The palace had stirred awake with laughter that morning—long before the sun climbed its peak.

In the central courtyard, women had already gathered in clusters. Their bangles clinked in rhythm, their voices rising in age-old wedding songs—verses passed from one generation to the next, stitched with flirtation, teasing, blessings, and light-hearted warnings for the bride.

Two women clapped in unison while one sang, swaying her hips with theatrical flair while some younger girls began dancing, twirling in half-circles, their anklets singing on the sun-warmed stone. There was music in the air. Joy that demanded no permission.

Nanda stood near one of the stone columns, clapping gently along with the rhythm. Beside her, Damini draped in a crisp paithani and her hair pulled into an elegant bun—smiled as she watched the courtyard come alive.

"I don't remember the last time the palace looked this happy," Damini said, her voice relaxed for once.

"Maybe because we haven't had much to celebrate in a while," Nanda replied.

Damini nodded, then turned slightly, scanning the corridor. "Where is our bride?"

"She was getting her hair done," Nanda murmured, "Kanika's with her."

"Well, we don't have all day," Damini said, and then called out, "Gauri! Go fetch Jahnvi. It's time the bride stepped into her song."

Gauri emerged from behind a cluster of women, laughing breathlessly her ink blue saree bringing out the flush of her cheeks. "I've been trying to keep the little girls from drinking the mehendi oil, Kaki saheb. You owe me a reward."

"You will get your reward after all ceremonies get done. Now go," Damini waved her hand.

With a dramatic sigh and an eye-roll Gauri turned and made her way inside.

But just as she reached the main corridor, the sound of soft anklets brushing stone caught everyone's attention.

Jahnvi was already on her way.

She stepped out into the courtyard slowly, Kanika walking just behind her, her hands holding the folds of Jahnvi's green silk sari so it wouldn't drag. The fabric shimmered with soft gold zari work at the borders, catching flecks of sunlight as she moved. Her hair was braided in a long plait, adorned with mogra and little sprigs of tulsi tucked near her ear. A single emerald droplet hung from her neck, resting just above her collarbone.

The songs did not stop, but they faltered—for just a beat.

There was something striking about her entrance. Not grand. Not regal. But quietly luminous. A kind of softness that drew the eyes.

"You came down without being summoned. Impressive ," Gauri said with a smile.

Jahnvi nodded, her voice gentle. "I heard the songs."

Gauri adjusted a strand of hair near Jahnvi's temple. "Come," she said softly, "they're waiting for you."

As Jahnvi walked forward, the women began clapping again, louder this time. Someone picked up the rhythm, others joined in, and the courtyard surged back to life.

Nanda's eyes followed Jahnvi as she crossed the open space, her bare feet touching the sun-warmed stone.

"She's glowing," Damini murmured beside her.

"Hmm," Nanda hummed.

The courtyard was glowing now, not just with sunlight and colour, but with a kind of feminine energy that pulsed in every corner—laughter, teasing, songs, and the heady perfume of turmeric and henna leaves being ground fresh just beyond the corridor.

Damini took a sip of rosewater sherbet before raising her voice, not loud, but commanding enough to slice through the cheerful chaos.

"From this moment, no men shall enter the courtyard," she declared, waving her hand in a sweeping gesture that caused the younger girls to giggle and the older women to nod knowingly. "Let them stay in their chambers or roam the stables—this space belongs to us today."

A few women clapped at her statement, whistling softly in agreement.

"And Gauri," Damini added, turning to face her with a glint in her eye. "Send a bowl of this mehendi to Abhinav's quarters. Have it applied to his feet."

Gauri, halfway through twirling a flower garland around her wrist, stopped and stared. "His feet, Kaki? He's not a bride!"

The courtyard chuckled, but Damini remained unfazed.

"He's the groom," she said. "And whether or not he enjoys a little stain on his heels is irrelevant."

Nanda, standing nearby, smiled as she stepped closer. Her voice was softer, more patient. "It's tradition, Gauri. Just a little touch of the bridal mehendi on the groom—it binds the two together before the wedding begins. It's said to guard their union, to protect both from nazar."

"Ohhh," Gauri hummed with exaggerated revelation. "Abhinav dada then I believe is going to paint himself completely if it means being bound to Jahnvi, he is smitten already."

The courtyard exploded in laughter again.

Damini rolled her eyes, barely suppressing a smile. "Just send the bowl, Gauri."

A nod from one of the attendants followed, and soon, a copper bowl with thick, deep green mehendi paste was carefully prepared to be sent to the inner wing.

Meanwhile, two of the village artisans, older women with years of steady hands and fragrant shawls soaked in eucalyptus oil, knelt near the large mat where Jahnvi was now seated. They had brought cones shaped from soft banana and teak leaves, pinched at one end and filled with fresh mehendi paste.

"We'll begin with the feet," one of them said gently. "It takes longer to dry and more time to pattern."

Jahnvi shifted her sari slightly, baring her ankles and lower legs. The silk rustled softly, the green folds pooling like moss over the edge of the cushion. A soft velvet cloth was spread beneath her, and Kanika brought a small brass tray with lemon sugar water and the cones arranged like delicate tools of magic.

She held her breath as the first touch of cool paste kissed her skin—an intricate mandala drawn from memory and grace.

As the women began to draw vines up her calves, the courtyard shifted again. Some returned to singing, others began making bracelets from fragrant vetiver and mogra stems. Gauri sat beside Jahnvi, half-watching the design unfold, half-picking petals from a large bowl and placing them one by one into her braid.

The courtyard belonged to the women now—loud, graceful, wild, warm. And at its heart sat a girl in green, her feet being adorned not just in art, but in fate.

And she said nothing, but she did not resist.

Because this was how it began.

•••

The festivities didn't die down hours into the ceremony, the women had grown louder now, singing verses that grew cheekier by the line, teasing Jahnvi with lyrics older than the pillars of the palace.

She sat in the center of it all, silent and still, her palms open as the artisans had finally moved on to her hands. Fine vines and peacocks had already begun curling around her ankles, and the first strokes of henna were now being drawn along the curve of her thumbs.

Then—without warning—the rhythm faltered.

A shift in the air. A sudden hush. The faintest echo of boots on sandstone.

And then he appeared.

Malhar.

Striding in through the archway as if the restriction on men had never existed, his presence commanding enough to pull every pair of eyes toward him.

His tunic was dark, unadorned. No jewelry, no ceremonial sword. Just the man—the king—in all his controlled stillness.

"Malhar Rao Bhosale!" Gauri gasped dramatically, standing between him and the main floor of the courtyard. "What are you doing here? Have you lost all memory of custom? This courtyard is forbidden to men today!"

Malhar raised an eyebrow at her, not slowing in his step.

"Custom or not, Gauri," he said evenly, "this is still my palace. And I am still king."

He offered her the faintest smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I've only come to give the bride and groom my regards. Don't be so dramatic."

The women murmured quietly, some exchanging surprised glances, others deliberately turning back to their work. Jahnvi, seated in the center, had frozen. Her head did not lift, but her hands tightened slightly on her lap, enough to smudge a line the artisan had just finished.

Malhar walked forward slowly, each step echoing over stone and over every beat of Jahnvi's restrained breath.

When he reached her, she didn't look up. Her gaze stayed fixed on the floor, on the marble vein running near her foot, on anything but him.

"You're glowing today," Malhar said softly, stopping just before her. "Your happiness... it's written all over your face."

She didn't look up. Not even now.

He continued, his tone carefully light. "I'm happy for you. For both of you. You have my blessings."

Then, without ceremony, he dipped his finger into the bowl of deep green mehendi beside her. The room seemed to hold its breath as he leaned forward—so close that only she could hear him—and gently smeared the paste across her open palm. A single, deliberate stroke. The weight of it sank through her like a stone into still water.

Gasps sounded around them. The women stiffened. The artisan's hand froze mid-pattern. But Malhar didn't waver.

He leaned in, just enough so only she could hear, and his breath brushed the edge of her ear as he whispered:

"This is the last time I'll see you as Jahnvi Razdan."

Her heart clenched.

"I won't be there tomorrow," he added, voice lower now. "But I want you to know... I truly, truly wish you every happiness."

Her throat burned. Her fingers trembled slightly in her lap.

He stepped back slowly, lingering only for a moment. His face was unreadable—stoic, even nonchalant—but his eyes betrayed him. Just a flicker. Just enough.

Then, louder, to the courtyard: "Please, don't stop on my account. Carry on. Pretend I was never here."

He offered a brief nod to Nanda and Damini, then turned and walked away, the sound of his boots retreating across stone.

Jahnvi sat motionless.

The single smear of his touch lay dark and fresh against her skin, refusing to fade. Her heart, already heavy, now bore the quiet weight of a farewell she'd never truly prepared herself for.

And behind her stillness, behind the flowers and songs and sacred laughter, something inside her whispered goodbye too.

Not aloud. But forever.

•••

The moment Malhar disappeared through the archway, Gauri's gaze narrowed.

She had watched it all—the way he looked at Jahnvi, the stroke of mehendi on her palm, the whispered words that had made Jahnvi visibly still. She knew him too well to miss the falter in his voice, the stiffness in his retreat masked by feigned indifference.

Without a word, she slipped away from the courtyard.

The palace corridor was dimmer, cooler, and quieter—its stone walls thick with secrets. She found him near the open veranda, his hand resting on the wall, staring into the distance where the courtyard hum could no longer reach.

"Malhar!" she called sharply.

He didn't turn.

She walked briskly to him, her brows furrowed.

"What was that?" she asked, voice low but firm. "You smeared mehendi on her hand. Do you have any idea how many women saw that? Whispers have already begun. And they won't stay in the courtyard—they'll float straight to the court."

Still, he said nothing.

"Do you want to humiliate her on her wedding day? Or are you trying to make a spectacle out of yourself ?" Gauri snapped. "Because this isn't you. This isn't how you handle things. I know you don't like Abhinav dada and I get it but what's wrong with you since you've come back from that hunt? You left without telling anyone. You came back and locked yourself away. And now this—"

Malhar finally looked at her.

And in that moment, Gauri faltered.

His face wasn't angry. It wasn't defiant. It was simply... haunted.

His voice, when it came, was steady. Quiet. Weighted.

"You're right," he said. "Something changed on that hunt."

He turned back toward the view, his fingers tightening slightly on the railing.

"I came back with answers, Gauri."

Gauri crossed her arms. "Then speak. Tell me what this is. Because right now, all I see is a king, my friend, my husband to be acting like a man possessed."

He looked at her again, softer this time.

"The answers I found..." he said, voice low, "will make you question everything."

Gauri stiffened, her stomach twisting. "Everything?"

Malhar gave a small nod.

"Then maybe I deserve to hear them," she whispered. "Before the world does."

AN: Malhar you weirdo !
Has Malhar given up on Jahnvi, is this a goodbye ? What's going to happen next ?

So many people read yet the votes are so meh, votes are not money you all it's just validation for this poor author.

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90 for the next

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