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The clouds rolled low over the pine ridge as guests trickled into the Ekatva Ashram—a retreat known for cleansing the soul and disconnecting from worldly noise. Phones were surrendered at the gate, leaving only whispered chants, herbal tea, and silence in the marble corridors.
Sahana Bedi, a 28-year-old lifestyle influencer with over two million followers, was the guest of honor. Her series on “Post-Digital Peace” had gone viral, and her arrival caused subtle stirrings beneath the tranquility. She had booked the topmost chamber—the sixth-floor meditation suite that overlooked the valley.
Her final livestream, a shaky video capturing birdsong and filtered light between tall Himalayan cedars, ended at 6:52 PM on Friday. By sunrise on Saturday, she was found sprawled lifeless on the mossy courtyard stones—six floors below her locked chamber.
The window latch had been jammed from the inside. There was no balcony. Her bedroom door was unlocked, but the personal attendant swore no one entered that night. No scream, no scuffle, no trace of anyone else. A peaceful retreat, shattered by a senseless fall.
Most believed she had leapt. Her mother insisted otherwise.
“You’re telling me she left behind a skincare launch, twelve sponsored contracts, and two cats?” she told the retreat’s founder, Swami Revaananda, whose white robes rustled nervously. “She wasn’t depressed. She called me laughing just two hours before.”
Suspicion rippled through the ashram. Among the twenty-five attendees, five had prior interactions with Sahana. Each claimed it was purely coincidental.
Priyanka Awasthi, a wellness blogger from Delhi, held long breathwork sessions and denied any competitiveness. “She was always top-tier,” Priyanka said. “No use competing with someone the algorithm already worships.”
Dr. Rajaram Vaid, a neuroscientist turned spiritual counselor, offered vague philosophical takes on death until he was asked if he knew Sahana from before. He paused. “Only virtually. She once interviewed me for a calmness module, that’s all.”
There was Aarav Seth, the disarmingly quiet IT consultant who had not spoken to anyone since the incident. Not even when asked directly.
CCTV was useless—cameras were forbidden. The retreat’s only electronics were the solar switches and Sahana’s contraband GoPro, which was missing.
Three days passed, and whispers darkened: favoritism from the Swami, secret indulgences, rumors of a therapy session gone wrong.
It was Anika, the shy visitor from Mumbai recovering from a divorce, who noticed something odd about the room’s window. “Isn’t it strange?” she said to the caretaker. “The latch can’t be opened from inside without a very specific flick to the right. My suite has the same design.”
The caretaker resisted, then revealed that only five windows had been replaced last month—on Swami’s order.
On Thursday night, Anika sat quietly in the communal library, watching shadows move across the lawn. At 2:14 AM, she saw a glow near the maintenance shed. She slipped out in socks, undetected.
The shed was unlocked. Inside lay the missing GoPro—cracked but intact. Its final recording showed a meditative Sahana speaking directly to the camera. She stood near her sixth-floor window, whispering urgently: “I don’t trust him. Dr. Vaid—the way he stares when I talk about digital trauma. He knew things… things I’ve never told anyone. I think he’s been accessing private wellness logs.”
The screen flickered. A minute later, the frame tilted. A man’s figure entered without sound, walking slowly. Sahana turned, startled.
Then static.
In the next community session, Anika hid the camera beneath her shawl and played the clip on a borrowed laptop. The authorities were sent for.
The breakthrough came when Aarav Seth finally spoke. “I built the ashram’s scheduling software. Dr. Vaid requested anonymous access to session notes—he said it was for ‘pattern analysis.’ I thought it was authorized.”
Confronted, Dr. Rajaram Vaid broke. “She was ungrateful,” he hissed. “Do you know what digital rot does to minds? I helped people detox. She was going to expose the entire retreat as a branding experiment. You think this place runs on incense?”
He had entered using a master key disguised as a prayer pendant. The window had been sabotaged weeks ago to swing outward if pressure was applied at a hidden angle. A ‘spiritual cleansing fall,’ intended to look like suicide.
He might have gotten away with it—if not for Anika.
Later, as investigators packed up, Swami Revaananda said quietly to Anika, “Sometimes, new eyes see what surrendered minds ignore.”
She simply nodded, tucked the shawl tighter, and prepared to board the silent bus back to Shimla, carrying the only souvenir that mattered: the truth.
