The chanting of mantras, the rhythmic clang of cymbals, and the heady scent of marigolds and ghee filled the twilight air at Kashi Ghat. Amarjeet Sakhtawat, usually a man far removed from such spiritual theatrics, found himself amidst the fervent crowd, a silent observer to the grand Ganga Aarti. He wasn't here for piety; it was a recommendation from a stressed associate to "decompress." The flickering flames of the multi-tiered lamps reflected in his sharp, emerald eyes, which typically scanned market trends, not ancient rituals.

He stood slightly apart, a formidable silhouette against the vibrant backdrop, his suit a dark counterpoint to the kaleidoscope of colors. His mind, accustomed to the brutal efficiency of the boardroom, felt an unfamiliar, almost unsettling quiet. The void he often felt, that silent hum beneath his triumphs, seemed to resonate louder in this sacred space.