The second day of the puja dawned softly over the palace, the morning sky brushed with gentle hues of saffron and gold. Unlike the elaborate rituals of the first day, this day carried a quieter charm—focused on gratitude, purity, and the divine feminine.
The women gathered in the open courtyard, bathed in natural light. The air carried the scent of rosewater and sandalwood, and the soft hum of shlokas echoed like a lullaby.
Rajeshwari, regal in a pale marigold saree with her hair tied in a neat bun, stood beside the priest. Her grace and composure radiated strength as she offered the first prayer.
Dadi Sa, wearing an ivory silk drape, smiled fondly at her granddaughter and daughter-in-law, proud of the feminine lineage standing tall before the sacred flames.
Anika, ever mischievous, leaned toward Myra with a smirk.
"You know, if one more priest asks me to hold that thali like it's a sword, I might just swing it."
Myra chuckled, covering her lips with her hand to hide the sound. She wore a soft peach saree, her kohl-lined eyes focused on the flame as she whispered her prayer—but her smile gave away the ease Anika brought into every tense moment.
"Myra," Rajeshwari called gently, "come light the ghee diya."
Myra stepped forward, hands slightly trembling from nervousness. She lit the lamp with care, the flame flickering in her eyes. She said nothing, but her heart beat with silent words she didn't know how to say.
---
Outside the courtyard…
Shiv passed by casually, pretending to check the time on his watch, though his steps slowed when he heard the distant sound of Anika's laughter.
Ranvijay, catching him from the corridor, raised a brow.
"Lost something?"
Shiv shrugged.
"Just passing by. That side of the palace suddenly looked interesting."
"It's forbidden territory this week," Ranvijay muttered with a smirk.
Shiv walked off without replying—shoulders straight, eyes unreadable.
---
Later that afternoon…
The women stayed together even after the rituals were done. Tea was served in the sunlit balcony, with Dadi sharing a tale from her younger days about stealing laddoos during her own puja.
"And your Dadaji had the audacity to pretend he didn't help me!" she said, eyes twinkling.
Laughter filled the air.
Myra, sitting quietly with a cup of chai, felt warmth fill her chest. The kind of warmth you don't pray for—but are grateful to receive.
Anika leaned toward her again.
"Tomorrow's the last day. I vote for a full night of trouble."
"I second it," Dadi chimed in without missing a beat.
Even Rajeshwari, sipping quietly, added with a sly smile.
-----------------
The third day of puja had dawned like a whispered blessing from the heavens.
Outside, the palace basked in the soft gold of morning sun, its pink sandstone walls glowing with warmth. Inside, the corridors were humming—low, melodic chants from distant corners, fragrance of sandalwood curling in the air, fresh marigold garlands hanging from every arch.
But in the inner sanctum—deep within the heart of the palace—where no guests and no men dared to enter today, silence reigned.
And in that silence, the four royal ladies emerged.
Each step they took across the marble was like a forgotten echo of regal glory. Each footfall, the soft whisper of anklets, sounded like time bowing to tradition.
Dadi Sa, the oldest of them all, walked first. Draped in a rich ivory silk saree with golden Banarasi borders, her silver hair coiled into a regal bun, adorned with a single emerald pin. She carried the first kalash of the day in her hands, her movements unhurried, deliberate—every gesture soaked in wisdom. Her aura was power wrapped in calm, like a goddess who had seen dynasties rise and fall, and yet stood untouched.
Beside her, Rajeshwari looked every inch the queen of Jaipur. She wore a deep peacock blue lehenga, encrusted with hand-stitched zardozi embroidery—each thread catching light like stardust. Her dupatta, sheer and sapphire, trailed behind her like a waterfall of stars. A tiny red bindi, the symbol of both her power and her pain, sat on her forehead. Her bangles chimed softly as she adjusted the lotus garlands around the deities with care.
Then came Anika, glowing like a princess carved in light and mischief. Her lehenga was blush pink with jaipuri mirror work, swirling like rose petals when she moved. Her earrings dangled like tiny chandeliers, her long braid adorned with jasmine flowers. She hummed under her breath, eyes full of playfulness, fingers dancing over the diya wicks like she could tame the flame itself.
And then—Myra.
Last, quietest, and yet—most divine.
She stepped in like twilight walking barefoot into a dream. Her bridal red lehenga, laced with traditional gold gota patti work, shimmered every time she moved. The blouse was delicately embroidered, hugging her slender frame, her soft dupatta veiling her like sacred silk. Her skin glowed like melted honey, and the single mole on her left collarbone peeked shyly as she moved. Her long hair was left open, cascading in waves, like black river ink flowing behind a goddess.
The maang tika on her forehead sparkled like a moon fragment. Around her neck rested the wedding necklace Ranvijay had fastened not too long ago—its presence was heavy, grounding, sacred.
She looked like a newly crowned empress of the heavens, untouched and yet chosen.
They entered the puja chamber where a sacred square mandala was drawn with kumkum, turmeric, and rice flour. Lotus petals had been scattered along its edge. Four brass lamps were already lit, flames fluttering like they recognized the women before them.
The rituals began.
First came the offering of water—from golden lotas into the kalash as ancient chants reverberated softly from a priest hidden behind a veil of smoke. The ladies, in perfect harmony, moved in a circular rhythm, their bangles echoing in rhythm with the nagara drum far away in the palace.
Next, they lit the 108 diyas, each representing a blessing they wished to bring upon the family. As each diya was placed in the mandala, the soft glow increased, until the entire chamber looked like it had swallowed stars.
They whispered prayers to Devi Durga, asking for strength. They sang lullabies to Lakshmi, for prosperity. They bowed to Parvati, for unity and love in the family.
Every time Myra moved her hand to sprinkle rose petals, her bangles clinked with an awkward grace—she still wasn't used to being this center of attention. But today, something felt different. She belonged. Not by blood. Not by status. But by the heart.
As Rajeshwari placed her palm on Myra's head, her eyes closed. A mother's blessing. Silent. Whole.
Even Dadi Sa had blinked back tears, murmuring to herself, "If only her mother could see her today…"
The aarti began.
Myra stood between Rajeshwari and Anika, the silver thali in her hand trembling slightly, but her eyes were steady—lost in the flame that danced before her. The ringing of the temple bell echoed through the halls, and even the palace walls seemed to hold their breath.
The chant grew louder.
"Ya Devi Sarvabhuteshu…" (Mantra)
And it was as if all the goddesses—power, grace, wisdom, love—stood in this room today, wearing silk and gold, smiles and sorrow, youth and age.
When the aarti ended, they circled the mandala one last time, their skirts brushing against the floor like waves. Each step was symbolic—stepping into a new season, into deeper bonds, into protection from whatever storm threatened their family from afar.
They offered sweets, sacred turmeric, saffron, rose water, and placed their hands together, praying not just for the living but also for the departed, the unborn, and the forgotten.
When all was done, they sat together on silk cushions, hands still trembling, hearts full.
There was no applause. No announcement. No spectacle.
But the power in the air—it vibrated like thunder behind soft clouds.
---
As the ladies stepped out of the sacred chamber, the lamps still glowed, as if reluctant to see them leave. The corridor outside remained empty. No man had entered. Not even Ranvijay.
But from somewhere in the shadows of the palace, the faint echo of his heartbeat carried forward—a storm held back only by the dignity of tradition.
And behind the veils of smoke, with diyas burning bright, the four women had already rewritten legacy—this was their kingdom tonight.
The echoes of the last mantra had barely settled when a soft announcement rang through the palace corridors, carried by a senior priest with folded hands.
"On the divine request of Rajeshwari Devi, the mandir shall open its doors for one hour to allow the men of the family to offer their prayers and receive prasad. After that, it shall once again return to its sanctity of the feminine."
The words fluttered like wind through curtains, but within moments, it felt like the very air of the palace had shifted.
A murmur rippled across the corridors—maids straightened their veils, guards stood taller, and the sacred scent of agarbatti deepened.
Because he was coming.
Raja Durgadas Rajvansh.
The king. The absent shadow behind the family's grandeur. The man whose presence, even after all these years, commanded silence before it arrived.
He entered the sacred corridor like time itself had returned. Draped in a royal off-white dhoti and angrakha, with a rich maroon shawl brushed across one shoulder, he walked with the grace of an era lost—his every step echoing purpose and power.
His sharp eyes swept the corridor with no need to prove himself—he had ruled kingdoms, silenced courts, and made peace with blood. And yet, when he stepped into the sanctum today, his gaze didn't seek power.
It sought Rajeshwari.
She was seated beside the sacred mandala still, her posture poised, back straight like a queen who never surrendered to time. For one long moment, they simply looked at each other. Her fingers trembled slightly, and the softest curve of emotion touched her lips.
There was no word spoken.
But in that gaze—it was clear.
Love. Loss. Respect. Forgiveness.
Behind the king, Ranvijay and Shiv followed. Both had changed into crisp traditional dhotis and embroidered kurtas of deep hues—respecting the sanctity of the temple. Shiv walked silently, his eyes wandering not ahead but somewhere across the decorated walls—unbothered yet curious.
But Ranvijay—he felt it.
The moment his foot crossed the sacred line of the puja chamber, everything inside him halted.
He had seen his wife countless times.
In silks, in cottons. In storms. In silence.
But never like this.
She was turned slightly, handing over a silver thali of prasad to Dadi Sa, her red bridal lehenga brushing softly against the white marble floor. The flickering oil lamps danced upon her skin, tracing the delicate curve of her jaw, her high cheekbones, the soft pink gloss of her lips.
Her dupatta was pinned perfectly but sheer enough to show the artistry of her blouse and the slight glow of her honey skin beneath. The mangalsutra around her neck rested like a vow etched in gold. Her bangles clinked gently as she moved, and when she turned slightly to place another offering at the deity's feet—
—Ranvijay stopped breathing.
Because as the light shifted, and the folds of her red dupatta slipped just an inch down her shoulder, revealing the barest glimpse of her collarbone and that delicate mole near her left chest...
He forgot where he was.
She looked like a goddess sculpted in devotion, her grace no longer innocent—it was ethereal. There was a calm fierceness in her that felt more royal than any crown.
He didn't blink.
Couldn't.
It wasn't desire—it was reverence.
But Myra... she turned, and her eyes locked with his.
And it hit her then.
How he looked at her.
Like she wasn't just his wife—but something sacred. Untouchable. Worshipped.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she instantly looked away, cheeks flaming. She tried to hide it with a quick gesture, fixing her dupatta higher, fingers fumbling against her waist.
He took one step forward unconsciously, like the air between them pulled him.
Shiv noticed—but didn't say a word. His eyes briefly scanned Anika, who was talking softly with a priestess, not even aware of him.
Meanwhile, Raja Durgadas finished his prayer, accepting prasad from Rajeshwari. His hand briefly touched her fingertips in a way that even a thousand love letters couldn't replicate.
He turned, looked at Ranvijay, and then quietly said, "You've chosen well."
Ranvijay's throat tightened, and he nodded without looking away from Myra.
"Yes... more than I deserve."
The one hour passed in silence, filled only with the hum of chants and slow movement of hands offering prayers. But for Ranvijay, time stretched and curled, wound tightly around every glimpse of his wife's silhouette.
He didn't speak to her.
She didn't come near.
But when he left the chamber, he felt like he was walking away from divinity itself.
He didn't need to touch her today.
Because now, he had seen her like this.
And that vision would haunt him in ways even passion never could.
As the final day of the grand puja neared its end, the palace shimmered with sanctity. The echoes of sacred mantras still lingered in the vast halls. With the rituals concluded, a formal announcement had been made: for an hour, the palace gates would open exclusively for the men of the family to come forward, seek blessings, and partake in the prashad.
It was a tradition rooted in legacy—a closing act to the sacred days.
The guards stepped aside.
Raja Durgadas Rajvansh, majestic in his white and gold attire, stepped into the temple chamber. His presence commanded respect—each step was followed by a hush as he approached the divine fire still burning at the sanctum's heart.
Behind him walked Shiv, composed as ever, and Ranvijay—with eyes scanning every corner, but stopping—no, halting—at the vision of Myra.
She stood near the sanctum, her palms joined in reverence, her lips barely moving in silent prayer. Dressed in her bridal red lehenga that glimmered like a thousand rubies under the flickering lamps, her face bore the kind of grace that could silence storms. Her dark hair was adorned with traditional floral gajras, her long lashes casting shadows upon her glowing cheeks. The mangalsutra rested gently against her skin, and the little mole near her collarbone peeked through the elegant drape of her dupatta.
Ranvijay didn't blink.
In that moment, the world blurred into a painting, where she was the epicenter of devotion, of grace, of something no words dared define.
And as the men stepped forward to receive blessings and prashad, Dadi Sa stood tall, offering the holy sweets to her son first, then the two young men.
The women said nothing. They didn't need to.
The men left with reverence, footsteps echoing softly until the heavy doors closed again.
---
The sun dipped behind the palace domes. Hues of gold melted into wine across the sky.
Inside, a different mood began to stir.
Tonight was theirs—the women of the royal household.
Velvet cushions were brought to the marble terrace, lanterns were lit, the air carried hints of sandalwood and roses. Rajeshwari, Anika, Myra, and Dadi Sa, each changed into relaxed yet elegant ensembles. Myra, glowing from the day's rituals, now wore a silk kurti with soft embroidery and left her hair loose, curling at the ends from the warmth of the day.
Trays of snacks and sweets lined the center; there was laughter, quiet teasing, shared stories.
They were planning a night of games and old tales, wrapped in the comfort of each other's presence.
Suddenly—
Darkness.
The lights snapped off. Everything fell into a vacuum of stillness.
"Dadi sa?" Anika called.
"I'm here," came the response, calm but alert.
"Myra?" Rajeshwari's voice held sudden panic.
There was no answer.
A sound. The distant creak of a door. A flicker of movement.
And then—light returned.
But Myra was gone.
The silk cushion where she had sat still held the shape of her last touch. Her half-eaten sweet, her dupatta—folded neatly beside her. Not a trace of struggle. Not a whisper of alarm.
Just... gone.
Panic broke.
Rajeshwari stood, trembling, eyes wide with disbelief. "Check every room!"
Anika ran to alert the guards. Dadi Sa, composed but deadly serious, began issuing instructions to the palace staff.
It took only minutes before the entire palace roared to life with movement.
When Ranvijay returned and heard the words—Myra is missing—his world didn't shatter.
It detonated.