over the years, they’d quietly adopted me anyway.

Kiara’s assignment was simple. Know Your Origins. The whole class had to learn about their family’s roots. About the culture, stories, and the place.

For Kiara, that place was Ashara. For me? It was really just a fantastic excuse.

I’d always wondered what Ashara was like. Partly because one of my favourite movies were filmed here. Partly because people can’t shut up about how beautiful it is. And partly to see the land that once saw baby Mira and thought, “Let’s cut this one loose in the wild.”

So when I heard they were taking the trip, I acted like any responsible and mature adult would. I went to their house, created a full blown melodrama till they concluded it was easier for me to tag along than hearing me rant.

And, look, Ashara really is beautiful. The hills. The rain. The tea gardens. The endless stories. Actually, it’s the stories that got me most. I just didn’t know one would end up following me home.

The first few days were perfect. Gavaran , the capital city of Ashara felt like it remembered things the rest of us had forgotten. Kiara hunted facts for her project. Naina shared bits from her childhood. Rohit turned into our unofficial tour guide. Mira turned storyteller. Every street, every hill, every river, each one had a fable or a ghost, or both. I soaked it all up.

Then we reached Nyara temple.

Even from far off you could see the crowd. Pilgrims, aghoris, tourists, tantriks, police. Every road spilling over with people. Inside, after the blessing, a priest handed us prasad and mentioned the temple would shut down for three days starting tomorrow.

I shot Mira a look. “What’s going on?”

She looked at me like I’d failed a basic test. “You don’t know?”

I shrugged. “No.”

“Tomorrow is the first day of Pranubati.”

I frowned. The name rang a bell. Oh, right. That festival.

“The menstruation festival?” I said, maybe a little too loudly.

She gave a little frown and a sharp elbow in my belly. A nearby old woman glared at me.

“Have some respect,” Mira whispered.

“I’m trying to understand,” I said.

So she started explaining the whole thing. The mythology, the goddess, her annual period, why the temple closes, then reopens. Everything.

At first, I was curious. Then, honestly, I got confused. By the end, I was just irritated.

“Wait,” I said. “So it is believed the goddess menstruates once a year during this time and the temple shuts down for three days?”

“Yes,” Mira replied.

“For real?”

She just held my gaze. The whole thing sounded absurd.

That night, the argument continued at the hotel. Me vs. Mira at first. Then Naina waded in. Then Rohit.

“You’re missing the point,” Mira insisted.

“I get the point,” I told her. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

Naina folded her arms. “Go on, explain.”

I pointed at the temple on the hill. “Nyara is the goddess of fertility, creation, sexuality. Everyone calls menstruation sacred. So… why close the temple?”

Nobody answered right away.

“If she’s divine the rest of the time, she’s divine now too,” I pressed.

“She is,” Mira said.

“Then worship her,” I shot back.

“We do.”

“No, you don’t.” I didn’t mean for it to sound so harsh, but the words just slipped out. “The temple literally shuts.”

“It’s symbolic,” she said.

“It’s contradictory.”

Silence.

I leaned in. “Look, maybe I’m wrong. But isn’t this suspiciously close to how real women were - still are - treated during their periods?”

Now Naina frowned. “In what way?”

“I mean, for ages, women were pushed aside, separated when they had their period. There was always a reason or excuse. Rest, health, tradition, whatever. Different words, same result.”

I pointed at the temple again. “Now the goddess menstruates, and the same thing happens. The worship stops. The doors close. Access denied. And we call this respect?”

Finally Rohit chimed in. “You think this is patriarchal, don’t you?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Maybe not on purpose, but yeah.”

The word just hung there. Patriarchal. Not exactly light conversation, especially mixed in with religion and tradition.

Mira looked uncomfortable, not angry. More like she wanted to be anywhere else.

“You’re turning a sacred tradition into woke politics,” she said.

“I’m asking one thing,” I replied. “If menstruation is truly sacred, why is it the only time we can’t go inside?”

No one answered.

The next day, I took my question to a priest outside the closed temple gates. Tried to argue my way in. Big mistake.

He was old, thin, and somehow looked angry at everything. “You think you know better than centuries of tradition?”

“No…”

“Then stop questioning.”

“I question people. Not gods.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’d be surprised how little difference there is.” Something about him grated on me. Maybe the certainty, maybe the arrogance, maybe because I’ve seen that I-am-the-final-authority look before, from politicians, teachers, managers, priests. It always says "Obey first, understand later. "

I hate that look.

He pointed at the temple. “The goddess requires seclusion.”

“Why?”

“Because that is her will.”

“How do you know?”

His jaw tightened. “Faith.”

I almost laughed, but stopped myself. Instead, I just walked away, even more convinced that nobody actually had an answer. Just lines they’d been taught to repeat.

I bumped into a younger priest.

“Sorry,” I told him.

He was gentle. Easy to talk to.

“You upset him,” he said lightly.

“The angry priest?” I asked.

He smiled. “The very one.”

I ended up laughing.

Then he asked, “Why does all this get under your skin?”

I wanted to answer, but it wasn’t simple. This wasn’t really about religion, politics or tradition. It was about hypocrisy. I kept thinking about the woman I knew. How often people said menstruation was natural. Sacred. Then acted like it was shameful. Treated it differently. Always a contradiction.

“No goddess deserves to be hidden away,” I finally said.

The young priest just listened. Didn’t interrupt, didn’t bristle.

“If she’s powerful, worship her. If she’s sacred, worship her. If she’s menstruating, still worship her. If she actually stands for women, isn’t closing the temple an insult?”

He nodded and said something I wasn’t expecting “I understand.”

I blinked. “Really?”

He nodded again. “Though, I disagree.”

“Why?”

He glanced at the hill. “Some doors aren’t closed to keep people out. They’re closed because people mistake seeing for understanding.”

The reply irritated me. It was the kind of thing that sounds deep but dodges the question. So I just stood up.

“That’s not an answer.”

He gave a faint, sad smile. “No. It won’t be.”

I tried to put it out of my mind, but it stuck. Not because he disagreed. I’m used to that. But because he never even tried to defend the tradition. He didn’t quote scripture. He didn’t get angry. He just listened, then dropped a puzzle on my head and left me to figure it out.

“People mistake seeing for understanding.”

It sounded profound and meaningless at the same time. I hated that. The kind of answer that’s impossible to challenge, but also impossible to accept. By lunch I was still chewing it over. By dinner, annoyed that I couldn’t let it go. At midnight, still wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

Rain tapped the windows. Everyone else was asleep in their rooms. Mira had sent me her usual quota of reels on Instagram and had wished me goodnight. I replayed the argument over and over.The contradiction just wouldn’t let me be.

I tossed, stared at the ceiling, gave up, wandered out onto the balcony. Gavaran’s lights glittered under the clouds. I could just make out the shape of the temple far away. Just… there. Watching, almost.

Just as I was about to go inside, I caught movement on the street. Someone stood below, staring up at me. Still. The rain made everything blurry. Might’ve been a man. Could’ve been a woman. Maybe they waved? And then lightning flashed and poof. The road was empty.

I just stood there. Nothing but rain and the city and my imagination. I shook my head. Way too many horror movies. Way too many discussions with Mira.

I went back inside.

Then the dream occurred. Not a nightmare. The difference matters. A nightmare whips you around. The dream felt constructed, like someone was showing me something.

Stone corridors, endless, down into the earth, lit with oil lamps. Every few steps, there’d be a doorway. Inside each one, a woman. Young, old, queen, farmer, child, grandmother- thousands. None of them spoke or moved, just watched as I passed. Not angry nor welcoming. Just waiting.

At the end, an ancient, massive door covered in symbols. I knew I was meant to open it. I reached for the handle, fingers grazing it, and I bolted awake, sweating, heart racing. 3:03 AM. For one split second, it felt like someone was standing right beside my ...

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