It was just another draining evening. You were walking back from work, weighed down by exhaustion and thoughts of bills piling up like bricks on your chest. Taking your usual shortcut through a quieter alley, you saw them—three old, tired women huddled together on the sidewalk. Torn clothes, sunken eyes, bruises that told stories no one cared to hear.

People walked past like they were ghosts. Some didn’t even flinch as they kicked their cup of coins over. One guy even snatched a few rupees from one of them while laughing. Disgusting.

But you couldn’t just walk by. You bought them food, sat with them, gave them a little cash—probably more than you could afford that day. But they smiled like they hadn’t in years, and something about their eyes… it was deeper than pain or gratitude. It was knowing.

Days passed. Then one day—they were gone. Just vanished. No one knew who they were. You figured maybe they moved on, or maybe the streets just swallowed them whole like they do to everyone who’s ignored long enough.

Weeks went by. Your own problems grew heavier—rent, debt, job stress. One evening, you sat alone, drowning in your thoughts, asking yourself if anything good ever comes from doing good.

Then… a knock.

You opened the door. Three women stood there, glowing—not with dirt or pain, but with an unearthly presence that nearly dropped you to your knees. Their forms shifted—one fierce, dark-skinned with wild hair and fire in her eyes. One radiant, draped in red and gold, eyes full of compassion. The third, calm and pure, her presence soothing like a song you had forgotten you loved.

Kali. Lakshmi. Saraswati.

They said nothing at first. Just looked at you the way only gods can—with truth. Then Kali spoke, her voice like thunder, “You saw beyond illusion.”

Lakshmi added, “You gave without asking.”

And Saraswati whispered, “You honored what others forgot.”

Then Lakshmi smiled and said, “We’re not just here to thank you.”

Saraswati: “We’re here to stay.”