36.
(yall will like this chapter )
song :-oh saathi re
The inner sanctum of the Mahadev mandir glowed dimly beneath hundreds of oil lamps, their flames trembling softly against black stone walls ancient enough to have witnessed generations rise and disappear beneath time.
Sacred chants echoed through the vast temple halls in low rhythmic waves while priests poured streams of milk and holy water over the Shivling, sandalwood smoke rising endlessly toward ceilings carved with celestial serpents, rivers, and dancing forms of destruction and creation intertwined together.
Outside, monsoon clouds drifted slowly across the morning sky, allowing pale sunlight to spill occasionally through the high temple arches where bells swayed gently in the wind coming from the distant riverbanks.
Devasena stood barefoot before the sanctum with her hands folded quietly around the crystal diya resting near her heart, her pale gold saree brushing softly against the cold stone floor beneath her feet while strands of dark curls loosened by the humid air framed her face in soft waves.
The sacred flame within the diya burned steadily despite the wind wandering through the temple corridors, alive in a way ordinary fire never seemed to be, and its warm glow reflected faintly against her fingers while she stared at Mahadev's murti longer than usual today.
The temple had always felt safe.
Certain.
But lately even prayer carried confusion inside it.
Her lashes lowered slowly.
"How long?" she whispered inwardly, the question arriving so softly it barely felt spoken at all. "How long must one wait to recognize what belongs to them?"
The words themselves startled her faintly.
Because she was not entirely certain who she was asking about anymore.
The promised soul of her sacred flame?
Or—
No.
Her thoughts stopped immediately there.
She exhaled quietly instead, watching the priests circle the Shivling with lamps of blazing fire while conches echoed through the sanctum loud enough to vibrate against the marble beneath her feet.
Somewhere behind her devotees continued arriving endlessly with flowers and prayers and whispered hopes for love, children, peace, forgiveness.
Devasena suddenly wondered what people like Krishna prayed for.
The thought appeared without warning.
And remained.
Annoyingly.
Her brows knit faintly at herself.
Ridiculous.
She lowered her gaze again quickly toward the diya as if Mahadev himself might catch the direction of her thoughts.
Beside her, Ruti was still speaking softly with one of the temple women near the offering trays when sudden hurried footsteps approached across the corridor behind them.
"Rajkumari!"
Shona appeared breathless near the mandap entrance, excitement glowing openly across her face as silver anklets chimed loudly against the stone floor. "There is a huge trade festival outside near the lower market road—the caravans from the western ports arrived this morning!"
Immediately the quieter temple atmosphere behind Devasena shifted as Shona continued speaking far too quickly.
"They have merchants from Gandhara, Kamboja, even southern pearl traders and artisans from Dwarka!" she added dramatically, hands moving animatedly. "The streets are overflowing with fabrics and jewelry and painted toys and carved instruments and—"
Ruti sighed softly. "Breathe first."
"I am breathing."
"You are absolutely not."
Devasena laughed before she could stop herself, the sound soft enough to disappear almost immediately beneath the temple bells around them, yet both Ruti and Shona brightened visibly at hearing it. The past weeks had been tense enough that even small moments of ease felt precious now.
Shona immediately stepped closer. "Please come see it before the crowds worsen. The entire market is decorated."
Devasena hesitated faintly.
Technically she should return to the palace soon. Security around her movements had become exhausting after the incidents with Vidyut, and half the palace guards behaved as though stepping beyond royal corridors guaranteed catastrophe.
But the thought of returning immediately to another afternoon enclosed within palace walls suddenly felt unbearable.
So after one final glance toward Mahadev's sanctum, she bowed her head softly in prayer again before turning away at last, the flame in her diya glowing warmly against the dim temple light as she stepped back into the brighter morning beyond the mandir.
The trade festival stretched endlessly beneath the Mahadev temple like a living dream woven from incense smoke, monsoon light, and human noise.
Merchants called over one another from crowded stalls draped in embroidered fabrics while temple bells echoed continuously from above, their bronze voices blending with distant devotional chants carried down the stone steps by the evening wind.
Everywhere Devasena looked there was color in motion—deep indigo silks rippling beside saffron canopies, trays of gemstones glimmering beneath hanging oil lamps, garlands of jasmine and marigold swaying lazily between carved pillars while rain-heavy clouds drifted slowly across the darkening sky.
For the first time in weeks, her mind had almost quieted.
Almost.
She moved through the market beside Ruti and Shona with the sacred crystal diya resting safely in her hands, its flame burning softly beneath thin silk coverings while her attendants excitedly argued over fabrics, jewelry, and festival sweets ahead of her.
Devasena herself chose gifts carefully and with warmth that came naturally.
Moonstone bangles for Subhadra because they reminded her painfully of seafoam against Dwarka's shores.
A deep crimson shawl embroidered with antique gold for Revati because Balram's queen carried elegance the way older temples carried silence—gracefully and without effort.
Tiny silk wraps and soft blankets for Dhairya stitched with protective mantras along the edges.
Those choices made sense.
They belonged to affection already understood.
But then—
it happened suddenly.
Without warning.
At the far end of the market stood an elderly Kashmiri artisan beneath a quieter stall half-shadowed by flowering vines and hanging brass lamps.
Unlike the louder merchants surrounding him, his display contained only a handful of objects arranged carefully across dark velvet cloth—hand mirrors carved from ivorywood, sandalwood perfume boxes, delicate silver-threaded bookmarks for royal scriptures, crystal oil vials, and finely embroidered personal items crafted with intimate detail rather than royal grandeur.
Devasena would have passed by entirely.
Until her gaze landed upon one particular object.
And stopped.
It was absurdly simple.
A folded anagavastram.
(upper body cover for males basically T-shirt)
Deep midnight blue.
Not bright royal blue.
Not ceremonial indigo.
The exact shade of the ocean near Dwarka after sunset when moonlight touched black water.
Silver thread had been woven subtly across the borders—not heavily, not decoratively, but in flowing uneven lines resembling sea waves beneath darkness. Soft silk layered beneath lighter cotton meant it was not designed for court appearances or formal gatherings.
It was personal.
The kind of cloth worn privately during quieter hours.
The kind draped carelessly over shoulders after long evenings.
And immediately—
immediately—
she thought of Krishna.
Not even intentionally.
The image simply appeared.
Krishna standing upon the sea-facing balconies of Dwarka with salt wind moving through dark curls while moonlight silvered the outline of his face.
Krishna dressed not as Dwarka's ruler before court, but softer somehow, calmer, wrapped in dark fabric while absentmindedly listening more than speaking.
The familiarity of the image shocked her.
Because she should not have been able to imagine him that intimately at all.
Devasena looked away at once.
No.
Absolutely not.
Her pulse shifted unevenly beneath her ribs.
This was becoming ridiculous now.
She had not purchased gifts for Arjuna despite their friendship. Not for Bhima though he treated her like family. Not for Balram who teased her openly like an elder cousin brother whenever they met.
Yet somehow—
somehow—
she had stopped for Krishna.
Krishna, who remained the most distant of them all.
Krishna, whom she barely knew.
Krishna, who already belonged to queens far more beautiful, accomplished, and important than she would ever become.
Why then did this cloth feel like him?
Worse—
why did the thought of him wearing it make something warm and painful bloom quietly inside her chest?
"Rajkumari?" the old artisan asked gently. "You may touch it if you wish."
Devasena hesitated.
Then despite herself reached forward carefully.
The fabric slid through her fingers like water.
Soft.
Warm from the day's lingering heat.
And suddenly she remembered something terrifyingly specific—
the warmth of Krishna's hand around her wrist beneath the lotus pavilion while steadying the sacred flame before it could fall.
Her breath caught faintly.
Gods.
Why did she remember that so clearly?
It had lasted seconds.
Seconds.
Yet sometimes at night she still recalled the exact calmness of that touch, the impossible steadiness in it, as though he had entered chaos only to quiet it naturally.
Shona reappeared beside her carrying several wrapped parcels before freezing dramatically.
"...Rajkumari."
Devasena immediately let go of the cloth.
Too quickly.
Almost guiltily.
"It is nothing."
"Then why are you staring at men's clothing like it contains divine revelation?"
Ruti nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Devasena glared at both of them instantly, though unfortunately heat had already risen traitorously toward her face.
"It merely looked well-crafted.It'll feel warm.."
"Mhm," Shona replied with the expression of someone witnessing palace scandal unfold in real time.
Then her eyes widened further.
"Wait."
Horror.
Absolute delight.
"Is this for someone?"
"No."
Too fast.
Too defensive.
Shona gasped loudly enough that two nearby merchants turned.
"YOU HAVE SOMEONE."
"I do not! Lower your voice..."Devasena hissed ,
"Then why are you panicking?"
"I am not panicking."
"You are clutching your diya like it personally betrayed you."
Ruti finally gave up and laughed softly beneath her breath while Devasena closed her eyes briefly in suffering.
Because this truly made no sense.
If she wished to buy something politely for Dwarka, there were easier choices. Safe choices. Appropriate choices.
But this—
this felt devastatingly intimate.
Not because of the object itself.
Because of what choosing it revealed.
She had noticed him.
Quietly.
Without permission.
Enough to know what colors suited him.
Enough to imagine how soft fabric would rest against his shoulders.
Enough to unconsciously choose something meant not for a king—
but for the man beneath the crown.
And perhaps that was what frightened her most.
Because Krishna himself remained unreadable.
But her own heart suddenly did not.
"I should leave," she murmured quietly.
Yet she still had not stepped away.
The old artisan smiled knowingly then while folding another cloth nearby. "Some gifts are chosen by the heart before the mind agrees," he said softly.
Devasena wished those words had not affected her.
Unfortunately—
they did.
And after a long silence filled only by distant temple bells and the sound of monsoon wind moving through the market banners overhead, she finally spoke without lifting her gaze.
"...wrap this one separately."
She promised , it wouldn't matter if she never gifted it.