The terrace shimmered silver beneath the moonlight, its stones whispering secrets that felt older than breath. Rudra sat with knees drawn up, charcoal poised, every line he sketched trembling with anticipation. The night air smelled of wild basil and old rain, enveloping them in a cocoon of possibility. Somewhere, a koel called out, and the sound seemed to ripple through time. Each stroke of charcoal across the page echoed the soft thrum of his heart—a heart that sometimes beat with memories he could not name. Rudra, as usual, started sketching forts that he had always dreamed about, though tonight the arches seemed achingly familiar.
Niya (nudging closer, voice low): "You're too careful. The fort leaned, remember? Like it was listening to us from another time."
Rudra (grinning, glancing sideways): "Listening to what? Our secrets, or our silences?"
Niya (softly, eyes on the stones): "To us. To stories we're still writing—and perhaps always have."
Rudra (holding out the sketchbook, his hand shaking just slightly): "Then help me draw it, Niya. Show me how the walls curve, how they remember."
Niya (teasing, but her fingers trembling): "You'll ruin your sketch if I touch it."
Rudra (gently): "Then let's ruin it together. Maybe that's how it comes alive."
Her hand hovered for a heartbeat, then settled on his. Their fingers brushed, and the world seemed to draw in a slow, exhilarated breath. Niya's touch was tentative, but when their hands aligned, something delicate and electric bloomed between them—like the first brush of colour on a blank canvas. Time stuttered—centuries folding into their touch. Rudra's heart raced as if each moment with her was a rediscovery, a promise long whispered between souls. Together, they guided the charcoal, the line bending beneath their joined hands, imperfect but pulsing with life, as if the sketch itself could breathe—and with every shared movement, their yearning grew more certain.
Niya (smiling, voice barely above a whisper): "Better. Now it breathes—it feels almost real."
Rudra (quietly, searching her face): "Like you do. Like we do, right now."
For a moment, Niya's lips parted, as if she might confess something too vast for words. Rudra's gaze dropped to her mouth, hope flickering in his chest. Instead, she just smiled, a secret shimmering in her eyes—a smile that drew him closer, promising that there would be a day she would say it, and that he would wait as long as it took.
She looked away, smile trembling with something unspoken, and the silence between them stretched—fragile, electric, promising. The air was thick with all the words they hadn't yet dared to say, their closeness humming with anticipation. It was a silence that wasn't empty, but brimming with everything they felt: a vow shimmering just out of reach, a question waiting to be answered. Even the wind seemed to hush, as if it too were waiting for their next breath, or for the moment when friendship would finally give way to something impossibly sweet.
The Capital Gardens – Veeraj & Meera
The koel's call faded into the beat of dholaks centuries before… In a Maratha garden perfumed with raatrani and champa, moonlight spilled as silk over white marble, and the air shimmered with the promise of stolen moments. Meera darted behind a marble pillar, her laughter spiralling through the humid air, the sound tugging at Veeraj's soul with a force both gentle and undeniable. Veeraj, a young Maratha Sardar, followed, his saffron turban askew, the patterned cotton of his Jama rustling with each light-footed step. His gaze never left Meera, drinking in the sight of her as if she were the only thing that could still his restless heart. The silver hilt of his talwar glinted beneath his angavastra, but it was her presence that truly made his heart pound louder than the distant dholaks. As he moved, a strange familiarity tugged at him—like he'd chased her laughter through lifetimes, destined always to find her, always to reach for her hand in the dark.
Veeraj (with a playful bow, hand on sword hilt): "You think you can outwit a Maratha Sardar, Meera? You forget I've crossed Deccan plains for less."
Meera (peeking from behind the pillar, laughter in her eyes): "Sardar? You sound like a court poet, not a warrior. Even your warnings rhyme—are you here to fight or to compose an ovi for me?"
Veeraj (drawing closer, voice a low challenge): "Maybe both. Would you listen if my verses were for you, Meera? If every line was a secret meant only for your heart?"
Meera (breath hitching, glancing at his hand hovering near hers): "Then I'd never stop listening. Even if your words—your oaths—were dangerous."
Veeraj (softly, gaze burning): "Especially if they were dangerous?"
Meera (stepping from shadow into moonlight, her bangles chiming): "Especially then. What's forbidden is what lingers longest in memory."
A gust of wind carried the scent of Mogra between them, and for a heartbeat, time felt thin. She plucked a Mogra blossom from the trellis, twirling it between henna-tipped fingers before tossing it in a gentle arc. The petals brushed Veeraj's cheek, cool and fragrant. He closed his eyes, savouring the fleeting caress, longing for the brush of her hand instead. For a heartbeat the marble pillars and distant torches faded—the world shrinking to just the two of them, suspended in something tender, timeless, and perilous. Every glance, every shared breath was a secret touch, a promise spoken in silence. The hush between them was full of things unsaid, an ache as old as longing itself, and yet, in that moonlit hush, love felt inevitable.
Echo Between Timelines. In Panvel, Niya closed Rudra's sketchbook.
Niya (closing the sketchbook, voice trembling): "Not every story needs to be finished, Rudra. Some are meant to be lived, breath by breath."
Rudra (reaching for her hand, earnest): "Then let's live this one—no matter how many lifetimes it takes."
Their hands lingered, and for a second, Rudra could almost see a flash of saffron and silver, hear the distant beat of dholaks—echoes of a promise that refused to die.
And in the palace gardens, Veeraj lingered in the moonlit shadows, the weight of his sword and his longing equal burdens. Somewhere in the distance, Meera's laughter still echoed, a melody he wished he could hold forever. He knew that a Maratha Sardar could not always choose love over duty—not in this age, not tonight. But as he gazed at the fading silhouette of Meera, hope flickered in his chest. If love could live on the edge of every heartbeat, woven through centuries, perhaps theirs was the kind that would return again and again—until, at last, it could unfold without fear. The scent of Mogra lingered, threading itself into centuries, a promise refusing to fade—just as he refused to stop loving her, in this lifetime or all other lifelines which followed.