Pawangadh: The Unfinished Love Story
Part 1: A Royal Decree and a False Humility
The air in the palace of Pawangadh thrummed with a quiet, pervasive joy. It wasn't the clamour of a festival, but the deep, settled satisfaction of a long-awaited promise coming to fruition. The scent of night-blooming jasmine and sandalwood incense wove through the corridors, carrying whispers of celebration.
In the sun-drenched private chambers, Maharani Sushira's hands trembled slightly as she held the freshly sealed scroll. Her eyes, usually pools of serene authority, shimmered with unshed tears of pure happiness. She looked at her husband, Maharaja Anilraj, who stood by the latticed window, a soft, proud smile playing on his lips.
Maharani Sushira: (Her voice a hushed, reverent thing) "It is done, then? Truly done?"
Maharaja Anilraj: (Turning, his smile widening) "It is, my dear. The final agreement is sealed. Our friend Pratham and his queen, Revanta, have given their whole-hearted blessings. Our Vayansh will wed their Dhara. The alliance we dreamed of in their cradles is now a reality."
A single, crystalline tear escaped the Queen's control, tracing a path down her powdered cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "I remember... I remember when they were both learning to walk. She would stumble, and he would run, not to help her up, but to stumble beside her so she wouldn't feel alone. Time... time is a thief, but also a kind giver."
The King nodded, crossing the room to place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "He will be pleased. We must tell him."
"Let me," the Queen said, her voice firming with maternal purpose. "Let me be the one to give our son this news."
She found Prince Vayansh not in the training grounds or the stables, but in his study. He was bent over a ledger, his brow furrowed in concentration, the afternoon sun glinting off the silver inkpot. The sight of him, so earnest, so responsible, swelled her heart further.
Maharani Sushira: (Leaning against the doorframe) "So immersed in numbers, my prince? Does the kingdom's treasury hold more fascination than your mother today?"
Vayansh started, then a genuine, warm smile lit up his face as he saw her. He rose swiftly, crossing the room to press his forehead to her outstretched hand in a respectful pranam. "Forgive me, Mother. The columns of numbers never protest or offer opinions. They are... simpler company. What brings you here? Your eyes... they are brighter than usual."
She guided him to a set of plush cushions by the window, waiting until he sat. She took his hands in hers, her touch cool and gentle. "We have news, Vayansh. News of your future."
His expression shifted from curiosity to guarded attentiveness. "My future?"
"We have finalized your marriage alliance," she said, watching his face closely. "With Bhoomigadh. With Princess Dhara."
A reaction flickered across Vayansh's features—too fast to fully decipher. A slight, almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. A faint darkening of his eyes. Then, it was gone, smoothed over by years of royal discipline. He lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening minutely around hers before relaxing.
Vayansh: (His voice carefully neutral) "You and Father have decided. I am... grateful for your consideration of my life's path."
The Queen's sharp eyes missed nothing. She saw the controlled breath, the lowered lashes. She decided to test the waters. "Tell me truthfully, son. Are you content with this? With Dhara? We know you were childhood companions, but companionship is not always affection. If your heart leans elsewhere... say the word. Your happiness is our only treaty."
Vayansh's head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers with a flash of something raw—panic?—before the shutters came down again. He looked away, out the window where a pair of sarus cranes danced in the distant pond. "My personal... feelings are irrelevant, Mother. Father has made a decision in the best interest of Pawangadh. My duty is to obey. My happiness lies in fulfilling that duty."
For a long moment, the Queen was silent. Then, a low, melodic laugh bubbled from her lips. She reached out and pinched his cheek, a gesture from his boyhood he had long outgrown. "Oh, my foolish, noble son! We were teasing you! Testing your resolve! Of course we know! The way your letters from the Gurukul spoke of 'the gardens of Bhoomigadh' and 'the clever insights of a fellow student'... a mother knows. We adore Dhara. She has been a daughter in our hearts since she was a babe. And we have seen your heart in your eyes every time her name was mentioned since you were tall enough to look me in mine."
The rigid line of Vayansh's shoulders collapsed. The colour that had drained from his face returned in a warm, creeping blush that spread from his neck to the tips of his ears. He tried to maintain his composure, but a helpless, boyish smile broke through, transforming his serious face. He looked down at his hands, suddenly unable to meet her triumphant gaze.
Vayansh: (Mumbling, the perfect prince utterly undone) "It was... it was that obvious?"
"Only to those who love you," she said, her voice softening. "The wedding will be soon. Start thinking of which friends to summon. The celebrations will be the talk of the kingdom."
She swept out, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and the echo of her joyful laughter. The moment the door clicked shut, Vayansh sank back onto the cushions. He brought his hands to his face, but this time, not to hide distress. A shuddering sigh of pure, unadulterated relief escaped him. Then, a smile—not the small, polite one he offered in court, but a wide, incredulous, radiant smile that reached his eyes and made them shine—spread across his face. He leaned his head back against the sun-warmed wall, closing his eyes, letting the reality wash over him. The years of silent admiration, the carefully worded letters, the memories of a girl with earth-smudged hands and a laugh like wind chimes... it was all leading here. To her.
---
Part 2: A Painful Invitation
A few days later, Vayansh penned an invitation. The ink was the finest blue-black, the paper thick and creamy. Each character was formed with deliberate care, as if the act of writing itself was part of the ceremony. He sanded it, sprinkled a drop of his personal sandalwood oil on the corner, sealed it with his princely sigil in dark green wax, and entrusted it to his fastest courier.
---
In another kingdom...
Prince Akash was in the palace gardens, a carved chaupar board between him and his friend Pranav. The evening was cool, the sky a tapestry of orange and purple. Akash was winning, his mind strategically navigating the ivory pieces, a small, relaxed smile on his face. It was a rare moment of peace.
A palace guard approached, bowing low. "Your Highness. A message has arrived for you."
Akash accepted the sealed scroll, his smile fading into polite curiosity. He broke the seal—a sigil he recognized immediately. His heart gave a familiar, pleasant lurch. Vayansh. His Gurukul brother. It had been too long.
Pranav: "Good news, I hope? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"From Pawangadh," Akash said, unrolling the parchment. "From Vayansh."
He began to read. The first line was a warm greeting. The second, an inquiry about his health. The third...
The third line seemed to blur. The neat, familiar script swam before his eyes. The pleasant lurch in his chest turned into a violent, sickening squeeze. The blood drained from his face so swiftly he felt light-headed. The parchment, suddenly heavy as stone, trembled in his grip.
Pranav: (Alarmed, leaning forward) "Akash? What is it? What does it say?"
Akash couldn't speak. His throat had closed. He could only stare at the words, each one a tiny, precise dagger.
...my marriage to Princess Dhara of Bhoomigadh has been settled... I invite you to attend... please come a few days early...
The world narrowed to that name. Dhara.
Slowly, mechanically, he handed the parchment to Pranav. His hand was ice-cold.
Pranav scanned the lines, his own face paling. "Marriage? To... to Princess Dhara? But... Akash, you... you love her. You told me! You speak of her in your sleep sometimes!"
Akash didn't seem to hear. He was staring at the chaupar board, but he wasn't seeing it. He was seeing a memory: Dhara, years younger, her hair in a messy braid, arguing passionately about star constellations during a Gurukul astronomy lesson. He was hearing her voice.
Finally, he spoke, his voice strangely detached, as if commenting on the weather. "Yes. I do. I have. Since... since I knew what the feeling was."
"Then why didn't you ever say anything?" Pranav's voice was a furious whisper. "You're a prince! You could have sent a proposal! You could have—"
"I was afraid," Akash interrupted, the detachment cracking. A hollow, painful sound escaped him, not quite a laugh. "Afraid she would say no. Afraid my feelings were a foolish boy's infatuation. Afraid of... of this. Of finding out she was always meant for someone else. Someone better." He looked at Pranav, his eyes horrifically empty. "They were childhood friends, you know. Vayansh and her. They had a history. I was just... the other friend. The one who watched."
Pranav's anger dissolved into helpless pity. "So what will you do? Will you go?"
Akash closed his eyes. A long, shuddering breath escaped him, making his whole frame tremble. "I have to. He is my friend. And I... I need to see it. I need to see the end of the story I was too cowardly to write myself. I need to watch her become his, so that this... this hope inside me can finally die."
"You shouldn't go alone," Pranav said firmly.
A ghost of Akash's old spirit flickered in his eyes—a prince used to command. "You will come with me, Pranav."
"Me? But I'm not—"
"You are my friend," Akash stated, his voice gaining a shred of strength. "And at this moment, I need my friend more than I need my title. You will come. I will not face that... that ceremony alone."
Pranav saw the raw plea beneath the order. He nodded, placing a steadying hand on Akash's arm. "Then I will be there. Every step of the way."
---
Part 3: The Solitary Lament
Back in the sanctity of his chambers, the carefully constructed composure shattered. Akash didn't make it to his bed. His legs gave way halfway across the room, and he slid down the cold marble wall until he was seated on the floor, knees drawn to his chest.
The invitation lay beside him, a benign-looking thing that had detonated his world.
He looked at his hands—the hands that had secretly sketched her profile in the margins of his scrolls, that had clumsily tried to braid friendship bracelets like the ones she made. He remembered the scent of rain-wet earth that always clung to her, a scent he would catch sometimes on the wind and stop dead, heart hammering.
A sound escaped him—a dry, cracked thing that was meant to be a sob but held no tears. The well was too deep for tears.
Why? The question was a silent scream in the luxurious silence of his room. Why is everything I love taken from me? First my mother, when I was too young to even understand loss. And now... Dhara. Is there something in me that is unworthy of love? Some flaw that dooms any affection I feel to be unreturned?
He pressed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes, seeing bursts of colour in the darkness. The imagined scene played out behind his eyelids: Dhara in resplendent red and gold, a shy smile on her face as she looked at Vayansh. Vayansh, proud and happy, placing the garland around her neck. The cheers of the crowd. His own hands, clapping, while inside, everything turned to ash.
He would have to smile. He would have to clasp Vayansh's shoulder, offer his congratulations in a steady voice. He would have to look at her, meet her eyes, and wish her a lifetime of happiness without a single flicker of his own ruin showing on his face.
The magnitude of the performance required made him feel faint.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. He walked to the full-length mirror of polished bronze. The young man who looked back was pale, his eyes haunted, the shadows beneath them pronounced. The face of a prince, but the eyes of a ghost.
He took a deep, ragged breath, forcing his shoulders back. He smoothed his rumpled tunic. He practiced in the mirror.
First, a neutral expression. Blank. Acceptable.
Then, the corners of his mouth lifted. A small, polite smile. The one for distant dignitaries.
He pushed further. A wider smile, reaching the eyes. The smile of a happy friend celebrating a joyous occasion.
He held it. For three seconds. Five. The muscles in his cheeks ached. His eyes, in the reflection, remained dead.
It would have to do. It was the armour he would wear to survive the wedding. A mask of joy over a landscape of desolation.
He turned away from the mirror, the false smile dropping from his face like a discarded veil. Inside, the quiet, desolate weeping of a heart learning to beat around a newly formed void began—a soundless, endless lament for a love that had bloomed in secret and would now wither, unseen and unacknowledged, in the glaring light of another man's happiness.