Nandita sat in the quiet solitude of the library, surrounded by towering shelves filled with books. The soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of pages being turned were the only sounds that broke the silence. Her eyes were glued to a pile of books in front of her, each one promising answers about hallucinations, visions, and altered states of consciousness. She flipped through pages of dense medical texts, looking for scientific explanations. Words like "temporal lobe epilepsy," "schizophrenia," "sleep paralysis," and "Charles Bonnet syndrome" popped up repeatedly. Temporal lobe epilepsy, she read, could cause vivid religious visions due to abnormal electrical activity in the brain's temporal lobes, which are associated with processing emotions and memories. Schizophrenia, often characterized by hallucinations and delusions, could manifest as religious experiences or visions of divine beings. Charles Bonnet syndrome explained how visually impaired people could see things that weren't there—a result of the brain trying to compensate for a lack of visual input. She scanned articles and case studies on how intense stress, sleep deprivation, or even certain substances could trigger such experiences. The scientific explanations were clear and thorough, yet Nandita couldn't shake the feeling that the visions she was investigating were somehow different—too vivid, too real to be merely figments of a malfunctioning brain. 

As she read on, fatigue washed over her, and her eyelids grew heavy. She tried to fight it, but exhaustion took over, and she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, her head resting on the open pages of a medical journal. Much later, Nandita was jolted awake by a gentle tap on her shoulder. 

A stranger stood over her, an older woman with a kind expression. "The library's closing," the woman said softly. Nandita, still groggy, nodded and gathered her things, offering a quick thanks before heading out. 

Back home, Nandita sank into her couch, the emptiness of her apartment glaringly obvious. She pulled out her phone, but there were no messages, no missed calls. She didn't have friends to check in on her—her relentless pursuit of knowledge and her career had left little room for personal connections. She glanced at a framed photograph on her living room wall, showing her with her parents, smiling on a sunny day. Nandita stared at the picture, her parents' faces looking back at her with warmth and love.

A bitter scoff escaped her lips, and the quiet of her apartment seemed to amplify her simmering anger. She grabbed the photo frame, her fingers tightening around it as if she could squeeze the answers out of it. "God?" she muttered, her voice laced with contempt. "Where is this God everyone talks about?" The memories of her childhood flooded back—the early mornings when her parents would wake her up for prayers, their hands folded, eyes closed, filled with faith. 

They would drag her along to temples, insisting she bow before the idols and murmur prayers she didn't understand. They believed so fervently, always praying for protection, health, and prosperity. Her mother's voice, gentle but firm, would often say, "Trust in God, Nandita. He is always watching over us." 

"Watching over us?" Nandita spat, her voice rising as she glared at the photo. "What a joke. You prayed every day, and for what? You were ripped away in that stupid accident, and I was left alone. All those prayers, all that devotion, and what did it get us? Nothing! If God was watching, where was He when you needed Him the most?" Her voice wavered as the anger transformed into a familiar, dull ache of grief. She could still remember the day of the accident—the police officers at the door, the sterile smell of the hospital, the unbearable silence as doctors delivered the news. Her parents, the two people she trusted most in the world, taken away in an instant. No divine intervention, no miraculous save. Just cold, hard reality. "Prayers, rituals, temples... it's all meaningless," she continued, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "You put your faith in something that doesn't exist. All those years of worship, and for what? You died just like anyone else, like those who never prayed a day in their lives. It didn't matter. God didn't care. Maybe He's not even real." 

Nandita felt the familiar sting of loneliness clawing at her insides. She had spent years burying her grief under layers of skepticism and scientific reasoning, convincing herself that it was better this way. Better to believe in nothing than to have hope and lose it all. She had thrown herself into her work, her studies, her career—anything to avoid the emptiness that followed the loss of her parents. She stared at the picture of her smiling parents, mocking her with their serene expressions, as if they still held onto the faith she had long abandoned. "I'm never going to step into a temple again," she whispered fiercely, her voice breaking. "I don't need a God who doesn't care, who takes and takes without reason. I've been fine without Him, and I'll continue to be. I don't need protection that doesn't exist." 

Just as the words left her lips, Nandita felt a strange sensation, as if the room around her was dissolving. Her vision blurred, and she was pulled into a vivid scene that felt more real than any dream.

She found herself standing in a vast, open field, the air thick with the scent of burning sandalwood and flowers. The ground was soaked in hues of gold and red, as if it were painted with the colors of sunset. In the distance, she saw a figure she recognized from ancient tales—King Harishchandra, known for his unwavering commitment to truth and dharma. He was kneeling before a simple pyre, his face etched with grief and unyielding resolve. Despite being a righteous king, Harishchandra had faced immense suffering. In the vision, she saw Harishchandra losing his kingdom, enduring poverty, and even being separated from his family—all because of a divine test.

The vision unfolded with stark clarity. She saw Harishchandra's wife, Shaivya, in tattered clothes, her eyes hollow from endless weeping. She was cradling their son, whose lifeless body lay across her lap. Shaivya's cries echoed through the field, piercing Nandita's heart. Harishchandra, bound by his duty and honesty, approached them. His steps were slow and burdened as if each one was a struggle against an invisible force. He was forced to perform his son's last rites, his hands trembling as he held the ladle to pour the sacred water. The fire crackled, and Harishchandra's voice broke as he chanted the prayers, each word a painful reminder of his loss. His tears fell onto the flames, sizzling away before they could reach the ground.

The vision conveyed a clear message: even the good and righteous endure pain and suffering. In the grand scheme, these trials were part of a divine plan, a test of character and faith. Harishchandra's eyes, though filled with tears, shone with a strange light—unwavering faith that, despite his losses, he was fulfilling his destiny.

A divine voice echoed through the air, powerful yet gentle, as if spoken from the heavens. It spoke of how Harishchandra's trials were necessary to uphold his dharma and that through his suffering, he achieved great spiritual merit. "What has to happen will happen, no matter how much one prays or how virtuous one is," the voice said. "Good people also have to die, for death is a part of life, and every soul must fulfill its destiny."

The vision shifted, and Nandita found herself standing at the edge of the battlefield of Kurukshetra. She was surrounded by a swirling mass of warriors, the sound of clashing weapons and battle cries filling the air. In the chaos, she spotted a solitary figure standing tall—Abhimanyu, the young warrior who had bravely entered the Chakravyuha, knowing he might not come out alive. His face, though young, bore the determination of a seasoned warrior. Nandita watched as he fought valiantly, surrounded on all sides by enemies. She could see every detail: the beads of sweat on his forehead, the streaks of blood on his armor, the resolve in his eyes. Even in the face of certain death, Abhimanyu did not waver. His death was not in vain but a sacrifice for the greater good, a necessary part of the larger cosmic order.

As Abhimanyu fell, the ground beneath Nandita trembled, and she was pulled into yet another scene. This time, she was a young girl again, standing at her parents' funeral. The sky was overcast, mirroring the heavy grief in her heart. Her relatives surrounded her, their faces somber as they performed the last rites. Nandita watched herself standing alone, too shocked to cry, her eyes searching desperately for her parents among the sea of mourners. The air was thick with the scent of incense, and the sound of the priests chanting prayers felt distant, like a murmur through a fog. But in the vision, something was different. Behind her younger self, she saw familiar figures—her grandparents, uncles, and aunts, their hands gently resting on her shoulders, offering comfort and support. Though her parents were gone, she was surrounded by family who cared for her, a quiet but powerful presence of love. Their touch, their whispers of reassurance, the way they held her close—all were acts of love she had overlooked in her grief.

The scene changed again, this time showing Nandita on the day of a crucial medical exam. She was stuck in a traffic jam, anxiety coursing through her veins as the minutes ticked by. Her heart raced as she glanced at the clock, knowing she wouldn't make it in time. Suddenly, the traffic lights malfunctioned, allowing her lane to clear unexpectedly. She sped through, arriving just in time for the exam. The vision zoomed in on her trembling hands as she took the test, each question blurring into the next. Her performance was below par, but her teachers saw potential in her, their eyes filled with encouragement rather than judgment. Despite her mistakes, they allowed her to pass, seeing in her a promise she couldn't see in herself. She realized how, even in her moments of perceived failure, she was given second chances, support, and guidance she hadn't acknowledged.

Another image appeared—Nandita asleep in the library, unaware of a man with a sinister look approaching her. His footsteps were silent, his intent dark. But before he could reach her, the kind stranger from earlier today—the older woman with the gentle eyes—stepped in. She shooed the man away with a stern look, her presence alone enough to ward off danger. The stranger's face softened as she turned to Nandita, her hand resting on Nandita's shoulder as she gently woke her. In that moment, Nandita saw not just a stranger but a guardian, an unrecognized protector who had watched over her when she was most vulnerable.

The vision continued to reveal more moments from her life, like a tapestry woven from threads of unseen care and kindness. She saw the young boy who had returned her lost wallet without taking anything, the neighbor who had silently left food by her door during her busiest nights of studying, the professor who had noticed her struggles and offered extra tutoring without asking for anything in return. Each scene was a testament to the invisible hand guiding and protecting her, the quiet, everyday miracles that had gone unnoticed.

A passage from the Bhagavad Gita resonated in the air, wrapping around her like a warm embrace:

"For the one who has been born, death is certain, and for the one who has died, birth is certain. Therefore, you should not lament over the inevitable."

The words sank deep into her heart, soothing the raw wounds of her grief. The scenes shifted one last time, and she found herself in a vast, serene space filled with a golden light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. She couldn't see any figures, but she felt a presence—profound, gentle, and all-encompassing. It was as if the universe itself was watching over her, whispering assurances she had longed to hear.

Another voice followed, serene and omniscient:

"I am seated in the hearts of all living beings. From Me come memory, knowledge, and forgetfulness." (Bhagavad Gita)

The message was clear—God is always watching over us, guiding our steps, and doing what is best, even if we cannot understand it at the moment. The divine presence wasn't just in temples or rituals but woven into the fabric of her everyday life, in every act of kindness and every moment of grace.

Nandita was pulled back to her apartment, her eyes brimming with tears. The vision had touched her deeply, revealing the unseen presence that had been with her all along. She looked at the photograph of her parents, not with anger but with a tender smile. Too emotionally drained to question the experience, she surrendered to the truth she had been shown. For the first time in years, she felt a sense of comfort, knowing that she was not alone. She fell asleep with the peace of someone who had found solace in the idea that someone, somewhere, was always watching over her.