Cursed

Prologue

The air in the Rathore haveli was thick with the scent of burning camphor and sandalwood.

Shadows stretched long across the carved pillars as the evening sun dipped behind the high walls.

Inside the main hall, the chandeliers glowed faintly, unable to dispel the unease that lingered among the family.

At the center of the room sat Pandit Harinarayan, his forehead marked with vermilion, his frail body wrapped in a saffron shawl. In front of him, a sacred fire crackled inside a copper vessel, its smoke curling upward like whispers of fate itself.

On the floor before him sat Veeransh Rathore, eldest son of the house, tall and composed, yet with an intensity in his eyes that spoke of centuries of shadows.

Beside him, his mother Shanti Rathore clutched the edge of her saree nervously, her knuckles white.

At her side stood his father, Rajnath Rathore, whose stern face betrayed nothing but whose eyes flickered with the memory of his own escape from death for he had once performed the same pret vivaah ritual, marrying Shanti to appease the curse and save his life.

And yet, despite that, the fear had never left them.

“Koi aane wala hai,” the priest’s voice echoed, low and heavy. The flames reflected in his eyes as if the fire itself whispered the prophecy. “Jiska pravesh is shraap ko tod dega.”

The words silenced the hall. Shanti gasped softly, clutching her pallu closer to her lips. Rajnath’s jaw tightened. Veer, however, did not flinch. He had grown up hearing nothing but curses, prophecies, and warnings. Yet still, his deep voice cut through the silence.

“Kaun aane wala hai?” Veer asked, his tone even, almost challenging. His eyes bore into the priest’s as though daring him to utter the impossible.

The pandit’s gaze softened, and after a moment of silence, he replied, “Tumhara prem.”

The hall seemed to freeze.

From the side, a voice broke the tension light, amused, almost mocking.

“Kya bol rahe hain, Pandit ji? Bhaiya aur prem? Not possible.”

It was Rudra, Veer’s younger brother, barely twenty four but carrying none of the heaviness that shadowed his elder. His laughter was sharp, echoing in the hall like a relief no one wanted.

“Bas karo, Rudra,” their elder sister, Ridha, snapped, her bangles clinking as she silenced him. She was already married, but whenever she visited the haveli she often found herself taking on the role of mediator, especially when it came to her brothers.

Rudra shrugged but smirked. “Main toh sirf sach keh raha hoon, Didi. Bhaiya ko dekha hai kabhi? Khaandaan ka bojh uthaaye hue, ghadi ghadi gusse mein rehte hain. "

Veer’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was heavier than any words could have been.

The priest, undeterred by the younger son’s jest, continued with authority. “Veer ke sataaees saal pure hone se pehle iski shaadi karni hogi. Nahi toh wahi hoga jo niyati ko manzoor hai.” His voice carried finality, as if the words had already been written into time.

Shanti’s breath hitched audibly, her eyes instantly darting to her son’s face. Veer did not meet her gaze. His dark eyes stared into the flames instead, as though searching for answers there.

“Shaadi… aur prem,” Veer muttered, almost to himself, his voice dipped in bitterness.

He finally looked up, his gaze locking with the priest’s.

“Pandit ji, aapko lagta hai mere liye yeh sab mumkin hai? Ek shraapit khoon ke saath prem kaise reh sakta hai? Jo bhi mere kareeb aayega, uski zindagi barbaad hogi.”

His words carried the weight of truth after all, heirs before him had succumbed to the curse. Each story was etched into the walls of the haveli like scars no one could wash away.

But Pandit Harinarayan’s reply was calm, assured. “Aur agar koi aisa aaye jiska prem itna shuddh ho, itna pavitra ho, ki woh tumhaare saath shaadi kare… aur tum dono se ek santaan janme… us bacche ke janm ke saath hi is vansh ka shraap hamesha ke liye mit jayega.”

Shanti’s lips trembled, her palms pressing together in silent prayer. Rajnath’s expression hardened further, as though recalling his own marriage that had saved him but left him with the dread of passing this burden onto his son.

The flames crackled louder, almost in agreement.

The priest rose slowly, gathering his shawl around him. “Yaad rakhna, Veeransh. Tumhara prem tumhaari talwar bhi hai aur tumhaari dhaal bhi. Use pehchaano. Samay aane par sab spasht hoga.”

With those words, Pandit Harinarayan walked out of the haveli, leaving behind a silence that pressed heavily upon the family.

Shanti reached out and touched her son’s arm gently. “Veer… beta, kya tumne suna? Tumhe shaadi karni hogi.”

But Veer pulled away, standing to his full height, his figure casting a long shadow across the marble floor. His face was carved from stone, unreadable. “Shaadi ek aur janjeer hai, Maa. Hum pehle se hi iss shrap ke qaid me hoon. Prem? Humse usse door hi rehna hoga.”

His voice was final, unyielding. Yet in his eyes, for the briefest second, there was something else a flicker of doubt, or perhaps… a longing he would never admit.

And as the last of the evening light died on the horizon, the Rathore haveli stood heavy under the weight of its prophecy.

Somewhere in the city of Prayagraj, among the millions of lives flowing through its ghats and gullies, someone was already walking toward the haveli someone destined to change everything.