Not yesterday but now

Scent of The Rain

The next few days passed in a quiet rhythm, as preparations for the grand Pooja continued. Draupadi spent most of her time assisting with the arrangements, ensuring that every detail was perfect. However, when she was not overseeing the preparations, she preferred the solace of her chambers, choosing to spend her time with her husband whenever he was free from his duties. On the rare occasions when he was away, she passed her time wisely in the royal library, an expansive place filled with knowledge beyond imagination. She found herself drawn not just to the ancient scriptures and philosophical discourses but also to the extensive collection of medicinal texts and herbal prescriptions of great value. It was a sanctuary of wisdom, one that she cherished.

Two nights before the Pooja, the skies opened up, and a steady rain began to pour over Hastinapur, drenching the earth in its cold embrace. The rainfall had started in the evening and showed no sign of stopping, casting a serene yet melancholic atmosphere around the palace. The rhythmic pitter-patter of the droplets on the stone pavements filled the night with an eerie calmness.

It was in the stillness of such a dawn, at the hour of Brahma Muhurta when even the night hesitated before surrendering to the first breath of day that Draupadi stirred awake. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks as she slowly sat up, her senses adjusting to the darkness of their chamber. She was a light sleeper, but the last thing she remembered was the warmth of Karna beside her, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his arm had been draped over her waist before she had drifted into slumber.

She had been making garlands of fresh jasmine while waiting for him to return. Her long, dark blue-black tresses had been parted perfectly at the center, cascading down in waves over her back. The delicate fragrance of blue lotus lingered in her locks, mingling with the soft floral scent of the jasmine blossoms. She had adorned herself in an exquisite lehenga, hued in the softest shade of the morning sky, a color reminiscent of the first light before dawn. The fabric shimmered faintly under the chamber’s lamp, with silver-threaded motifs woven intricately along its borders. A sheer, semi-transparent odhni draped gracefully over her shoulders, its edges embroidered with tiny pearls that caught the dim light like scattered dewdrops.

Her jewelry, though minimal, held profound significance. Delicate silver anklets graced her feet, their soft chime breaking the silence as she moved. The anklets were crafted with tiny peacock and lotus motifs, symbols of grace and divine beauty. A toe ring gleamed subtly against her skin, marking her status as a married woman. Stacked bangles adorned her wrists, crafted with intricate filigree patterns of vines and blooming flowers, each delicate design symbolizing prosperity and love. Around her neck lay her mangalsutra, a sacred thread of black beads interwoven with gold, with a small pendant shaped like the sun, a mark of her bond with Karna. A single, luminous white stone gleamed on her nose ring, catching the glow of the dying oil lamps. The elements of her adornment were not mere ornaments; they were marks of identity, of devotion, of the life she had chosen.

Her feet, adorned with alta, bore the hue of deep crimson, the color accentuating their delicate shape. The stain traced elegant patterns along the curves of her toes and arches, making them appear as if they belonged to Goddess Lakshmi herself, an image of beauty, grace, and auspiciousness.

The absence beside her was immediate, her heart sinking at the realization that Karna had still not returned. The couch where she had last sat, waiting for him, still bore the scattered petals of unfinished garlands. The rain had delayed him.

Her eyes fell on a small parchment near the bedside. She reached for it hastily, recognizing the unmistakable bold strokes of his handwriting.

The villages in the southern part of Anga were attacked by bandits. We ride at once. Do not worry.