MEET THE SRIVASTAVA's👨👩👦👦
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the Srivastavas, a family that stands as a shining testament to the embodiment of nobility and regal stature. In their presence, you will find a blend of prestige, opul...
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The farmhouse stood quietly amid the lush green fields, its sloping roof glistening under the golden slant of the setting sun. The scent of damp soil and fresh hay drifted through the open windows, mingling with the faint aroma of chai left untouched on the table. Inside, papers were scattered across the desk — sketches, proposals, handwritten notes — all part of Mahalaxmi's newest project: Purani Parampara, Nayi Soch.
It was an ambitious dream — to revive the village's fading professions, to bring back pottery, weaving, carpentry — the art that once defined their identity. Her plan was to connect these artisans with small urban markets and create skill-sharing circles where the elders would teach the young. It was the kind of vision her father, Ishwarlal Rajput, the Sarpanch, would have been proud of.
Yet, that afternoon, her thoughts were far from her work.
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Mahalaxmi sat cross-legged by the window, her cream kurti and charcoal skirt flowing around her like quiet ripples of silk. A pen rested in her messy black bun, forgotten there hours ago. The warm breeze played gently with the edge of her dupatta, but her mind remained tangled — not in the project, but in a single moment that had replayed in her mind all day.
"Maha, marry me."
Hariday's voice, deep and unflinching, echoed within her. A full day had passed since his proposal, yet his words lingered like a stubborn fragrance that refused to fade. He had spoken with such certainty — such faith — that for a brief second she had believed it too. But the weight of her father's presence, his values, his world of principles, had pulled her back into silence.
She sighed, shutting her eyes for a moment. Logic told her to keep her distance. But the heart rarely listens to logic.
The door creaked softly behind her. Mahalaxmi turned to see Suhani standing at the entrance, her maroon Anarkali glinting in the light that poured in from behind. She leaned casually against the doorframe, her eyes carrying the kind of warmth that often preceded mischief.
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