Arrival at Pawangadh – Akash's Invisible Pain
The journey to Pawangadh felt like a pilgrimage to a shrine of personal sorrow. Akash and Pranav traveled in a carriage, the rhythmic clatter of hooves on the paved royal road a monotonous counterpoint to the silent turmoil within. Akash sat rigidly by the window, his profile a study in stoic melancholy. His eyes were fixed on the passing landscape—the lush green fields, the distant purple hills—but they registered nothing. He was traveling not to a wedding, but to the final, public execution of a hope he had nurtured in the deepest chambers of his heart.
Pranav watched him from the opposite seat. He saw the way Akash's fingers would occasionally clench on his knee, then forcibly relax. He saw the slight, unconscious shake of his head, as if arguing with a silent, internal voice. He saw the shadow that lived in his friend's eyes, a shadow no sunlight could touch.
Finally, as the gilded spires of Pawangadh's palace pierced the horizon, Pranav leaned forward. His voice was soft, meant only for the space between them. "My friend," he began, choosing his words with the care of a surgeon, "remember to breathe. Remember you are not just a heart, but a prince. And remember… I am here. Every step."
Akash turned from the window. For a fleeting second, the princely mask slipped, revealing a raw, breathtaking vulnerability—a young man staring into an abyss. He met Pranav's gaze and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. The gratitude in that look was profound. "Your presence," Akash said, his voice husky from disuse, "is the only armor I have."
---
The Welcome
Pawangadh was a dream woven in celebration. Marigold and jasmine garlands draped every archway, their scent cloying and heavy in the warm air. Thousands of oil lamps flickered in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows on walls hung with rich silks. Musicians practiced in courtyards, their melodies sweet and piercing. To Akash, it was not a celebration but a magnificent stage set for his own quiet devastation.
Prince Vayansh himself was at the main gate to receive them, a vision of radiant anticipation. His usual composed demeanor was softened by a genuine, irrepressible joy that seemed to emanate from him. His smile was wide and unguarded.
Vayansh: "Akash! You came! Welcome, brother, welcome!" He stepped forward and clasped Akash in a tight, back-thumping embrace.
Akash stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing himself to return the gesture, his own pat on Vayansh's back feeling hollow. "How could I not?" Akash said, managing to sculpt his lips into a convincing smile. The effort made his cheeks ache. "You stand at life's most beautiful threshold. It is my duty and my honour to be here." The words tasted like ash.
Vayansh: (Beaming, oblivious) "And you must be Pranav! Akash's letters spoke of a brother found, not just a friend made. Welcome to Pawangadh." He greeted Pranav with a respectful nod that held none of the usual royal distance.
Pranav: (Bowing deeply) "The honour is mine, Your Highness. Thank you for your generosity."
Vayansh led them inside, his steps buoyant. He took them not to a guest chamber, but to his own personal quarters. The room was spacious, filled with the gentle aroma of sandalwood. In one corner, laid out with reverence on a low divan, were the wedding garments—rich brocades in crimson and gold, a pearl-studded sash, a sheer odhni embroidered with peacocks. The sight was a physical blow to Akash's gut.
The Maharaja and Maharani entered then, their presence filling the room with a serene authority.
Akash and Pranav immediately rose and bowed. "Our respects, Your Majesties."
Maharaja Anilraj: "Rise, Prince Akash. Your arrival gladdens our hearts. Vayansh has spoken of your bond since Gurukul days. Your presence adds a cherished thread to this tapestry of joy."
Akash: "The joy is mine to witness, Your Majesty. Thank you for your hospitality."
Maharani Sushira: Her keen eyes swept over Akash, missing little. She saw the too-perfect posture, the eyes that didn't quite crinkle with his smile. Her voice was gentle, maternal. "You must be tired from your journey. Rest, refresh. We will have refreshments sent. Consider our home your own."
With gracious nods, the King and Queen departed, leaving the three young men in a room suddenly thick with unspoken currents.
---
Conversations of the Heart
Vayansh gestured for them to sit on the floor cushions, pouring cool sherbet into silver cups himself. "I cannot tell you what it means," he began, his voice earnest, "that a single summons brought you here. In this sea of ceremony, to have true friends… it is an anchor."
Akash took the offered cup, the cold metal seeping into his palm. He took a deliberate sip, using the action to steady himself. "How could I place a stone on my own heart and not come?" he said, his voice lower than intended. "It is your wedding. And if it is a union of hearts… then standing by you is not just friendship, it is dharma."
Pranav, seated slightly behind Akash, placed a subtle, steadying hand on his friend's back, a silent reminder to breathe.
A soft, wondering smile touched Vayansh's lips. "You speak truth, my friend. My affection for Princess Dhara… it is boundless. At the Gurukul, it was a seedling, unrecognized. It was only in our separation that it grew into a tree whose roots now hold my entire being." He spoke not with boastful pride, but with the quiet awe of a man who has discovered a fundamental truth about himself.
Akash listened, each word a scalpel. He stared into his sherbet, watching the tiny bubbles rise and pop. "Yes," he said, his voice thick with a pain he could no longer fully disguise. "Distance… distance is the only true revealer of worth, is it not? When someone is gone, that is when you understand the shape of the space they occupied in your soul. You see… it happened to you too. Distance showed you your love, and now you go to claim it."
Vayansh, mistaking the thickness in Akash's voice for moved emotion, nodded vigorously. "Exactly! The separation was the teacher." He leaned forward, his expression turning playful. "Speaking of which, friend… has your own heart never been touched? Surely a prince like you must have a beloved? Tell us of her."
The question hung in the air like a poised blade. Akash's knuckles turned white around the silver cup. The colour drained from his face, leaving him pale and stark against the vibrant room. He set the cup down with a soft, definitive click.
Akash: (The words came out fractured, pulled from a deep, wounded place) "My love… remains unfinished, Vayansh. The one I cherished… her heart beat for another. When I finally understood that… what did it matter? That she did not love me? I loved her. And love… love is not merely about possession. It is about the cherishing. I will love her until my last breath." He paused, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "I have also learned… what it costs to see the one you love bound to another. It is a unique agony. But love cannot be forced. So my love… it remains. Immortal. I could never speak it… but not speaking it does not mean it will not live, forever, here." He pressed a fist lightly against his chest.
For a moment, he seemed to forget where he was, lost in the confession. His head gave a slight, agonized shake, and his lips parted as if to utter a name.
Pranav coughed, a sharp, deliberate sound. "Prince Vayansh," he interjected smoothly, "you should have some refreshment as well. You've been hosting since dawn."
Vayansh, his kind face now etched with dawning concern and confusion at his friend's raw outburst, took the cue. He leaned back, his playful curiosity replaced by gentle respect. "Your love is a profound thing, Akash," he said quietly. "Whoever inspired it is fortunate indeed. And whoever you eventually wed will be blessed. We are fortunate to have a friend with such depth of heart." He hesitated, then asked the unavoidable, innocent question. "This… fortunate lady who holds your silent devotion… who is she?"
Akash closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were glazed with a sheen of unshed tears he refused to let fall. He forced a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "Let it go, friend. What difference does it make now? She is… married. Forget her. Let us focus on your joy. Tell me of the wedding preparations."
Just then, a guard appeared at the door. "Your Highness, Their Majesties request your presence for the evening meal."
Vayansh stood, relief and concern warring on his face. He clasped Akash's shoulder. "Of course. Come, friends. Let us eat. The heart can wait; the stomach is less patient."
Akash rose, the movement stiff. He crafted another smile, this one smaller, more fragile. "Yes. Let us eat."
As the three walked out, Pranav fell into step just behind Akash, a silent sentinel. He alone could read the language of his friend's pain—in the slight tremor in his hands, the too-bright sheen in his eyes, the unnatural rigidity of his spine. It was a pain hidden behind courtly smiles and polite conversation, a silent scream in a hall of joyful music, a wound that, Pranav feared, might never truly find its suture.
---
Bhoomigadh – A Gathering of Sisters
In her sunlit chamber in Bhoomigadh, Princess Dhara was not alone. The air buzzed with the vibrant energy of reunited sisterhood. Her four dearest friends from her Gurukul days had descended upon the palace like a colourful, chattering flock of birds.
Ira, daughter of Nilgarh's Senapati, was all bold laughter and direct questions, her courage a tangible force. Vasundhara, the merchant's daughter, was a whirlwind of excitement and lavish compliments, already planning the most extravagant games. Saumya, the scholar's daughter from Tejgarh, offered quiet, thoughtful smiles and insightful observations. And Neelima, the priest's daughter and Dhara's closest confidante, watched everything with calm, perceptive eyes.
"So!" Vasundhara exclaimed, throwing an arm around Dhara's shoulders. "Our little Dhara is flying the nest! To think you used to trip over your own feet in archery class, and now you'll be a Maharani!"
Ira grinned. "Don't worry, we've compiled a list of all your most embarrassing Gurukul secrets. We'll only reveal them if the dowry isn't sufficient!"
Dhara laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that made her eyes sparkle. She was surrounded by the women who knew her not as a princess, but as a girl—a girl who loved stargazing, hated bitter gourd, and was secretly afraid of earthworms. Their presence was a balm, a reminder of a self that existed before crowns and alliances.
---
An Evening Confession
Later that evening, as the palace settled into a peaceful quiet, Neelima found Dhara on her private balcony, watching the first stars emerge.
Neelima: "You seem… at peace. Truly happy."
Dhara: She sighed, a contented sound. "I am, Neelima. It feels… right. Like a story finding its proper ending."
Neelima: (A gentle smile) "I always knew it would. You worried for nothing back then, you know. All that fretting about whether he saw you as just a friend."
Dhara's smile turned wistful. "I know. I was a fool. But at that age… the heart is a confusing map. Thank you for being the compass I so often lacked."
Their moment of quiet intimacy was broken by Ira's dramatic entrance. "Aha! Plotting without us? Is our Neelima finally confessing her own secret admirer?" She waggled her eyebrows.
A faint, unexpected blush touched Neelima's cheeks. She looked down, swiftly arranging the pleats of her saree. "Ira, don't be absurd."
Ira's eyes, however, were sharp. She saw the blush, the sudden avoidance. "Is it? We shall see!" she declared, but her teasing was laced with affection.
Dhara, ever the peacemaker, laughed and linked arms with both of them. "Enough interrogation! Come, let's find Vasundhara and Saumya before Mother finds more 'productive' work for me to do."
As they walked back inside, their laughter echoing down the corridor, Neelima walked a half-step behind, her usual serene expression back in place. But her mind was elsewhere, on a memory of quiet conversations in a Gurukul library, of intelligent grey eyes, and of a friendship that had, without her quite noticing when, begun to colour her dreams in shades of something deeper, something she dared not yet name.