To commence a saga with a classic, 'A long time back, there lived a Princess ' comes off as boring and to be truthful, redundant. But well, you see, when we are dishing about something that transpired to a Royal Goddess almost 5000 years ago, we don...
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When Padmavati and Aniruddha anchored around at Padminipur, there lived an ambiance of festivity all about. The Palace entrance was blanketed with mogra motifs and dark blue flowers, it seemed as though it was the night cloud with the moon glistening right in the centre. It reminded her of an absolute tandem of eyes she was yet to encounter.
"What is it with people giving us grand entrances?" Aniruddha let out a tiny chuckle as he put forward the speculative query to Mohini, who was excessively beguiled and enchanted to consecrate his interest.
As they trod forward, still on their horse, the first door ultimately shut down, and they moved through and stood up against the second gate, which was as golden with sunflowers and marigolds as the burning sun that had loaned one of its beams to them, so luminous and captivating. It reminded her of an individual pair of attire, she was yet to suppose.
The third and the conclusive gate was not gaudy as such, with a posy of Palash flowers dangling from the canopy, as if it was showering red. The red was not of blood but of love. It reminded her of him, whom she had no remembrance of.
A small tear escaped her eyes as she stared at the decoration, her heart conquered and joyed for some sense strange to her.
Aniruddha, who noticed this, seemed very dazed, "What's up with you?"
"Ani," she cracked up like a little girl, a string that was retaining her seemed to have wiped out today, making her feel a precious pain of excitement, "This looks like what I've forever felt in my dreams."
In her dreams, Padmavati would never see what others did, she didn't see any raucous fables, any gentle moments with imaginable fanciers, or any birds or blooms. She didn't see herself even living a good life or possessions like that, which she was counted on to do in the future. No matter how she tried, Padmavati just wasn't able to see a proximate dream.
Rather, she saw a pair of eyes, as dark as the kohl in hers, as delicate as the cotton bud, and as intense as a mother's wrath. She saw a smile that resembled the Tulasi leaf and when the mouth opened to laugh, she saw the cosmos in it. She invariably saw lengthy curly locks, dangerously attractive to behold and bewitching to comprehend. And with all that, she saw a flute, encircled with red and yellow flower sketches on it and those slender and brilliant fingers that played it. Her dreams were her home.
