She/Her; Personal Blog; Bibliophile; A Simple Telugu girl 🪷 Anime lover, Danmei, Donghua, Mangas, Into Hindu mytho and A lot of mytho-ficition. you can drop in your suggestions 😉 I'm here to have a fun time 🥺
(He) always has butter in his hands;His word/feet adornes the thoughts of the Brahma and other Gods collectively. Residing on Thiru Venkata Hill, the gopala bala(cowherdsman's child) is the unparalleled Hari, the Supreme Man.
About myself
Hello! I am Mahathi! or Krishna Mahathi for those who like long names. I am an INFP. A simple Telugu girl. The Kamalanayanaa resides in my Hridaya Kamalam. i write poetry and sometimes Short stories (though I'm not confident about it to post). I've been learning Carnatic Music for nearly 10 years. Music is my form of worship.
I am into soo many fandoms that i don't remember half of it (•‿•). Loves LOVES reading. i read all genres of books as long as it has good writing ( yes all genres including self- help....sorry). these days particularly reading Mytho-fiction... so any recs you wanna share? I'm happy to read them ( ╹▽╹ ).
I use the tag #KrissPoesy for my poems and sometimes stories
I never knew what it felt like to exist after death. Granted, I doubt anyone does. The scriptures say death is supposed to feel peaceful. I guess, to me, it did feel somewhat calm. I hadn't forgotten my memories of my life, my parents, my education, my job, the stress of bills, capitalism, all those hours I spent doomscrolling; I remembered it all… and Him, yes, my memory of Him was quite intact. All those hours of wanting him, all those years of feeling his name echo through the depths of my mind at the most goddamn inopportune moments, I remembered it all… Strange, though, isn't it? Who am I even talking to? Am I not supposed to forget it all after death? As per scriptures, we all start anew, right? Where was I even? My eyes aren't open... not really... I no longer have a body. I could feel myself floating... it was a really weird sensation. I suddenly remember—wait, how the hell am I remembering if I don't have a brain? What the fuck? Anyways, I remember the books saying something like I must put intention into creation? Let me try… maybe then I would be able to open my eyes—I mean see, yeah, I needed to see what was around me.
Oh… wait up… the darkness is receding—nope, false alarm, it’s not… but there’s a new light… someone’s here. I’m not alone.
I blink... hold the fuck up, did I just blink? I look down, oh, ohhh my body, no wait—it was a corporeal form… but looked exactly like my body when I died… WTF, am I a ghost?
“I thought you would be more comfortable in your most recent form,” a voice spoke. It wasn't male, it wasn't female either; it felt as if it were as much a soft whisper yet as heavy as the tolling bells of the old temples.
I whirl around, “Who?” There was no one, yet I could feel it. That presence: vast, endless, far, far too large to be contained within one form.
“That question is the most difficult to answer... who am I indeed…”
I blink, bewildered, a part of me starting to recognize exactly who or rather what I was talking to... “That makes no sense, everyone knows who they are.”
“Hmm… do they? Tell me, who are you then?” the voice asked back. My answer was instant, before I could even process my own words, “I am Shreyasi—"... I stopped as a thought struck me: was I still Shreyasi? Wasn't I a little too… ahem… dead to be the old me? Then… who was I now?
“See? You're stuck too. Your flesh had its identity, but without that cover, even you do not know who you are,” the voice—... I needed to stop calling him-her-it, the voice in my head—wait... did I even have a head... ugh.
“Look, just for the purpose of this conversation, give me a name and let me see you…” I stated flatly. I'd never really been one to mince words, death or not, that wasn't gonna change.
The voice laughed; literally, not even kidding. Not the amused kinda laugh, rather as if I had stated something so wild it was damn near impossible. I felt the space around me shimmer, as if every molecule or atom or whatever was vibrating… “Hey, that’s not fair,” I grumbled. I wasn't sure if he-she-it—dammit, was laughing at me or just because it felt the need to do so.
“You're not supposed to be here, you know? You wandered too far, little soul.”
I blinked at that, “Oh, do souls not come here? I didn't know that. It’s not like I did it on purpose, y'know; not my fault.” The voice felt as if it were smiling, “Yes, most do not; perhaps your soul inherently knew it seeked something more than the usual. So it drifted… still, you're too far…” The voice paused for a second before it spoke again, “Alright then, since you asked for a form, I shall take one you're rather familiar with…”
And then, colors exploded. Everywhere. Up until now, I seemed to exist in a dark, deep space, and now suddenly I saw stars, galaxies, universes and shit I didn't even know what they were, and then… Him.
Not physical, I mean, not flesh and blood. He was… vast, for a lack of a better word. The same corporeal form that I had, somewhat transparent, but too damn vast, literally. It felt as if this entire space was his bed and he was lying on it. I couldn't distinguish his facial features because he was more or less a silhouette. But I could see he was lying down, I could see his hair, long, flowing, the ends merging with the very black space I was floating in. His eyes, the only part of him that was glowing, were like black holes. Literally. Those NASA pictures of black holes , exactly like that... I'm pretty sure the eyeballs, or what should be eyeballs in human anatomy, were rotating , moving , shifting. They weren't static. Yet it was Him, I knew it, my soul knew it; it was him, just… goddamn.
But he didn't look the same as the calendar images , no weapons , no glittering gold and flowers , no sheshnag ... Nothing . He was a bare shadow ... His sheer presence felt like gravity to me .
My voice was a mix of awe and gut-wrenching terror, “I-... you thought—” I tried again, “you thought I would be familiar with this?”
“Are you not? They call me—ah, what was that name again? … Ah, yes, Mahavishnu—”
I did not let him complete his sentence before my voice found its way out by itself, “MAHAVISHNU?” Not Vishnu, not Krishna, directly MAHA-????? I look at him incredulously, “You-... if you knew I was familiar with Mahavishnu, why not take the easier version, you know? Like Krishna, easy on the eyes… I think… compared to... this. You.”
"Remember when I told you that you had wandered too far? This is what I meant. This… Mahavishnu… is the least overwhelming form I can take. Krishna, that form, is far too close to the human realm; I'm far, far beyond that realm. Far beyond.”
I go quiet for a moment, before I murmur, “Then how did I wander so far… you’re like- the highest point, in the universe.” He chuckled, that sort of sound when one is entirely certain of what they were about to say, no matter how outrageous the statement might be, “Not the highest, that would be incorrect, little soul. I am the only point that exists. There’s nothing beyond me.”
I blink, legit, just blink, before I go “Nothing beyond you? Well I mean, true the scriptures said the same, but… what about other y’know, beings, like you?”
“All me. I'm all that there is, little soul,” he replied. His voice was calm, like someone stating the earth is a planet.
I point to myself, “Then what about me? I’m you?”
He paused for a moment, not in surprise, no, rather it felt as if he was trying to find words that wouldn't be too big for me, before settling for the simplest of all answers, “Yes, little soul. You are me.”
I go quiet again, damn, that hit hard, ooof… but- I perk up “But, we are separate, I mean we are standing separately, you’re there” I point to where his silhouette was, “and I’m here” I point back to myself.
He smiles, I couldn't see it for sure but I could feel it, “Who says I’m not right next to you?”
I frown in confusion, “Huh but you’re—”… I couldn't complete my retort, for that is when I noticed … His hair, or rather a silhouette of his hair, that was the black space around me, the galaxies and universes and what not, were on his hair, like little hairclips. I didn't know how to explain the exact visual I was seeing. He was right. He was right next to me—no, he was all around me. I looked down at my own corporeal form; it was semi-transparent, yes, but I could see that wavy texture of hair—not physical, not actual hair, but the essence—within me… I was made of… Him. I didn't know how to put that into words. I was literally made of him, like a doll is made of plastic, where the plastic is its essence… I was made up of him… I just stand still, a shiver running through my spine, a phantom thing I guess, since I didn't have a spine? I quickly looked around, as far as my corporeal form could see. Everything had the same texture, his hair, everything was made of him, those galaxies, those stars, and other things I didn't know the name of, all spun like tangled tresses… He was not just here or there, he was everywhere… hell he was all that there was… “Holy fuck—” my voice was a strangled whisper. I was terrified of what I was seeing, purely terrified. I mean, come on, no one can look at this… this, and not be scared shitless. So this was the truth. All Him.
I huffed a soft laugh, the terror was still there, but it wasn't the fear of someone in trouble, rather the terror that comes with too much knowledge, “Huh, so it's all you, is it? Then why these..forms? Me, other humans, and other beings I don't know of… what's the point if it's all you?”
He smiled, I could feel it, “Well, my existence got monotonous after a few eternities, so I decided to create instead.”
I hum, I could relate to that atleast, boredom, “Hmm, makes sense, you got tired of being the only one to exist, and since you are all that there is, was or will be, you just decided to create from within you.”
Silence.
Then I felt him lean closer, it was a strange feeling, he wasn't leaning physically closer, but the space between us seemed to fold, his eyes, those black hole type moving things, stilled for a split second. Both the glowing orbs focusing on me, at once, I froze, fear, primal, blood curdling fear, ran through me. I wasn't scared of him like that, it was just a natural instinct. The way a mortal nervous system would react to direct proximity with overwhelming existence itself.
“Youre a sharp one, little soul. You accept things with an ease most would certainly struggle with.” his voice was curious, interested, as if he was only right now starting to actually pay attention to me.
The way I just got goosebumps. Especially with the scene where he was everywhere? Chef's kiss 😘
And reading this felt like reading an esoteric level of concept in the form of a story...like Panchatantra? I love LOVE THIS.
Because the way it showed that Vishnu, Krishna and Mahavishnu are different things. Love it because not many know about this or accept this. And also did you know that Narayana and Maha Vishnu are the same? I thought Vishnu and Narayana were synonymous but apparently not. It's Narayana in his cosmic form and it's first manifestation as Maha Vishnu. I was sooo intrigued.
And according to a few sampradayas Narayana himself in Sada Shiva. Soooo interesting. And his consort? Mahalakshmi. Or in other words Durga Mahalakshmi. She is the one we worship in Kolhapur. So she is not merely Vishnu's wife or shiva's wife. She is the one behind that.
And I'm not even gonna enter the whole 'Vasudeva' concept. Bro is called Vasudeva at every level 😭 And the whole Goloka Krishna and Sankarshana 🙏
I'm sort of writing this story to simplify shit we all already know . Different philosophical and spiritual concepts , under the guise of easy language and a gen z who's dead but still has that energy .
Bro has already confused me with his vasudeva form , back when I was studying lakshmi tantra Lmaoo
Vishnu and narayana are same yes , and vishnu , mahavishnu are different . And krishna is entirely different . And ofcourse narayana is sadashiv and mahalakshmi. They're all one just different essence .
I wanna explore that too here . Tbh . I'm not sure HOW but I WILL . 😂😂💀
Like I sit down to read about these and i get a headache. Everything I know till now is because I was listening to someone or my dad was explaining it. It's just too much to read for me 😭
There is just too much happened in these scriptures. I just say everyone is the same let's go and chill 💙😭🙏
Giampaolo Tomassetti, an acclaimed contemporary Italian painter (also known by his spiritual name, Jnananjana Dasa), spent 5 years studying the Sanskrit epic and 12 years creating a series of large-scale oil paintings that visually narrate the core events of the Mahabharata.
I never knew what it felt like to exist after death. Granted, I doubt anyone does. The scriptures say death is supposed to feel peaceful. I guess, to me, it did feel somewhat calm. I hadn't forgotten my memories of my life, my parents, my education, my job, the stress of bills, capitalism, all those hours I spent doomscrolling; I remembered it all… and Him, yes, my memory of Him was quite intact. All those hours of wanting him, all those years of feeling his name echo through the depths of my mind at the most goddamn inopportune moments, I remembered it all… Strange, though, isn't it? Who am I even talking to? Am I not supposed to forget it all after death? As per scriptures, we all start anew, right? Where was I even? My eyes aren't open... not really... I no longer have a body. I could feel myself floating... it was a really weird sensation. I suddenly remember—wait, how the hell am I remembering if I don't have a brain? What the fuck? Anyways, I remember the books saying something like I must put intention into creation? Let me try… maybe then I would be able to open my eyes—I mean see, yeah, I needed to see what was around me.
Oh… wait up… the darkness is receding—nope, false alarm, it’s not… but there’s a new light… someone’s here. I’m not alone.
I blink... hold the fuck up, did I just blink? I look down, oh, ohhh my body, no wait—it was a corporeal form… but looked exactly like my body when I died… WTF, am I a ghost?
“I thought you would be more comfortable in your most recent form,” a voice spoke. It wasn't male, it wasn't female either; it felt as if it were as much a soft whisper yet as heavy as the tolling bells of the old temples.
I whirl around, “Who?” There was no one, yet I could feel it. That presence: vast, endless, far, far too large to be contained within one form.
“That question is the most difficult to answer... who am I indeed…”
I blink, bewildered, a part of me starting to recognize exactly who or rather what I was talking to... “That makes no sense, everyone knows who they are.”
“Hmm… do they? Tell me, who are you then?” the voice asked back. My answer was instant, before I could even process my own words, “I am Shreyasi—"... I stopped as a thought struck me: was I still Shreyasi? Wasn't I a little too… ahem… dead to be the old me? Then… who was I now?
“See? You're stuck too. Your flesh had its identity, but without that cover, even you do not know who you are,” the voice—... I needed to stop calling him-her-it, the voice in my head—wait... did I even have a head... ugh.
“Look, just for the purpose of this conversation, give me a name and let me see you…” I stated flatly. I'd never really been one to mince words, death or not, that wasn't gonna change.
The voice laughed; literally, not even kidding. Not the amused kinda laugh, rather as if I had stated something so wild it was damn near impossible. I felt the space around me shimmer, as if every molecule or atom or whatever was vibrating… “Hey, that’s not fair,” I grumbled. I wasn't sure if he-she-it—dammit, was laughing at me or just because it felt the need to do so.
“You're not supposed to be here, you know? You wandered too far, little soul.”
I blinked at that, “Oh, do souls not come here? I didn't know that. It’s not like I did it on purpose, y'know; not my fault.” The voice felt as if it were smiling, “Yes, most do not; perhaps your soul inherently knew it seeked something more than the usual. So it drifted… still, you're too far…” The voice paused for a second before it spoke again, “Alright then, since you asked for a form, I shall take one you're rather familiar with…”
And then, colors exploded. Everywhere. Up until now, I seemed to exist in a dark, deep space, and now suddenly I saw stars, galaxies, universes and shit I didn't even know what they were, and then… Him.
Not physical, I mean, not flesh and blood. He was… vast, for a lack of a better word. The same corporeal form that I had, somewhat transparent, but too damn vast, literally. It felt as if this entire space was his bed and he was lying on it. I couldn't distinguish his facial features because he was more or less a silhouette. But I could see he was lying down, I could see his hair, long, flowing, the ends merging with the very black space I was floating in. His eyes, the only part of him that was glowing, were like black holes. Literally. Those NASA pictures of black holes , exactly like that... I'm pretty sure the eyeballs, or what should be eyeballs in human anatomy, were rotating , moving , shifting. They weren't static. Yet it was Him, I knew it, my soul knew it; it was him, just… goddamn.
But he didn't look the same as the calendar images , no weapons , no glittering gold and flowers , no sheshnag ... Nothing . He was a bare shadow ... His sheer presence felt like gravity to me .
My voice was a mix of awe and gut-wrenching terror, “I-... you thought—” I tried again, “you thought I would be familiar with this?”
“Are you not? They call me—ah, what was that name again? … Ah, yes, Mahavishnu—”
I did not let him complete his sentence before my voice found its way out by itself, “MAHAVISHNU?” Not Vishnu, not Krishna, directly MAHA-????? I look at him incredulously, “You-... if you knew I was familiar with Mahavishnu, why not take the easier version, you know? Like Krishna, easy on the eyes… I think… compared to... this. You.”
"Remember when I told you that you had wandered too far? This is what I meant. This… Mahavishnu… is the least overwhelming form I can take. Krishna, that form, is far too close to the human realm; I'm far, far beyond that realm. Far beyond.”
I go quiet for a moment, before I murmur, “Then how did I wander so far… you’re like- the highest point, in the universe.” He chuckled, that sort of sound when one is entirely certain of what they were about to say, no matter how outrageous the statement might be, “Not the highest, that would be incorrect, little soul. I am the only point that exists. There’s nothing beyond me.”
I blink, legit, just blink, before I go “Nothing beyond you? Well I mean, true the scriptures said the same, but… what about other y’know, beings, like you?”
“All me. I'm all that there is, little soul,” he replied. His voice was calm, like someone stating the earth is a planet.
I point to myself, “Then what about me? I’m you?”
He paused for a moment, not in surprise, no, rather it felt as if he was trying to find words that wouldn't be too big for me, before settling for the simplest of all answers, “Yes, little soul. You are me.”
I go quiet again, damn, that hit hard, ooof… but- I perk up “But, we are separate, I mean we are standing separately, you’re there” I point to where his silhouette was, “and I’m here” I point back to myself.
He smiles, I couldn't see it for sure but I could feel it, “Who says I’m not right next to you?”
I frown in confusion, “Huh but you’re—”… I couldn't complete my retort, for that is when I noticed … His hair, or rather a silhouette of his hair, that was the black space around me, the galaxies and universes and what not, were on his hair, like little hairclips. I didn't know how to explain the exact visual I was seeing. He was right. He was right next to me—no, he was all around me. I looked down at my own corporeal form; it was semi-transparent, yes, but I could see that wavy texture of hair—not physical, not actual hair, but the essence—within me… I was made of… Him. I didn't know how to put that into words. I was literally made of him, like a doll is made of plastic, where the plastic is its essence… I was made up of him… I just stand still, a shiver running through my spine, a phantom thing I guess, since I didn't have a spine? I quickly looked around, as far as my corporeal form could see. Everything had the same texture, his hair, everything was made of him, those galaxies, those stars, and other things I didn't know the name of, all spun like tangled tresses… He was not just here or there, he was everywhere… hell he was all that there was… “Holy fuck—” my voice was a strangled whisper. I was terrified of what I was seeing, purely terrified. I mean, come on, no one can look at this… this, and not be scared shitless. So this was the truth. All Him.
I huffed a soft laugh, the terror was still there, but it wasn't the fear of someone in trouble, rather the terror that comes with too much knowledge, “Huh, so it's all you, is it? Then why these..forms? Me, other humans, and other beings I don't know of… what's the point if it's all you?”
He smiled, I could feel it, “Well, my existence got monotonous after a few eternities, so I decided to create instead.”
I hum, I could relate to that atleast, boredom, “Hmm, makes sense, you got tired of being the only one to exist, and since you are all that there is, was or will be, you just decided to create from within you.”
Silence.
Then I felt him lean closer, it was a strange feeling, he wasn't leaning physically closer, but the space between us seemed to fold, his eyes, those black hole type moving things, stilled for a split second. Both the glowing orbs focusing on me, at once, I froze, fear, primal, blood curdling fear, ran through me. I wasn't scared of him like that, it was just a natural instinct. The way a mortal nervous system would react to direct proximity with overwhelming existence itself.
“Youre a sharp one, little soul. You accept things with an ease most would certainly struggle with.” his voice was curious, interested, as if he was only right now starting to actually pay attention to me.
The way I just got goosebumps. Especially with the scene where he was everywhere? Chef's kiss 😘
And reading this felt like reading an esoteric level of concept in the form of a story...like Panchatantra? I love LOVE THIS.
Because the way it showed that Vishnu, Krishna and Mahavishnu are different things. Love it because not many know about this or accept this. And also did you know that Narayana and Maha Vishnu are the same? I thought Vishnu and Narayana were synonymous but apparently not. It's Narayana in his cosmic form and it's first manifestation as Maha Vishnu. I was sooo intrigued.
And according to a few sampradayas Narayana himself in Sada Shiva. Soooo interesting. And his consort? Mahalakshmi. Or in other words Durga Mahalakshmi. She is the one we worship in Kolhapur. So she is not merely Vishnu's wife or shiva's wife. She is the one behind that.
And I'm not even gonna enter the whole 'Vasudeva' concept. Bro is called Vasudeva at every level 😭 And the whole Goloka Krishna and Sankarshana 🙏
I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!
so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya
So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.
so please excuse my mistakes. )
The backstage holding room of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium was an absolute mess of anxious chaos. It was totally cut off from the peaceful grandeur of the stage just beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Inside, the air was thick with the competing smells of jasmine strings, camphor, melted pancake makeup, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
Bhargavi stood rigid, frozen right in front of a wobbling pedestal fan. The appliance oscillated with a rhythmic, metallic groan, its rusted blades doing little more than shifting the heavy, humid air from one corner of the dressing room to the other. Outside, the pre-monsoon heat was completely unforgiving, but inside Bhargavi’s chest, a different kind of fire was burning.
She was already dressed in her full Kuchipudi attire. The heavy pleats of her silk costume, which was a striking combination of deep temple red and forest green bordered with intricate zari work, felt like an armor of lead. The fans of her pleated dhoti hung perfectly between her legs. They were designed to flare out like a lotus in bloom whenever she assumed the deep, seated posture of the Ara-mandi, but right now, those pleats felt completely constricting. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Sweat was already pooling beneath the heavy brass vaanki bands gripping her biceps, and a persistent trickle was threatening to ruin the meticulous, curved lines of the paint adorning her forehead.
An hour. In exactly sixty minutes, the heavy bronze bell would ring, the curtains would part, and she would step out for her Arangetram. This was her formal debut on the stage, the culmination of twelve years of rigorous, bone-breaking discipline.
What if I trip during the jathis, she thought, her fingers trembling as they unconsciously checked the tightness of her gajje. The hundreds of brass bells tied around her ankles gave a muted, nervous jingle. What if my foot slips on the brass plate? What if my mind goes blank during the slokam?
"Bhargavi."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed an inherent authority that instantly cut through the noise of her internal panic and the distant chatter of stagehands.
Bhargavi turned around. Standing in the doorway was her guru, Acharya Vasanthakumari. The elderly woman was a vision of timeless dignity, draped in a crisp, starch-white cotton sari with a simple gold border. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her eyes, though weathered by decades of teaching, held the sharp, discerning clarity of a master craftsman looking at their finest piece of work.
"Guru Garu," Bhargavi breathed, her voice cracking slightly.
The Acharya stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over her student. She didn't offer a hollow phrase of comfort. Instead, she walked over and placed a firm, cooling hand directly over Bhargavi’s racing heart.
"The air in this room is heavy, but your spirit cannot afford to be," her guru said, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Look at me, my child. You have not prepared for this for just a month or a year. You have practiced with all your heart since you were a little girl who could barely balance on her own two feet. Every tear, every bruised heel, every sleepless night, it was all a gathering of wood. Tonight, you simply have to let the fire burn. You will do well. Do not worry."
The warmth in her guru's voice acted like a total lifesaver, smoothing out the jagged, frantic edges of Bhargavi's breathing. The sheer weight of tradition, of lineage, and of unconditional belief flowed from the teacher into the disciple.
Deeply moved, Bhargavi bent down. Despite the restriction of her stiff costume and the heavy jewelry dangling from her neck, she folded herself completely, reaching out to touch the calloused, dust-stained feet of her guru. It was the ultimate surrender of the ego, an acknowledgment that whatever happened on that stage belonged to the lineage and not to her.
As her fingers brushed the elder woman's feet, Vasanthakumari placed both her hands upon Bhargavi’s head.
"Everything will be fine," the guru blessed, her voice dropping into a solemn, sacred register. "Saraswati kataksha sidhi rastu. May the grace of the Goddess of Wisdom and Art flow through your every limb tonight."
When the darkness finally descended, it was absolute. Bhargavi stood in the wings, where the heavy stage smelled of old wood and burnt theater lights. The auditorium was packed to capacity, and she could hear the low, collective murmur of hundreds of patrons, critics, family members, and rasikas waiting out there.
Then, the mridangam player struck the first celebratory note on the drum. The sharp, resonant rhythm vibrated through the wooden floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Bhargavi's bare feet and settling right into her spine.
The curtains drew back. The stage lights flared to life in a brilliant, blinding wash of amber and gold that completely cut Bhargavi off from the physical world. The audience dissolved into a vast, pitch-black void, leaving her utterly alone in a sea of light.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the sacred space.
The performance began with the Purvaranga, the traditional preliminary rituals. As Bhargavi moved across the stage to offer flowers to the idol of Lord Nataraja resting at the corner, the nervous sweat that had plagued her backstage seemed to undergo a total transformation. It was no longer the sweat of anxiety, but the sacred condensation of prayer.
Her first few movements were deliberate, anchoring her body to the earth. She sank into the Ara-mandi with her knees bent wide and her back perfectly erect, creating the foundational diamond shape of South Indian classical dance.
Then came the jathis, the complex, mathematical sequences of pure rhythmic dance.
The nattuvanar sat cross-legged on the side of the stage alongside her guru, striking the bronze cymbals with sharp, crystalline precision.
Bhargavi exploded into motion.
Any lingering doubt vanished, replaced by an ancient, muscle-memorized fluid precision. Her feet struck the stage with thunderous, rhythmic authority. The hundreds of brass bells around her ankles didn’t jangle randomly. They spoke a language of perfect synchronization, matching every subtle inflection of the drum. She raced across the stage in diagonal patterns, her arms extending fully into the mudras, her chest throwing forward, and her eyes following the precise path of her hands.
The Tarangam followed, which was the definitive piece of the Kuchipudi repertoire. A large, heavy brass plate was placed in the center of the stage. With absolute focus, Bhargavi stepped onto its rim, balancing her entire body weight on the thin, upturned edges of the metal.
The rhythm accelerated. The mridangam player challenged her with a dazzling array of syncopated beats. Moving her feet in lightning-fast patterns while remaining firmly anchored on the plate, she glided across the stage. The rhythmic scraping of the brass against the wood created an intoxicating, driving counterpoint to the music.
From the wings, Vasanthakumari watched, her hands gently keeping time on her lap. Her eyes filled with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Bhargavi was executing a technically flawless performance. Her lines were straight, her balance was impeccable, and her stamina was unyielding.
But as the Tarangam concluded to a roar of spontaneous applause, and Bhargavi retired to the wings for a brief costume adjustment before her final piece, she felt a strange, lingering emptiness.
She was dancing brilliantly, yes, but she was still just executing. She was still the architect of her own movement, controlling every breath, every muscle, and every gaze. She had achieved technical perfection, but the soul of the dance, the absolute dissolution of the self, had not yet arrived.
The final piece of the evening was Jayadeva's soulful Ashtapadi, Radhika Krishna. Unlike the previous items which focused heavily on rhythmic technicality, this piece was an exploration of pure Abhinaya, the art of expression, devotion, and storytelling. It was a song of intense longing, where Radha's friend describes her desperate, lovesick state to Krishna, pleading with him to go to her.
As Bhargavi walked back onto the stage, the lighting had changed completely. The harsh, brilliant gold of the spotlights had been replaced by a soft, midnight-blue hue interspersed with pale amber, mimicking the mystical twilight hours on the banks of the Yamuna River.
The vocalist took a deep breath, and the drone of the tanpura filled the auditorium with a hypnotic, vibrating hum. Then, the violin introduced the raga, playing a soulful, yearning rendition of Bhairavi that seemed to weep and rejoice all at once.
Bhargavi stood in the center of the stage, her body relaxed and her hands folded in a loose Anjali mudra near her chest.
The vocalist began to sing the opening lines of the verse:
“Radhika Krishna Radhika, Tava Virahena Keshava…”
(Radha, oh Krishna, is suffering from your separation…)
As the words filled the air, something shifted fundamentally within the space.
It did not happen gradually. It was a sudden, violent tearing of the fabric of reality.
The stale, warm air of the auditorium completely vanished. In its place, a cool, gentle breeze swept across the stage. It didn't feel like the mechanical air of a fan since it carried with it the damp, rich scent of river clay, the overwhelming sweetness of wild basil, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The breeze caught the edge of Bhargavi’s silk pallu, lifting it slightly and brushing it against her bare shoulder.
Bhargavi’s eyes widened. A sudden, electric shiver traveled down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
She began the choreography, extending her right arm outward in a gesture of longing while her eyes searched the empty air of the stage, portraying the lonely, suffering Radha calling out into the woods of Brindavan.
But as her arm reached its full extension, her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Her fingers didn't encounter empty air.
She felt a distinct, undeniable warmth clasp around her hand. It was the solid, unmistakable touch of another hand that felt slender, strong, and impossibly smooth. The invisible fingers gently entwined with hers, adjusting the posture of her hand and pulling her wrist upward into a more perfect, elevated curve.
Bhargavi froze inwardly, though her body kept moving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with the cold grip of stage fright, but with a wild, soaring bewilderment.
"Do not tremble, My beautiful one."
The voice did not come from the speakers, nor did it come from the vocalist. It resonated directly inside the chambers of her own mind. It was a sound so rich, deep, and laced with a playful, teasing tenderness that it felt more real than the music itself.
Bhargavi’s gaze snapped to her right.
The human eye would see nothing but the shifting blue shadows of the stage lights, but Bhargavi’s soul saw him with terrifying, exquisite clarity.
He was standing right there, leaning casually against the air as if it were a solid pillar. His complexion was the deep, enchanting color of a rain-drenched storm cloud. He wore a dhoti of shimmering pitambara yellow silk that seemed to emit its own soft radiance. Around his neck hung garlands of fresh forest flowers, and nestled within the dark, wild curls of his hair was a single peacock feather, its iridescent eye catching the theatrical blue light.
His lips, stained red from betel nut, were curved into a brilliant, knowing smile, and his eyes, which were large, dark, liquid pools of infinite compassion, were locked onto hers.
"You have called for Me for a whole month through your dance," Krishna whispered, stepping closer as the scent of jasmine grew dizzyingly strong. "Did you think I would let you dance alone tonight?"
The vocalist transitioned into the fast, flirtatious rhythm of the song, and the entire energy on stage turned electric. It felt exactly like the Thillana of Rati Manmatha, where the dance becomes a breathless, intimate conversation between lovers, full of teasing shifts, sudden locks, and mirroring movements.
Bhargavi didn't have time to process her shock because Krishna stepped right into her space, perfectly intercepting her next movement as the lyrics entered the phrase “Vimalala kapole, jalada samove…” describing Radha’s tear-stained, pale cheeks.
As she moved forward in a diagonal stride, mimicking Radha's friend desperately searching for him, Krishna suddenly appeared right in front of her. He dropped into a flawless, deep Ara-mandi that perfectly mirrored hers. When she stamped her right foot, he stamped his left, his bare blue foot making no sound on the wood but sending a pulse of pure warmth through the floorboards.
Then, the choreography demanded a sudden, dramatic pause. On a sharp syllable from the mridangam, Krishna reached out.
His hand, warm and incredibly firm, slid around her waist. The pressure of his palm against her silk costume pulled her securely against his chest. Bhargavi’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his arm anchoring her. With his other hand, he hooked two fingers gently under her chin, tilting her head upward.
Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his dark face was radiant, and his smile was hopelessly teasing. He held her chin for a lingering heartbeat, completely taking control of her gaze, forcing her to look into his bottomless lotus eyes.
"Look at Me, Bhargavi," he whispered, his voice like silk, bringing her face close to his as if to wipe away the tears of separation described in the song. "Let them see how Radha adores her Krishna."
On the next beat, he released her chin, but his hand slid down to catch her wrist. The rhythm picked up speed, mimicking a rapid tug-of-war. Bhargavi spun outward, but Krishna didn't let go. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her back in, sending her spinning in reverse until her back bumped gently against his chest.
He didn't release his hold. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they both executed a series of lightning-fast movements together. Every tilt of Bhargavi’s head was perfectly mirrored by his, their expressions completely in sync with the pulsing tempo.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, laughing as the nattuvanar called out a complex, winding jathi sequence that simulated the chaotic, intoxicating winds of love.
"Now, break away," he teased in her ear.
With a sudden, playful push against her hip, he sent her gliding across the stage. Bhargavi executed a series of sharp, rhythmic leaps, her brass bells ringing out fiercely. Krishna was right on her heels. He leaped when she leaped, his long limbs slicing through the blue stage lights with impossible grace.
When she turned around to face him, he took the role of the ultimate charmer, leaning back as the singer repeated “Tava Virahena Keshava.” He mimicked holding a flute to his lips, his fingers moving over the invisible instrument, his eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Bhargavi reacted instinctively, her hands forming the Katakamukha mudra as she acted out the role of a Gopi completely mesmerized by his music, losing her breath under his gaze.
She took a step toward him, but Krishna quickly changed the game. He stepped to the side, his hand brushing against the edge of her pleated dhoti, making the silk rustle loudly. He caught her by the waist again, spinning her around him in a tight, dizzying circle. She could feel the cool silk of his pitambara dhoti brushing against her bare ankles, and the scent of wild basil completely filled her senses.
Every time she thought she was leading the dance, Krishna would subtly take control. If her hand position drifted even a millimeter, his fingers would slide over hers, correcting the mudra with a gentle, firm squeeze. If her eyes wandered toward the wings where her guru was sitting, he would instantly catch her jaw with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face back toward his.
"I am your audience tonight," he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Keep your eyes on Me."
They were locked in a relentless, beautiful rhythm. They danced side by side, their shoulders rubbing together, their hips swaying in perfect unison. He would pull her close until she could feel the warmth of his skin, only to spin her away and pull her back by the waist a second later. It was a breathless, euphoric game of touch and release, a cosmic dance of courtship where every single step was an act of pure, intoxicated love.
Bhargavi didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. Her lungs didn't burn, and her legs didn't ache. She felt completely weightless, entirely sustained by the firm hands that kept catching her, touching her, and guiding her across the stage.
The song began its descent into the final crescendo, the Mukthayi. The music swelled into a magnificent torrent of violin, flute, and drum, gathering all the emotions of the evening and hurtling them toward a definitive point of absolute collapse as the final plea to Keshava resonated through the hall.
The lyrics spoke of the final realization that the lover and the beloved are not two, but one, and that the dance and the dancer are inseparable.
Krishna stopped his playful movements and stepped to the center of the stage, facing her.
His form seemed to expand, growing brighter until the blue light of the stage was completely swallowed by a soft, blinding white radiance that emanated from his very being. The peacock feather in his hair seemed to encompass the entire night sky.
"Now, Bhargavi," his voice echoed, no longer a whisper, but a beautiful, rolling vibration that felt like distant thunder. "Give it all to Me."
On the final, explosive triplet of the drum, Bhargavi threw her entire body forward. She didn't just complete a step; she offered her life.
She sank to her knees, her body folding forward over her thighs. Her hands came together above her head, locking into the Anjali Mudra of total, unconditional surrender to the Lord who had answered the call of the Ashtapadi. Her head bowed down until her forehead almost touched the cool wooden floorboards of the stage.
As the final, lingering note of the violin vibrated into the air, a profound, absolute silence blanketed the universe.
In that sacred fraction of a second, before the physical world could reassert itself, Bhargavi felt a soft, cool hand rest gently upon her bowed head. The fingers pressed lightly against her crown, sending a wave of absolute, unadulterated peace through her entire body. Every muscle relaxed, and every cell in her body felt washed clean by a divine river.
His voice resonated within her, a beautiful, "Well danced, My love. Your offering is received."
The fragrance of wild basil and jasmine flared one last time, a sweet, overwhelming wave that filled her lungs, and then, with the gentleness of a fading dream, it dissolved.
A sound like the breaking of a massive wave shattered the silence.
The auditorium erupted.
The transition back to reality was almost violent. The blinding amber spotlights hit Bhargavi’s eyes as she slowly lifted her head. The white sands of the Yamuna were gone, and she was looking at the worn, dark varnish of the stage floor.
The audience was on its feet. The sound of hundreds of people clapping, cheering, and shouting in appreciation was deafening. In the front rows, seasoned critics and elderly rasikas were openly weeping, wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs, visibly moved by an extraordinary, spiritual energy they couldn't logically explain, but had felt down to their very bones.
Bhargavi rose to her feet, her limbs trembling slightly now as the human exhaustion finally caught up with her. She turned toward the side of the stage.
Acharya Vasanthakumari had stood up from her seat. The elderly guru’s face was completely wet with tears. She wasn't just smiling; she was looking at her disciple with a sense of profound, reverent awe. She knew. She had spent a lifetime in the service of the art, and she knew that what Bhargavi had just displayed in that final piece was not the result of practice. It was the descent of the divine.
Bhargavi brought her hands together, bowing deeply to the audience, then to the musicians, and finally to the idol of Nataraja.
As she raised her hands one last time to greet the crowd, she looked down at her palms. They were still tingling with an impossible, lingering warmth, and tucked neatly beneath the gold band of her left wrist ornament was a single, small, fragrant leaf of wild Tulasi.
She smiled through her tears, looking out into the empty spaces of the hall. The test was over. The world thought she had successfully completed her Arangetram, but Bhargavi knew the truth. She had simply been invited to dance in a courtyard that had no end.
I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!
so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya
So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.
so please excuse my mistakes. )
The backstage holding room of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium was an absolute mess of anxious chaos. It was totally cut off from the peaceful grandeur of the stage just beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Inside, the air was thick with the competing smells of jasmine strings, camphor, melted pancake makeup, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
Bhargavi stood rigid, frozen right in front of a wobbling pedestal fan. The appliance oscillated with a rhythmic, metallic groan, its rusted blades doing little more than shifting the heavy, humid air from one corner of the dressing room to the other. Outside, the pre-monsoon heat was completely unforgiving, but inside Bhargavi’s chest, a different kind of fire was burning.
She was already dressed in her full Kuchipudi attire. The heavy pleats of her silk costume, which was a striking combination of deep temple red and forest green bordered with intricate zari work, felt like an armor of lead. The fans of her pleated dhoti hung perfectly between her legs. They were designed to flare out like a lotus in bloom whenever she assumed the deep, seated posture of the Ara-mandi, but right now, those pleats felt completely constricting. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Sweat was already pooling beneath the heavy brass vaanki bands gripping her biceps, and a persistent trickle was threatening to ruin the meticulous, curved lines of the paint adorning her forehead.
An hour. In exactly sixty minutes, the heavy bronze bell would ring, the curtains would part, and she would step out for her Arangetram. This was her formal debut on the stage, the culmination of twelve years of rigorous, bone-breaking discipline.
What if I trip during the jathis, she thought, her fingers trembling as they unconsciously checked the tightness of her gajje. The hundreds of brass bells tied around her ankles gave a muted, nervous jingle. What if my foot slips on the brass plate? What if my mind goes blank during the slokam?
"Bhargavi."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed an inherent authority that instantly cut through the noise of her internal panic and the distant chatter of stagehands.
Bhargavi turned around. Standing in the doorway was her guru, Acharya Vasanthakumari. The elderly woman was a vision of timeless dignity, draped in a crisp, starch-white cotton sari with a simple gold border. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her eyes, though weathered by decades of teaching, held the sharp, discerning clarity of a master craftsman looking at their finest piece of work.
"Guru Garu," Bhargavi breathed, her voice cracking slightly.
The Acharya stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over her student. She didn't offer a hollow phrase of comfort. Instead, she walked over and placed a firm, cooling hand directly over Bhargavi’s racing heart.
"The air in this room is heavy, but your spirit cannot afford to be," her guru said, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Look at me, my child. You have not prepared for this for just a month or a year. You have practiced with all your heart since you were a little girl who could barely balance on her own two feet. Every tear, every bruised heel, every sleepless night, it was all a gathering of wood. Tonight, you simply have to let the fire burn. You will do well. Do not worry."
The warmth in her guru's voice acted like a total lifesaver, smoothing out the jagged, frantic edges of Bhargavi's breathing. The sheer weight of tradition, of lineage, and of unconditional belief flowed from the teacher into the disciple.
Deeply moved, Bhargavi bent down. Despite the restriction of her stiff costume and the heavy jewelry dangling from her neck, she folded herself completely, reaching out to touch the calloused, dust-stained feet of her guru. It was the ultimate surrender of the ego, an acknowledgment that whatever happened on that stage belonged to the lineage and not to her.
As her fingers brushed the elder woman's feet, Vasanthakumari placed both her hands upon Bhargavi’s head.
"Everything will be fine," the guru blessed, her voice dropping into a solemn, sacred register. "Saraswati kataksha sidhi rastu. May the grace of the Goddess of Wisdom and Art flow through your every limb tonight."
When the darkness finally descended, it was absolute. Bhargavi stood in the wings, where the heavy stage smelled of old wood and burnt theater lights. The auditorium was packed to capacity, and she could hear the low, collective murmur of hundreds of patrons, critics, family members, and rasikas waiting out there.
Then, the mridangam player struck the first celebratory note on the drum. The sharp, resonant rhythm vibrated through the wooden floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Bhargavi's bare feet and settling right into her spine.
The curtains drew back. The stage lights flared to life in a brilliant, blinding wash of amber and gold that completely cut Bhargavi off from the physical world. The audience dissolved into a vast, pitch-black void, leaving her utterly alone in a sea of light.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the sacred space.
The performance began with the Purvaranga, the traditional preliminary rituals. As Bhargavi moved across the stage to offer flowers to the idol of Lord Nataraja resting at the corner, the nervous sweat that had plagued her backstage seemed to undergo a total transformation. It was no longer the sweat of anxiety, but the sacred condensation of prayer.
Her first few movements were deliberate, anchoring her body to the earth. She sank into the Ara-mandi with her knees bent wide and her back perfectly erect, creating the foundational diamond shape of South Indian classical dance.
Then came the jathis, the complex, mathematical sequences of pure rhythmic dance.
The nattuvanar sat cross-legged on the side of the stage alongside her guru, striking the bronze cymbals with sharp, crystalline precision.
Bhargavi exploded into motion.
Any lingering doubt vanished, replaced by an ancient, muscle-memorized fluid precision. Her feet struck the stage with thunderous, rhythmic authority. The hundreds of brass bells around her ankles didn’t jangle randomly. They spoke a language of perfect synchronization, matching every subtle inflection of the drum. She raced across the stage in diagonal patterns, her arms extending fully into the mudras, her chest throwing forward, and her eyes following the precise path of her hands.
The Tarangam followed, which was the definitive piece of the Kuchipudi repertoire. A large, heavy brass plate was placed in the center of the stage. With absolute focus, Bhargavi stepped onto its rim, balancing her entire body weight on the thin, upturned edges of the metal.
The rhythm accelerated. The mridangam player challenged her with a dazzling array of syncopated beats. Moving her feet in lightning-fast patterns while remaining firmly anchored on the plate, she glided across the stage. The rhythmic scraping of the brass against the wood created an intoxicating, driving counterpoint to the music.
From the wings, Vasanthakumari watched, her hands gently keeping time on her lap. Her eyes filled with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Bhargavi was executing a technically flawless performance. Her lines were straight, her balance was impeccable, and her stamina was unyielding.
But as the Tarangam concluded to a roar of spontaneous applause, and Bhargavi retired to the wings for a brief costume adjustment before her final piece, she felt a strange, lingering emptiness.
She was dancing brilliantly, yes, but she was still just executing. She was still the architect of her own movement, controlling every breath, every muscle, and every gaze. She had achieved technical perfection, but the soul of the dance, the absolute dissolution of the self, had not yet arrived.
The final piece of the evening was Jayadeva's soulful Ashtapadi, Radhika Krishna. Unlike the previous items which focused heavily on rhythmic technicality, this piece was an exploration of pure Abhinaya, the art of expression, devotion, and storytelling. It was a song of intense longing, where Radha's friend describes her desperate, lovesick state to Krishna, pleading with him to go to her.
As Bhargavi walked back onto the stage, the lighting had changed completely. The harsh, brilliant gold of the spotlights had been replaced by a soft, midnight-blue hue interspersed with pale amber, mimicking the mystical twilight hours on the banks of the Yamuna River.
The vocalist took a deep breath, and the drone of the tanpura filled the auditorium with a hypnotic, vibrating hum. Then, the violin introduced the raga, playing a soulful, yearning rendition of Bhairavi that seemed to weep and rejoice all at once.
Bhargavi stood in the center of the stage, her body relaxed and her hands folded in a loose Anjali mudra near her chest.
The vocalist began to sing the opening lines of the verse:
“Radhika Krishna Radhika, Tava Virahena Keshava…”
(Radha, oh Krishna, is suffering from your separation…)
As the words filled the air, something shifted fundamentally within the space.
It did not happen gradually. It was a sudden, violent tearing of the fabric of reality.
The stale, warm air of the auditorium completely vanished. In its place, a cool, gentle breeze swept across the stage. It didn't feel like the mechanical air of a fan since it carried with it the damp, rich scent of river clay, the overwhelming sweetness of wild basil, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The breeze caught the edge of Bhargavi’s silk pallu, lifting it slightly and brushing it against her bare shoulder.
Bhargavi’s eyes widened. A sudden, electric shiver traveled down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
She began the choreography, extending her right arm outward in a gesture of longing while her eyes searched the empty air of the stage, portraying the lonely, suffering Radha calling out into the woods of Brindavan.
But as her arm reached its full extension, her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Her fingers didn't encounter empty air.
She felt a distinct, undeniable warmth clasp around her hand. It was the solid, unmistakable touch of another hand that felt slender, strong, and impossibly smooth. The invisible fingers gently entwined with hers, adjusting the posture of her hand and pulling her wrist upward into a more perfect, elevated curve.
Bhargavi froze inwardly, though her body kept moving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with the cold grip of stage fright, but with a wild, soaring bewilderment.
"Do not tremble, My beautiful one."
The voice did not come from the speakers, nor did it come from the vocalist. It resonated directly inside the chambers of her own mind. It was a sound so rich, deep, and laced with a playful, teasing tenderness that it felt more real than the music itself.
Bhargavi’s gaze snapped to her right.
The human eye would see nothing but the shifting blue shadows of the stage lights, but Bhargavi’s soul saw him with terrifying, exquisite clarity.
He was standing right there, leaning casually against the air as if it were a solid pillar. His complexion was the deep, enchanting color of a rain-drenched storm cloud. He wore a dhoti of shimmering pitambara yellow silk that seemed to emit its own soft radiance. Around his neck hung garlands of fresh forest flowers, and nestled within the dark, wild curls of his hair was a single peacock feather, its iridescent eye catching the theatrical blue light.
His lips, stained red from betel nut, were curved into a brilliant, knowing smile, and his eyes, which were large, dark, liquid pools of infinite compassion, were locked onto hers.
"You have called for Me for a whole month through your dance," Krishna whispered, stepping closer as the scent of jasmine grew dizzyingly strong. "Did you think I would let you dance alone tonight?"
The vocalist transitioned into the fast, flirtatious rhythm of the song, and the entire energy on stage turned electric. It felt exactly like the Thillana of Rati Manmatha, where the dance becomes a breathless, intimate conversation between lovers, full of teasing shifts, sudden locks, and mirroring movements.
Bhargavi didn't have time to process her shock because Krishna stepped right into her space, perfectly intercepting her next movement as the lyrics entered the phrase “Vimalala kapole, jalada samove…” describing Radha’s tear-stained, pale cheeks.
As she moved forward in a diagonal stride, mimicking Radha's friend desperately searching for him, Krishna suddenly appeared right in front of her. He dropped into a flawless, deep Ara-mandi that perfectly mirrored hers. When she stamped her right foot, he stamped his left, his bare blue foot making no sound on the wood but sending a pulse of pure warmth through the floorboards.
Then, the choreography demanded a sudden, dramatic pause. On a sharp syllable from the mridangam, Krishna reached out.
His hand, warm and incredibly firm, slid around her waist. The pressure of his palm against her silk costume pulled her securely against his chest. Bhargavi’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his arm anchoring her. With his other hand, he hooked two fingers gently under her chin, tilting her head upward.
Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his dark face was radiant, and his smile was hopelessly teasing. He held her chin for a lingering heartbeat, completely taking control of her gaze, forcing her to look into his bottomless lotus eyes.
"Look at Me, Bhargavi," he whispered, his voice like silk, bringing her face close to his as if to wipe away the tears of separation described in the song. "Let them see how Radha adores her Krishna."
On the next beat, he released her chin, but his hand slid down to catch her wrist. The rhythm picked up speed, mimicking a rapid tug-of-war. Bhargavi spun outward, but Krishna didn't let go. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her back in, sending her spinning in reverse until her back bumped gently against his chest.
He didn't release his hold. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they both executed a series of lightning-fast movements together. Every tilt of Bhargavi’s head was perfectly mirrored by his, their expressions completely in sync with the pulsing tempo.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, laughing as the nattuvanar called out a complex, winding jathi sequence that simulated the chaotic, intoxicating winds of love.
"Now, break away," he teased in her ear.
With a sudden, playful push against her hip, he sent her gliding across the stage. Bhargavi executed a series of sharp, rhythmic leaps, her brass bells ringing out fiercely. Krishna was right on her heels. He leaped when she leaped, his long limbs slicing through the blue stage lights with impossible grace.
When she turned around to face him, he took the role of the ultimate charmer, leaning back as the singer repeated “Tava Virahena Keshava.” He mimicked holding a flute to his lips, his fingers moving over the invisible instrument, his eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Bhargavi reacted instinctively, her hands forming the Katakamukha mudra as she acted out the role of a Gopi completely mesmerized by his music, losing her breath under his gaze.
She took a step toward him, but Krishna quickly changed the game. He stepped to the side, his hand brushing against the edge of her pleated dhoti, making the silk rustle loudly. He caught her by the waist again, spinning her around him in a tight, dizzying circle. She could feel the cool silk of his pitambara dhoti brushing against her bare ankles, and the scent of wild basil completely filled her senses.
Every time she thought she was leading the dance, Krishna would subtly take control. If her hand position drifted even a millimeter, his fingers would slide over hers, correcting the mudra with a gentle, firm squeeze. If her eyes wandered toward the wings where her guru was sitting, he would instantly catch her jaw with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face back toward his.
"I am your audience tonight," he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Keep your eyes on Me."
They were locked in a relentless, beautiful rhythm. They danced side by side, their shoulders rubbing together, their hips swaying in perfect unison. He would pull her close until she could feel the warmth of his skin, only to spin her away and pull her back by the waist a second later. It was a breathless, euphoric game of touch and release, a cosmic dance of courtship where every single step was an act of pure, intoxicated love.
Bhargavi didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. Her lungs didn't burn, and her legs didn't ache. She felt completely weightless, entirely sustained by the firm hands that kept catching her, touching her, and guiding her across the stage.
The song began its descent into the final crescendo, the Mukthayi. The music swelled into a magnificent torrent of violin, flute, and drum, gathering all the emotions of the evening and hurtling them toward a definitive point of absolute collapse as the final plea to Keshava resonated through the hall.
The lyrics spoke of the final realization that the lover and the beloved are not two, but one, and that the dance and the dancer are inseparable.
Krishna stopped his playful movements and stepped to the center of the stage, facing her.
His form seemed to expand, growing brighter until the blue light of the stage was completely swallowed by a soft, blinding white radiance that emanated from his very being. The peacock feather in his hair seemed to encompass the entire night sky.
"Now, Bhargavi," his voice echoed, no longer a whisper, but a beautiful, rolling vibration that felt like distant thunder. "Give it all to Me."
On the final, explosive triplet of the drum, Bhargavi threw her entire body forward. She didn't just complete a step; she offered her life.
She sank to her knees, her body folding forward over her thighs. Her hands came together above her head, locking into the Anjali Mudra of total, unconditional surrender to the Lord who had answered the call of the Ashtapadi. Her head bowed down until her forehead almost touched the cool wooden floorboards of the stage.
As the final, lingering note of the violin vibrated into the air, a profound, absolute silence blanketed the universe.
In that sacred fraction of a second, before the physical world could reassert itself, Bhargavi felt a soft, cool hand rest gently upon her bowed head. The fingers pressed lightly against her crown, sending a wave of absolute, unadulterated peace through her entire body. Every muscle relaxed, and every cell in her body felt washed clean by a divine river.
His voice resonated within her, a beautiful, "Well danced, My love. Your offering is received."
The fragrance of wild basil and jasmine flared one last time, a sweet, overwhelming wave that filled her lungs, and then, with the gentleness of a fading dream, it dissolved.
A sound like the breaking of a massive wave shattered the silence.
The auditorium erupted.
The transition back to reality was almost violent. The blinding amber spotlights hit Bhargavi’s eyes as she slowly lifted her head. The white sands of the Yamuna were gone, and she was looking at the worn, dark varnish of the stage floor.
The audience was on its feet. The sound of hundreds of people clapping, cheering, and shouting in appreciation was deafening. In the front rows, seasoned critics and elderly rasikas were openly weeping, wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs, visibly moved by an extraordinary, spiritual energy they couldn't logically explain, but had felt down to their very bones.
Bhargavi rose to her feet, her limbs trembling slightly now as the human exhaustion finally caught up with her. She turned toward the side of the stage.
Acharya Vasanthakumari had stood up from her seat. The elderly guru’s face was completely wet with tears. She wasn't just smiling; she was looking at her disciple with a sense of profound, reverent awe. She knew. She had spent a lifetime in the service of the art, and she knew that what Bhargavi had just displayed in that final piece was not the result of practice. It was the descent of the divine.
Bhargavi brought her hands together, bowing deeply to the audience, then to the musicians, and finally to the idol of Nataraja.
As she raised her hands one last time to greet the crowd, she looked down at her palms. They were still tingling with an impossible, lingering warmth, and tucked neatly beneath the gold band of her left wrist ornament was a single, small, fragrant leaf of wild Tulasi.
She smiled through her tears, looking out into the empty spaces of the hall. The test was over. The world thought she had successfully completed her Arangetram, but Bhargavi knew the truth. She had simply been invited to dance in a courtyard that had no end.
I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!
so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya
So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.
so please excuse my mistakes. )
The backstage holding room of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium was an absolute mess of anxious chaos. It was totally cut off from the peaceful grandeur of the stage just beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Inside, the air was thick with the competing smells of jasmine strings, camphor, melted pancake makeup, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
Bhargavi stood rigid, frozen right in front of a wobbling pedestal fan. The appliance oscillated with a rhythmic, metallic groan, its rusted blades doing little more than shifting the heavy, humid air from one corner of the dressing room to the other. Outside, the pre-monsoon heat was completely unforgiving, but inside Bhargavi’s chest, a different kind of fire was burning.
She was already dressed in her full Kuchipudi attire. The heavy pleats of her silk costume, which was a striking combination of deep temple red and forest green bordered with intricate zari work, felt like an armor of lead. The fans of her pleated dhoti hung perfectly between her legs. They were designed to flare out like a lotus in bloom whenever she assumed the deep, seated posture of the Ara-mandi, but right now, those pleats felt completely constricting. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Sweat was already pooling beneath the heavy brass vaanki bands gripping her biceps, and a persistent trickle was threatening to ruin the meticulous, curved lines of the paint adorning her forehead.
An hour. In exactly sixty minutes, the heavy bronze bell would ring, the curtains would part, and she would step out for her Arangetram. This was her formal debut on the stage, the culmination of twelve years of rigorous, bone-breaking discipline.
What if I trip during the jathis, she thought, her fingers trembling as they unconsciously checked the tightness of her gajje. The hundreds of brass bells tied around her ankles gave a muted, nervous jingle. What if my foot slips on the brass plate? What if my mind goes blank during the slokam?
"Bhargavi."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed an inherent authority that instantly cut through the noise of her internal panic and the distant chatter of stagehands.
Bhargavi turned around. Standing in the doorway was her guru, Acharya Vasanthakumari. The elderly woman was a vision of timeless dignity, draped in a crisp, starch-white cotton sari with a simple gold border. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her eyes, though weathered by decades of teaching, held the sharp, discerning clarity of a master craftsman looking at their finest piece of work.
"Guru Garu," Bhargavi breathed, her voice cracking slightly.
The Acharya stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over her student. She didn't offer a hollow phrase of comfort. Instead, she walked over and placed a firm, cooling hand directly over Bhargavi’s racing heart.
"The air in this room is heavy, but your spirit cannot afford to be," her guru said, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Look at me, my child. You have not prepared for this for just a month or a year. You have practiced with all your heart since you were a little girl who could barely balance on her own two feet. Every tear, every bruised heel, every sleepless night, it was all a gathering of wood. Tonight, you simply have to let the fire burn. You will do well. Do not worry."
The warmth in her guru's voice acted like a total lifesaver, smoothing out the jagged, frantic edges of Bhargavi's breathing. The sheer weight of tradition, of lineage, and of unconditional belief flowed from the teacher into the disciple.
Deeply moved, Bhargavi bent down. Despite the restriction of her stiff costume and the heavy jewelry dangling from her neck, she folded herself completely, reaching out to touch the calloused, dust-stained feet of her guru. It was the ultimate surrender of the ego, an acknowledgment that whatever happened on that stage belonged to the lineage and not to her.
As her fingers brushed the elder woman's feet, Vasanthakumari placed both her hands upon Bhargavi’s head.
"Everything will be fine," the guru blessed, her voice dropping into a solemn, sacred register. "Saraswati kataksha sidhi rastu. May the grace of the Goddess of Wisdom and Art flow through your every limb tonight."
When the darkness finally descended, it was absolute. Bhargavi stood in the wings, where the heavy stage smelled of old wood and burnt theater lights. The auditorium was packed to capacity, and she could hear the low, collective murmur of hundreds of patrons, critics, family members, and rasikas waiting out there.
Then, the mridangam player struck the first celebratory note on the drum. The sharp, resonant rhythm vibrated through the wooden floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Bhargavi's bare feet and settling right into her spine.
The curtains drew back. The stage lights flared to life in a brilliant, blinding wash of amber and gold that completely cut Bhargavi off from the physical world. The audience dissolved into a vast, pitch-black void, leaving her utterly alone in a sea of light.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the sacred space.
The performance began with the Purvaranga, the traditional preliminary rituals. As Bhargavi moved across the stage to offer flowers to the idol of Lord Nataraja resting at the corner, the nervous sweat that had plagued her backstage seemed to undergo a total transformation. It was no longer the sweat of anxiety, but the sacred condensation of prayer.
Her first few movements were deliberate, anchoring her body to the earth. She sank into the Ara-mandi with her knees bent wide and her back perfectly erect, creating the foundational diamond shape of South Indian classical dance.
Then came the jathis, the complex, mathematical sequences of pure rhythmic dance.
The nattuvanar sat cross-legged on the side of the stage alongside her guru, striking the bronze cymbals with sharp, crystalline precision.
Bhargavi exploded into motion.
Any lingering doubt vanished, replaced by an ancient, muscle-memorized fluid precision. Her feet struck the stage with thunderous, rhythmic authority. The hundreds of brass bells around her ankles didn’t jangle randomly. They spoke a language of perfect synchronization, matching every subtle inflection of the drum. She raced across the stage in diagonal patterns, her arms extending fully into the mudras, her chest throwing forward, and her eyes following the precise path of her hands.
The Tarangam followed, which was the definitive piece of the Kuchipudi repertoire. A large, heavy brass plate was placed in the center of the stage. With absolute focus, Bhargavi stepped onto its rim, balancing her entire body weight on the thin, upturned edges of the metal.
The rhythm accelerated. The mridangam player challenged her with a dazzling array of syncopated beats. Moving her feet in lightning-fast patterns while remaining firmly anchored on the plate, she glided across the stage. The rhythmic scraping of the brass against the wood created an intoxicating, driving counterpoint to the music.
From the wings, Vasanthakumari watched, her hands gently keeping time on her lap. Her eyes filled with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Bhargavi was executing a technically flawless performance. Her lines were straight, her balance was impeccable, and her stamina was unyielding.
But as the Tarangam concluded to a roar of spontaneous applause, and Bhargavi retired to the wings for a brief costume adjustment before her final piece, she felt a strange, lingering emptiness.
She was dancing brilliantly, yes, but she was still just executing. She was still the architect of her own movement, controlling every breath, every muscle, and every gaze. She had achieved technical perfection, but the soul of the dance, the absolute dissolution of the self, had not yet arrived.
The final piece of the evening was Jayadeva's soulful Ashtapadi, Radhika Krishna. Unlike the previous items which focused heavily on rhythmic technicality, this piece was an exploration of pure Abhinaya, the art of expression, devotion, and storytelling. It was a song of intense longing, where Radha's friend describes her desperate, lovesick state to Krishna, pleading with him to go to her.
As Bhargavi walked back onto the stage, the lighting had changed completely. The harsh, brilliant gold of the spotlights had been replaced by a soft, midnight-blue hue interspersed with pale amber, mimicking the mystical twilight hours on the banks of the Yamuna River.
The vocalist took a deep breath, and the drone of the tanpura filled the auditorium with a hypnotic, vibrating hum. Then, the violin introduced the raga, playing a soulful, yearning rendition of Bhairavi that seemed to weep and rejoice all at once.
Bhargavi stood in the center of the stage, her body relaxed and her hands folded in a loose Anjali mudra near her chest.
The vocalist began to sing the opening lines of the verse:
“Radhika Krishna Radhika, Tava Virahena Keshava…”
(Radha, oh Krishna, is suffering from your separation…)
As the words filled the air, something shifted fundamentally within the space.
It did not happen gradually. It was a sudden, violent tearing of the fabric of reality.
The stale, warm air of the auditorium completely vanished. In its place, a cool, gentle breeze swept across the stage. It didn't feel like the mechanical air of a fan since it carried with it the damp, rich scent of river clay, the overwhelming sweetness of wild basil, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The breeze caught the edge of Bhargavi’s silk pallu, lifting it slightly and brushing it against her bare shoulder.
Bhargavi’s eyes widened. A sudden, electric shiver traveled down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
She began the choreography, extending her right arm outward in a gesture of longing while her eyes searched the empty air of the stage, portraying the lonely, suffering Radha calling out into the woods of Brindavan.
But as her arm reached its full extension, her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Her fingers didn't encounter empty air.
She felt a distinct, undeniable warmth clasp around her hand. It was the solid, unmistakable touch of another hand that felt slender, strong, and impossibly smooth. The invisible fingers gently entwined with hers, adjusting the posture of her hand and pulling her wrist upward into a more perfect, elevated curve.
Bhargavi froze inwardly, though her body kept moving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with the cold grip of stage fright, but with a wild, soaring bewilderment.
"Do not tremble, My beautiful one."
The voice did not come from the speakers, nor did it come from the vocalist. It resonated directly inside the chambers of her own mind. It was a sound so rich, deep, and laced with a playful, teasing tenderness that it felt more real than the music itself.
Bhargavi’s gaze snapped to her right.
The human eye would see nothing but the shifting blue shadows of the stage lights, but Bhargavi’s soul saw him with terrifying, exquisite clarity.
He was standing right there, leaning casually against the air as if it were a solid pillar. His complexion was the deep, enchanting color of a rain-drenched storm cloud. He wore a dhoti of shimmering pitambara yellow silk that seemed to emit its own soft radiance. Around his neck hung garlands of fresh forest flowers, and nestled within the dark, wild curls of his hair was a single peacock feather, its iridescent eye catching the theatrical blue light.
His lips, stained red from betel nut, were curved into a brilliant, knowing smile, and his eyes, which were large, dark, liquid pools of infinite compassion, were locked onto hers.
"You have called for Me for a whole month through your dance," Krishna whispered, stepping closer as the scent of jasmine grew dizzyingly strong. "Did you think I would let you dance alone tonight?"
The vocalist transitioned into the fast, flirtatious rhythm of the song, and the entire energy on stage turned electric. It felt exactly like the Thillana of Rati Manmatha, where the dance becomes a breathless, intimate conversation between lovers, full of teasing shifts, sudden locks, and mirroring movements.
Bhargavi didn't have time to process her shock because Krishna stepped right into her space, perfectly intercepting her next movement as the lyrics entered the phrase “Vimalala kapole, jalada samove…” describing Radha’s tear-stained, pale cheeks.
As she moved forward in a diagonal stride, mimicking Radha's friend desperately searching for him, Krishna suddenly appeared right in front of her. He dropped into a flawless, deep Ara-mandi that perfectly mirrored hers. When she stamped her right foot, he stamped his left, his bare blue foot making no sound on the wood but sending a pulse of pure warmth through the floorboards.
Then, the choreography demanded a sudden, dramatic pause. On a sharp syllable from the mridangam, Krishna reached out.
His hand, warm and incredibly firm, slid around her waist. The pressure of his palm against her silk costume pulled her securely against his chest. Bhargavi’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his arm anchoring her. With his other hand, he hooked two fingers gently under her chin, tilting her head upward.
Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his dark face was radiant, and his smile was hopelessly teasing. He held her chin for a lingering heartbeat, completely taking control of her gaze, forcing her to look into his bottomless lotus eyes.
"Look at Me, Bhargavi," he whispered, his voice like silk, bringing her face close to his as if to wipe away the tears of separation described in the song. "Let them see how Radha adores her Krishna."
On the next beat, he released her chin, but his hand slid down to catch her wrist. The rhythm picked up speed, mimicking a rapid tug-of-war. Bhargavi spun outward, but Krishna didn't let go. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her back in, sending her spinning in reverse until her back bumped gently against his chest.
He didn't release his hold. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they both executed a series of lightning-fast movements together. Every tilt of Bhargavi’s head was perfectly mirrored by his, their expressions completely in sync with the pulsing tempo.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, laughing as the nattuvanar called out a complex, winding jathi sequence that simulated the chaotic, intoxicating winds of love.
"Now, break away," he teased in her ear.
With a sudden, playful push against her hip, he sent her gliding across the stage. Bhargavi executed a series of sharp, rhythmic leaps, her brass bells ringing out fiercely. Krishna was right on her heels. He leaped when she leaped, his long limbs slicing through the blue stage lights with impossible grace.
When she turned around to face him, he took the role of the ultimate charmer, leaning back as the singer repeated “Tava Virahena Keshava.” He mimicked holding a flute to his lips, his fingers moving over the invisible instrument, his eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Bhargavi reacted instinctively, her hands forming the Katakamukha mudra as she acted out the role of a Gopi completely mesmerized by his music, losing her breath under his gaze.
She took a step toward him, but Krishna quickly changed the game. He stepped to the side, his hand brushing against the edge of her pleated dhoti, making the silk rustle loudly. He caught her by the waist again, spinning her around him in a tight, dizzying circle. She could feel the cool silk of his pitambara dhoti brushing against her bare ankles, and the scent of wild basil completely filled her senses.
Every time she thought she was leading the dance, Krishna would subtly take control. If her hand position drifted even a millimeter, his fingers would slide over hers, correcting the mudra with a gentle, firm squeeze. If her eyes wandered toward the wings where her guru was sitting, he would instantly catch her jaw with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face back toward his.
"I am your audience tonight," he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Keep your eyes on Me."
They were locked in a relentless, beautiful rhythm. They danced side by side, their shoulders rubbing together, their hips swaying in perfect unison. He would pull her close until she could feel the warmth of his skin, only to spin her away and pull her back by the waist a second later. It was a breathless, euphoric game of touch and release, a cosmic dance of courtship where every single step was an act of pure, intoxicated love.
Bhargavi didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. Her lungs didn't burn, and her legs didn't ache. She felt completely weightless, entirely sustained by the firm hands that kept catching her, touching her, and guiding her across the stage.
The song began its descent into the final crescendo, the Mukthayi. The music swelled into a magnificent torrent of violin, flute, and drum, gathering all the emotions of the evening and hurtling them toward a definitive point of absolute collapse as the final plea to Keshava resonated through the hall.
The lyrics spoke of the final realization that the lover and the beloved are not two, but one, and that the dance and the dancer are inseparable.
Krishna stopped his playful movements and stepped to the center of the stage, facing her.
His form seemed to expand, growing brighter until the blue light of the stage was completely swallowed by a soft, blinding white radiance that emanated from his very being. The peacock feather in his hair seemed to encompass the entire night sky.
"Now, Bhargavi," his voice echoed, no longer a whisper, but a beautiful, rolling vibration that felt like distant thunder. "Give it all to Me."
On the final, explosive triplet of the drum, Bhargavi threw her entire body forward. She didn't just complete a step; she offered her life.
She sank to her knees, her body folding forward over her thighs. Her hands came together above her head, locking into the Anjali Mudra of total, unconditional surrender to the Lord who had answered the call of the Ashtapadi. Her head bowed down until her forehead almost touched the cool wooden floorboards of the stage.
As the final, lingering note of the violin vibrated into the air, a profound, absolute silence blanketed the universe.
In that sacred fraction of a second, before the physical world could reassert itself, Bhargavi felt a soft, cool hand rest gently upon her bowed head. The fingers pressed lightly against her crown, sending a wave of absolute, unadulterated peace through her entire body. Every muscle relaxed, and every cell in her body felt washed clean by a divine river.
His voice resonated within her, a beautiful, "Well danced, My love. Your offering is received."
The fragrance of wild basil and jasmine flared one last time, a sweet, overwhelming wave that filled her lungs, and then, with the gentleness of a fading dream, it dissolved.
A sound like the breaking of a massive wave shattered the silence.
The auditorium erupted.
The transition back to reality was almost violent. The blinding amber spotlights hit Bhargavi’s eyes as she slowly lifted her head. The white sands of the Yamuna were gone, and she was looking at the worn, dark varnish of the stage floor.
The audience was on its feet. The sound of hundreds of people clapping, cheering, and shouting in appreciation was deafening. In the front rows, seasoned critics and elderly rasikas were openly weeping, wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs, visibly moved by an extraordinary, spiritual energy they couldn't logically explain, but had felt down to their very bones.
Bhargavi rose to her feet, her limbs trembling slightly now as the human exhaustion finally caught up with her. She turned toward the side of the stage.
Acharya Vasanthakumari had stood up from her seat. The elderly guru’s face was completely wet with tears. She wasn't just smiling; she was looking at her disciple with a sense of profound, reverent awe. She knew. She had spent a lifetime in the service of the art, and she knew that what Bhargavi had just displayed in that final piece was not the result of practice. It was the descent of the divine.
Bhargavi brought her hands together, bowing deeply to the audience, then to the musicians, and finally to the idol of Nataraja.
As she raised her hands one last time to greet the crowd, she looked down at her palms. They were still tingling with an impossible, lingering warmth, and tucked neatly beneath the gold band of her left wrist ornament was a single, small, fragrant leaf of wild Tulasi.
She smiled through her tears, looking out into the empty spaces of the hall. The test was over. The world thought she had successfully completed her Arangetram, but Bhargavi knew the truth. She had simply been invited to dance in a courtyard that had no end.
I am a bit too jobless in my vacations so...... another story!
so I wrote this inspired by the idea given by @desikanya
So i could've made huge mistakes in this with regards to few dance terms, but i tried my best for them to be accurate. everything i've written about the dance and the movements comes from my mom and the multiple performances i've seen.
so please excuse my mistakes. )
The backstage holding room of the Sri Krishna Gana Sabha auditorium was an absolute mess of anxious chaos. It was totally cut off from the peaceful grandeur of the stage just beyond the heavy velvet curtains. Inside, the air was thick with the competing smells of jasmine strings, camphor, melted pancake makeup, and the sharp tang of nervous sweat.
Bhargavi stood rigid, frozen right in front of a wobbling pedestal fan. The appliance oscillated with a rhythmic, metallic groan, its rusted blades doing little more than shifting the heavy, humid air from one corner of the dressing room to the other. Outside, the pre-monsoon heat was completely unforgiving, but inside Bhargavi’s chest, a different kind of fire was burning.
She was already dressed in her full Kuchipudi attire. The heavy pleats of her silk costume, which was a striking combination of deep temple red and forest green bordered with intricate zari work, felt like an armor of lead. The fans of her pleated dhoti hung perfectly between her legs. They were designed to flare out like a lotus in bloom whenever she assumed the deep, seated posture of the Ara-mandi, but right now, those pleats felt completely constricting. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Sweat was already pooling beneath the heavy brass vaanki bands gripping her biceps, and a persistent trickle was threatening to ruin the meticulous, curved lines of the paint adorning her forehead.
An hour. In exactly sixty minutes, the heavy bronze bell would ring, the curtains would part, and she would step out for her Arangetram. This was her formal debut on the stage, the culmination of twelve years of rigorous, bone-breaking discipline.
What if I trip during the jathis, she thought, her fingers trembling as they unconsciously checked the tightness of her gajje. The hundreds of brass bells tied around her ankles gave a muted, nervous jingle. What if my foot slips on the brass plate? What if my mind goes blank during the slokam?
"Bhargavi."
The voice was not loud, but it possessed an inherent authority that instantly cut through the noise of her internal panic and the distant chatter of stagehands.
Bhargavi turned around. Standing in the doorway was her guru, Acharya Vasanthakumari. The elderly woman was a vision of timeless dignity, draped in a crisp, starch-white cotton sari with a simple gold border. Her silver hair was pulled back into a neat, tight bun, and her eyes, though weathered by decades of teaching, held the sharp, discerning clarity of a master craftsman looking at their finest piece of work.
"Guru Garu," Bhargavi breathed, her voice cracking slightly.
The Acharya stepped into the room, her gaze sweeping over her student. She didn't offer a hollow phrase of comfort. Instead, she walked over and placed a firm, cooling hand directly over Bhargavi’s racing heart.
"The air in this room is heavy, but your spirit cannot afford to be," her guru said, her expression softening into a warm smile. "Look at me, my child. You have not prepared for this for just a month or a year. You have practiced with all your heart since you were a little girl who could barely balance on her own two feet. Every tear, every bruised heel, every sleepless night, it was all a gathering of wood. Tonight, you simply have to let the fire burn. You will do well. Do not worry."
The warmth in her guru's voice acted like a total lifesaver, smoothing out the jagged, frantic edges of Bhargavi's breathing. The sheer weight of tradition, of lineage, and of unconditional belief flowed from the teacher into the disciple.
Deeply moved, Bhargavi bent down. Despite the restriction of her stiff costume and the heavy jewelry dangling from her neck, she folded herself completely, reaching out to touch the calloused, dust-stained feet of her guru. It was the ultimate surrender of the ego, an acknowledgment that whatever happened on that stage belonged to the lineage and not to her.
As her fingers brushed the elder woman's feet, Vasanthakumari placed both her hands upon Bhargavi’s head.
"Everything will be fine," the guru blessed, her voice dropping into a solemn, sacred register. "Saraswati kataksha sidhi rastu. May the grace of the Goddess of Wisdom and Art flow through your every limb tonight."
When the darkness finally descended, it was absolute. Bhargavi stood in the wings, where the heavy stage smelled of old wood and burnt theater lights. The auditorium was packed to capacity, and she could hear the low, collective murmur of hundreds of patrons, critics, family members, and rasikas waiting out there.
Then, the mridangam player struck the first celebratory note on the drum. The sharp, resonant rhythm vibrated through the wooden floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Bhargavi's bare feet and settling right into her spine.
The curtains drew back. The stage lights flared to life in a brilliant, blinding wash of amber and gold that completely cut Bhargavi off from the physical world. The audience dissolved into a vast, pitch-black void, leaving her utterly alone in a sea of light.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the sacred space.
The performance began with the Purvaranga, the traditional preliminary rituals. As Bhargavi moved across the stage to offer flowers to the idol of Lord Nataraja resting at the corner, the nervous sweat that had plagued her backstage seemed to undergo a total transformation. It was no longer the sweat of anxiety, but the sacred condensation of prayer.
Her first few movements were deliberate, anchoring her body to the earth. She sank into the Ara-mandi with her knees bent wide and her back perfectly erect, creating the foundational diamond shape of South Indian classical dance.
Then came the jathis, the complex, mathematical sequences of pure rhythmic dance.
The nattuvanar sat cross-legged on the side of the stage alongside her guru, striking the bronze cymbals with sharp, crystalline precision.
Bhargavi exploded into motion.
Any lingering doubt vanished, replaced by an ancient, muscle-memorized fluid precision. Her feet struck the stage with thunderous, rhythmic authority. The hundreds of brass bells around her ankles didn’t jangle randomly. They spoke a language of perfect synchronization, matching every subtle inflection of the drum. She raced across the stage in diagonal patterns, her arms extending fully into the mudras, her chest throwing forward, and her eyes following the precise path of her hands.
The Tarangam followed, which was the definitive piece of the Kuchipudi repertoire. A large, heavy brass plate was placed in the center of the stage. With absolute focus, Bhargavi stepped onto its rim, balancing her entire body weight on the thin, upturned edges of the metal.
The rhythm accelerated. The mridangam player challenged her with a dazzling array of syncopated beats. Moving her feet in lightning-fast patterns while remaining firmly anchored on the plate, she glided across the stage. The rhythmic scraping of the brass against the wood created an intoxicating, driving counterpoint to the music.
From the wings, Vasanthakumari watched, her hands gently keeping time on her lap. Her eyes filled with a quiet, profound satisfaction. Bhargavi was executing a technically flawless performance. Her lines were straight, her balance was impeccable, and her stamina was unyielding.
But as the Tarangam concluded to a roar of spontaneous applause, and Bhargavi retired to the wings for a brief costume adjustment before her final piece, she felt a strange, lingering emptiness.
She was dancing brilliantly, yes, but she was still just executing. She was still the architect of her own movement, controlling every breath, every muscle, and every gaze. She had achieved technical perfection, but the soul of the dance, the absolute dissolution of the self, had not yet arrived.
The final piece of the evening was Jayadeva's soulful Ashtapadi, Radhika Krishna. Unlike the previous items which focused heavily on rhythmic technicality, this piece was an exploration of pure Abhinaya, the art of expression, devotion, and storytelling. It was a song of intense longing, where Radha's friend describes her desperate, lovesick state to Krishna, pleading with him to go to her.
As Bhargavi walked back onto the stage, the lighting had changed completely. The harsh, brilliant gold of the spotlights had been replaced by a soft, midnight-blue hue interspersed with pale amber, mimicking the mystical twilight hours on the banks of the Yamuna River.
The vocalist took a deep breath, and the drone of the tanpura filled the auditorium with a hypnotic, vibrating hum. Then, the violin introduced the raga, playing a soulful, yearning rendition of Bhairavi that seemed to weep and rejoice all at once.
Bhargavi stood in the center of the stage, her body relaxed and her hands folded in a loose Anjali mudra near her chest.
The vocalist began to sing the opening lines of the verse:
“Radhika Krishna Radhika, Tava Virahena Keshava…”
(Radha, oh Krishna, is suffering from your separation…)
As the words filled the air, something shifted fundamentally within the space.
It did not happen gradually. It was a sudden, violent tearing of the fabric of reality.
The stale, warm air of the auditorium completely vanished. In its place, a cool, gentle breeze swept across the stage. It didn't feel like the mechanical air of a fan since it carried with it the damp, rich scent of river clay, the overwhelming sweetness of wild basil, and the intoxicating fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. The breeze caught the edge of Bhargavi’s silk pallu, lifting it slightly and brushing it against her bare shoulder.
Bhargavi’s eyes widened. A sudden, electric shiver traveled down her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms.
She began the choreography, extending her right arm outward in a gesture of longing while her eyes searched the empty air of the stage, portraying the lonely, suffering Radha calling out into the woods of Brindavan.
But as her arm reached its full extension, her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Her fingers didn't encounter empty air.
She felt a distinct, undeniable warmth clasp around her hand. It was the solid, unmistakable touch of another hand that felt slender, strong, and impossibly smooth. The invisible fingers gently entwined with hers, adjusting the posture of her hand and pulling her wrist upward into a more perfect, elevated curve.
Bhargavi froze inwardly, though her body kept moving. Her heart hammered against her ribs, no longer with the cold grip of stage fright, but with a wild, soaring bewilderment.
"Do not tremble, My beautiful one."
The voice did not come from the speakers, nor did it come from the vocalist. It resonated directly inside the chambers of her own mind. It was a sound so rich, deep, and laced with a playful, teasing tenderness that it felt more real than the music itself.
Bhargavi’s gaze snapped to her right.
The human eye would see nothing but the shifting blue shadows of the stage lights, but Bhargavi’s soul saw him with terrifying, exquisite clarity.
He was standing right there, leaning casually against the air as if it were a solid pillar. His complexion was the deep, enchanting color of a rain-drenched storm cloud. He wore a dhoti of shimmering pitambara yellow silk that seemed to emit its own soft radiance. Around his neck hung garlands of fresh forest flowers, and nestled within the dark, wild curls of his hair was a single peacock feather, its iridescent eye catching the theatrical blue light.
His lips, stained red from betel nut, were curved into a brilliant, knowing smile, and his eyes, which were large, dark, liquid pools of infinite compassion, were locked onto hers.
"You have called for Me for a whole month through your dance," Krishna whispered, stepping closer as the scent of jasmine grew dizzyingly strong. "Did you think I would let you dance alone tonight?"
The vocalist transitioned into the fast, flirtatious rhythm of the song, and the entire energy on stage turned electric. It felt exactly like the Thillana of Rati Manmatha, where the dance becomes a breathless, intimate conversation between lovers, full of teasing shifts, sudden locks, and mirroring movements.
Bhargavi didn't have time to process her shock because Krishna stepped right into her space, perfectly intercepting her next movement as the lyrics entered the phrase “Vimalala kapole, jalada samove…” describing Radha’s tear-stained, pale cheeks.
As she moved forward in a diagonal stride, mimicking Radha's friend desperately searching for him, Krishna suddenly appeared right in front of her. He dropped into a flawless, deep Ara-mandi that perfectly mirrored hers. When she stamped her right foot, he stamped his left, his bare blue foot making no sound on the wood but sending a pulse of pure warmth through the floorboards.
Then, the choreography demanded a sudden, dramatic pause. On a sharp syllable from the mridangam, Krishna reached out.
His hand, warm and incredibly firm, slid around her waist. The pressure of his palm against her silk costume pulled her securely against his chest. Bhargavi’s breath hitched as she felt the solid weight of his arm anchoring her. With his other hand, he hooked two fingers gently under her chin, tilting her head upward.
Her eyes locked onto his. Up close, his dark face was radiant, and his smile was hopelessly teasing. He held her chin for a lingering heartbeat, completely taking control of her gaze, forcing her to look into his bottomless lotus eyes.
"Look at Me, Bhargavi," he whispered, his voice like silk, bringing her face close to his as if to wipe away the tears of separation described in the song. "Let them see how Radha adores her Krishna."
On the next beat, he released her chin, but his hand slid down to catch her wrist. The rhythm picked up speed, mimicking a rapid tug-of-war. Bhargavi spun outward, but Krishna didn't let go. He used his grip on her wrist to pull her back in, sending her spinning in reverse until her back bumped gently against his chest.
He didn't release his hold. He kept his arm wrapped around her waist from behind, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder as they both executed a series of lightning-fast movements together. Every tilt of Bhargavi’s head was perfectly mirrored by his, their expressions completely in sync with the pulsing tempo.
She felt his chest rise and fall against her back, laughing as the nattuvanar called out a complex, winding jathi sequence that simulated the chaotic, intoxicating winds of love.
"Now, break away," he teased in her ear.
With a sudden, playful push against her hip, he sent her gliding across the stage. Bhargavi executed a series of sharp, rhythmic leaps, her brass bells ringing out fiercely. Krishna was right on her heels. He leaped when she leaped, his long limbs slicing through the blue stage lights with impossible grace.
When she turned around to face him, he took the role of the ultimate charmer, leaning back as the singer repeated “Tava Virahena Keshava.” He mimicked holding a flute to his lips, his fingers moving over the invisible instrument, his eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her knees feel weak. Bhargavi reacted instinctively, her hands forming the Katakamukha mudra as she acted out the role of a Gopi completely mesmerized by his music, losing her breath under his gaze.
She took a step toward him, but Krishna quickly changed the game. He stepped to the side, his hand brushing against the edge of her pleated dhoti, making the silk rustle loudly. He caught her by the waist again, spinning her around him in a tight, dizzying circle. She could feel the cool silk of his pitambara dhoti brushing against her bare ankles, and the scent of wild basil completely filled her senses.
Every time she thought she was leading the dance, Krishna would subtly take control. If her hand position drifted even a millimeter, his fingers would slide over hers, correcting the mudra with a gentle, firm squeeze. If her eyes wandered toward the wings where her guru was sitting, he would instantly catch her jaw with his thumb and forefinger, gently turning her face back toward his.
"I am your audience tonight," he whispered, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Keep your eyes on Me."
They were locked in a relentless, beautiful rhythm. They danced side by side, their shoulders rubbing together, their hips swaying in perfect unison. He would pull her close until she could feel the warmth of his skin, only to spin her away and pull her back by the waist a second later. It was a breathless, euphoric game of touch and release, a cosmic dance of courtship where every single step was an act of pure, intoxicated love.
Bhargavi didn't feel an ounce of fatigue. Her lungs didn't burn, and her legs didn't ache. She felt completely weightless, entirely sustained by the firm hands that kept catching her, touching her, and guiding her across the stage.
The song began its descent into the final crescendo, the Mukthayi. The music swelled into a magnificent torrent of violin, flute, and drum, gathering all the emotions of the evening and hurtling them toward a definitive point of absolute collapse as the final plea to Keshava resonated through the hall.
The lyrics spoke of the final realization that the lover and the beloved are not two, but one, and that the dance and the dancer are inseparable.
Krishna stopped his playful movements and stepped to the center of the stage, facing her.
His form seemed to expand, growing brighter until the blue light of the stage was completely swallowed by a soft, blinding white radiance that emanated from his very being. The peacock feather in his hair seemed to encompass the entire night sky.
"Now, Bhargavi," his voice echoed, no longer a whisper, but a beautiful, rolling vibration that felt like distant thunder. "Give it all to Me."
On the final, explosive triplet of the drum, Bhargavi threw her entire body forward. She didn't just complete a step; she offered her life.
She sank to her knees, her body folding forward over her thighs. Her hands came together above her head, locking into the Anjali Mudra of total, unconditional surrender to the Lord who had answered the call of the Ashtapadi. Her head bowed down until her forehead almost touched the cool wooden floorboards of the stage.
As the final, lingering note of the violin vibrated into the air, a profound, absolute silence blanketed the universe.
In that sacred fraction of a second, before the physical world could reassert itself, Bhargavi felt a soft, cool hand rest gently upon her bowed head. The fingers pressed lightly against her crown, sending a wave of absolute, unadulterated peace through her entire body. Every muscle relaxed, and every cell in her body felt washed clean by a divine river.
His voice resonated within her, a beautiful, "Well danced, My love. Your offering is received."
The fragrance of wild basil and jasmine flared one last time, a sweet, overwhelming wave that filled her lungs, and then, with the gentleness of a fading dream, it dissolved.
A sound like the breaking of a massive wave shattered the silence.
The auditorium erupted.
The transition back to reality was almost violent. The blinding amber spotlights hit Bhargavi’s eyes as she slowly lifted her head. The white sands of the Yamuna were gone, and she was looking at the worn, dark varnish of the stage floor.
The audience was on its feet. The sound of hundreds of people clapping, cheering, and shouting in appreciation was deafening. In the front rows, seasoned critics and elderly rasikas were openly weeping, wiping their eyes with their handkerchiefs, visibly moved by an extraordinary, spiritual energy they couldn't logically explain, but had felt down to their very bones.
Bhargavi rose to her feet, her limbs trembling slightly now as the human exhaustion finally caught up with her. She turned toward the side of the stage.
Acharya Vasanthakumari had stood up from her seat. The elderly guru’s face was completely wet with tears. She wasn't just smiling; she was looking at her disciple with a sense of profound, reverent awe. She knew. She had spent a lifetime in the service of the art, and she knew that what Bhargavi had just displayed in that final piece was not the result of practice. It was the descent of the divine.
Bhargavi brought her hands together, bowing deeply to the audience, then to the musicians, and finally to the idol of Nataraja.
As she raised her hands one last time to greet the crowd, she looked down at her palms. They were still tingling with an impossible, lingering warmth, and tucked neatly beneath the gold band of her left wrist ornament was a single, small, fragrant leaf of wild Tulasi.
She smiled through her tears, looking out into the empty spaces of the hall. The test was over. The world thought she had successfully completed her Arangetram, but Bhargavi knew the truth. She had simply been invited to dance in a courtyard that had no end.
so I made this story based on the idea given by @shimkey-blog and @mimaridoesmurari . Though I didn't make him eat kheer but kheer is in the story my guys.
Can you see that I am jobless? 😃 In Dora voice )
Ananya was firmly convinced that her mother deserved some kind of national award for surviving years of making kheer without once losing her mind. There was simply no other explanation. No ordinary human being could possibly stand in front of boiling milk for hours, stir continuously, calculate sugar by instinct, roast nuts without burning them, and still emerge from the kitchen looking peaceful and spiritually fulfilled. It was unnatural. Divine, perhaps. Genetic, unfortunately not.
Because Ananya, meanwhile, was suffering.
By the time she realized she had made a terrible mistake, the milk was already boiling over with horrifying confidence. One moment the kheer had been simmering peacefully in the brass vessel, thick and creamy beneath the warm kitchen light, looking deceptively innocent, and the next moment it surged upward dramatically like it had suddenly gained consciousness and chosen violence. Froth spilled over the sides of the vessel in thick white streams and hissed loudly against the hot stove while Ananya lunged forward with a scandalized gasp that sounded far too betrayed for a grown woman reacting to dessert.
“Ugh, God, why are you like this?” she groaned while fumbling desperately with the flame. “I looked away for literally two seconds. Why can’t you just stay calm for once?”
The kitchen answered only with steam.
Warmth clung stubbornly to every inch of the apartment, thick with the smell of boiled milk, cardamom, sugar, and roasted nuts. Saffron threads floated through the kheer like dissolving streaks of sunset while ghee roasted cashews cooled nearby on a steel plate, their buttery smell blending into the sweetness until the entire apartment smelled like Janmashtami at her grandmother’s house. Outside, rain rolled lazily down the windows in silver trails while thunder murmured faintly across the dark evening sky. Somewhere below, children were still yelling over a cricket match despite the rain, their voices drifting upward through the damp air with the kind of dedication only Indian children possessed during monsoon season.
Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Ananya was fighting for her life against dairy products.
She leaned heavily against the kitchen counter for a moment and closed her eyes. Cooking kheer always sounded deeply spiritual in theory. People spoke about it with reverence, like it was some sacred domestic ritual filled with devotion and warmth and nostalgia. Nobody ever mentioned the emotional damage involved. Nobody warned her that milk behaved like an emotionally unstable villain the second you stopped paying attention to it. Nobody explained that one sweet dish could somehow destroy mental stability, upper body strength, and self respect simultaneously.
Her braid had nearly fallen apart by now, strands of hair sticking stubbornly to her face while the sleeves of her old cotton kurta remained rolled unevenly to her elbows. There was sugar scattered across the counter, milk dripping down the sides of the stove, and a small burn near her wrist from where steam had attacked her earlier. The kitchen looked less like a place of devotion and more like the aftermath of a deeply emotional argument between her and lactose.
Still, the kheer smelled wonderful.
That was honestly the most offensive part.
The rice had softened perfectly into the milk, turning thick and velvety beneath her spoon while the sweetness deepened slowly with every stir. Every now and then the smell would hit her unexpectedly and drag old memories to the surface without permission. Festival evenings. Temple bells echoing softly through crowded streets. Her grandmother sitting cross legged on the floor stringing jasmine flowers. Her mother standing over the stove insisting very seriously that food absorbed the emotions of the person cooking it.
“If the cook is peaceful,” her mother used to say, “the dessert tastes peaceful.”
At this point, Ananya was fairly certain this kheer had absorbed enough emotional instability to become self aware.
She sighed tiredly and resumed stirring, slower this time, watching the thickened milk move lazily around the vessel while rain tapped steadily against the windows. The apartment had grown quieter now except for the soft bubbling of the kheer and the distant sounds of traffic below. Then somewhere behind her, very softly, someone laughed.
Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just softly enough to send immediate irritation through her spine.
Ananya closed her eyes immediately.
“No,” she said firmly to absolutely nobody. “I refuse.”
“A strong reaction,” came the amused voice behind her, warm as candlelight and entirely too entertained already. “And I haven’t even done anything yet.”
She turned around slowly and there he was.
Krishna sat comfortably on the kitchen counter beside the rain streaked window like he had always belonged there. The dim silver evening light settled softly around him while rain scented wind drifted through the open window, stirring dark curls around his face. The peacock feather behind his ear shifted gently every time the breeze touched it, and gold ornaments gleamed softly against warm dusky skin beneath the dim kitchen lights.
He looked entirely too peaceful for someone committing theft.
Because in his hand was her plate of roasted cashews.
Or rather, what remained of it.
Ananya narrowed her eyes immediately.
“You’re eating the garnish.”
Krishna glanced down at the handful of cashews in his palm before calmly eating another one. “I’m preserving quality,” he replied without a trace of shame.
“You are stealing.”
“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”
“You ate half the plate!”
“I was helping with quantity control.”
Ananya stared at him in exhausted disbelief. There were very few things more frustrating than arguing with Krishna because he carried the confidence of someone who had spent centuries escaping consequences successfully. He looked entirely too comfortable in her tiny kitchen, and that was another deeply irritating thing. The apartment itself was small, barely enough space for one person some days. Narrow counters. Old cabinets. Yellow lights that flickered occasionally whenever it rained too heavily. And yet somehow the second Krishna appeared, the entire place felt fuller. Warmer. Like the kitchen itself relaxed around him.
Which was objectively unfair considering he contributed absolutely nothing except theft, commentary, and emotional instability.
“You look troubled,” he observed casually after a moment while watching her return to the stove.
“I am troubled.”
“The kheer attacked me.”
Krishna looked genuinely thoughtful at that. “That seems avoidable.”
“You weren’t here when it happened.”
“A tragedy.”
“It was traumatic.”
A smile tugged slowly at the corner of his mouth then, small and unhurried, and annoyingly enough it softened something inside her immediately. Ananya turned away before he could notice. Unfortunately, Krishna noticed everything. That was perhaps the worst thing about him. Nothing escaped him. Not the extra spoon of sugar she added unconsciously. Not the way she hummed softly while stirring. Not even the fact that she had started making slightly larger portions these days without fully realizing why.
Krishna leaned comfortably against the counter while rain murmured softly outside. “You know,” he remarked after a while, “most people making prasad usually chant something devotional.”
“I am chanting.”
“Hm?”
“I’m repeatedly chanting ‘why did I decide to do this.’”
Krishna looked delighted. “That counts as suffering, not devotion.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A significant one.”
Before she could respond, the milk suddenly rose again. Ananya gasped violently and lunged toward the stove. “Oh no you DON’T.” The kheer bubbled aggressively like it had accepted the challenge personally. Ananya pointed the spoon at it immediately. “Don’t start.”
Krishna burst into laughter.
Not fair. Absolutely not fair.
Because his laughter always ruined her ability to stay properly annoyed. It filled the tiny kitchen too easily, warm and bright and deeply distracting, slipping through the smell of cardamom and rain until even the walls themselves seemed softer somehow.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused suspiciously.
“Immensely.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“Historically inaccurate statement.”
“You emotionally harass me every evening.”
“And yet,” he said thoughtfully while reaching for another cashew, “you continue cooking enough dessert for two.”
The sentence landed softly between them, quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the sound of rain. Ananya immediately looked away and pretended to focus very intensely on stirring because annoyingly enough, he was right. Somewhere along the way she had unconsciously started preparing extra portions. An extra bowl beside the stove. More nuts than necessary. More sugar than she normally used. As though some quiet hidden part of her expected him to appear eventually.
Which was ridiculous.
Because this was literally Krishna. Cosmic deity. Destroyer of egos. Beloved of millions. And yet most evenings he chose to sit in her kitchen stealing ingredients and criticizing her cooking technique like a retired uncle with unlimited free time.
“You’re stirring too aggressively,” he informed her after a while.
Ananya closed her eyes slowly. “I need you to understand something very important.”
“Hm?”
“One day I genuinely will throw this spoon at your head.”
“That would become an extremely controversial religious event.”
“You deserve controversy.”
Krishna looked deeply pleased by that response while rain continued falling steadily outside and the kitchen slowly filled with warmth and sweetness. Milk simmered softly on the stove while thunder rolled somewhere far away across the dark evening sky. Gradually, without her realizing it, the atmosphere softened. Because beneath all the teasing and irritation, there was something strangely comforting about him simply being there. Watching her cook. Stealing ingredients. Filling the apartment with laughter and noise instead of silence.
For a while neither of them spoke. Krishna simply watched her quietly while she stirred the thickened kheer, and somehow those moments always affected her most. Because when Krishna stopped joking, his attention became unbearably gentle. The kind that noticed loneliness too easily. The kind that made empty spaces feel occupied.
After a while he glanced toward the vessel again where the kheer had finally thickened into soft golden sweetness.
“It smells nice,” he admitted quietly.
Ananya blinked in surprise. “That’s suspiciously normal behavior from you.”
“I am capable of normal behavior.”
“You once compared my rotis to damaged geography.”
“They lacked emotional stability.”
“Rotis cannot have emotional instability.”
“You’ve clearly never seen your own cooking process.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and Krishna immediately looked unbearably pleased with himself again. Deeply suspicious behavior.
Then after a moment his expression softened slightly as he watched her stir the kheer more gently now.
“You always cook like someone is going to stay,” he said quietly.
The spoon slowed slightly in her hand.
Outside, thunder rolled softly through the rain while inside the kitchen suddenly felt smaller somehow. Warmer.
Ananya looked down at the kheer to avoid his eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me.”
His voice had gone softer now, stripped of its usual teasing, and somehow that always affected her more. Because when Krishna stopped joking, it always felt like the entire world leaned closer to listen.
“You put too much effort into food for someone living alone,” he continued quietly. “People who expect loneliness eventually stop cooking properly.”
Something tightened unexpectedly inside her chest. The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly sweet now, thick with milk and cardamom and rain soaked air drifting through the windows.
“You say strange things,” she murmured softly.
“I say correct things.”
Comfortable silence settled gently between them after that, the kind that made her suddenly aware of tiny things. The warmth of the stove against her skin. The sound of rain against glass. The soft chiming of the anklets around his feet whenever he shifted slightly against the counter.
And somewhere inside all of it, something painfully tender settled quietly into her chest. Not devotion. Not longing. Something smaller. Softer.
Like the relief of not feeling alone in the kitchen anymore.
so I made this story based on the idea given by @shimkey-blog and @mimaridoesmurari . Though I didn't make him eat kheer but kheer is in the story my guys.
Can you see that I am jobless? 😃 In Dora voice )
Ananya was firmly convinced that her mother deserved some kind of national award for surviving years of making kheer without once losing her mind. There was simply no other explanation. No ordinary human being could possibly stand in front of boiling milk for hours, stir continuously, calculate sugar by instinct, roast nuts without burning them, and still emerge from the kitchen looking peaceful and spiritually fulfilled. It was unnatural. Divine, perhaps. Genetic, unfortunately not.
Because Ananya, meanwhile, was suffering.
By the time she realized she had made a terrible mistake, the milk was already boiling over with horrifying confidence. One moment the kheer had been simmering peacefully in the brass vessel, thick and creamy beneath the warm kitchen light, looking deceptively innocent, and the next moment it surged upward dramatically like it had suddenly gained consciousness and chosen violence. Froth spilled over the sides of the vessel in thick white streams and hissed loudly against the hot stove while Ananya lunged forward with a scandalized gasp that sounded far too betrayed for a grown woman reacting to dessert.
“Ugh, God, why are you like this?” she groaned while fumbling desperately with the flame. “I looked away for literally two seconds. Why can’t you just stay calm for once?”
The kitchen answered only with steam.
Warmth clung stubbornly to every inch of the apartment, thick with the smell of boiled milk, cardamom, sugar, and roasted nuts. Saffron threads floated through the kheer like dissolving streaks of sunset while ghee roasted cashews cooled nearby on a steel plate, their buttery smell blending into the sweetness until the entire apartment smelled like Janmashtami at her grandmother’s house. Outside, rain rolled lazily down the windows in silver trails while thunder murmured faintly across the dark evening sky. Somewhere below, children were still yelling over a cricket match despite the rain, their voices drifting upward through the damp air with the kind of dedication only Indian children possessed during monsoon season.
Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Ananya was fighting for her life against dairy products.
She leaned heavily against the kitchen counter for a moment and closed her eyes. Cooking kheer always sounded deeply spiritual in theory. People spoke about it with reverence, like it was some sacred domestic ritual filled with devotion and warmth and nostalgia. Nobody ever mentioned the emotional damage involved. Nobody warned her that milk behaved like an emotionally unstable villain the second you stopped paying attention to it. Nobody explained that one sweet dish could somehow destroy mental stability, upper body strength, and self respect simultaneously.
Her braid had nearly fallen apart by now, strands of hair sticking stubbornly to her face while the sleeves of her old cotton kurta remained rolled unevenly to her elbows. There was sugar scattered across the counter, milk dripping down the sides of the stove, and a small burn near her wrist from where steam had attacked her earlier. The kitchen looked less like a place of devotion and more like the aftermath of a deeply emotional argument between her and lactose.
Still, the kheer smelled wonderful.
That was honestly the most offensive part.
The rice had softened perfectly into the milk, turning thick and velvety beneath her spoon while the sweetness deepened slowly with every stir. Every now and then the smell would hit her unexpectedly and drag old memories to the surface without permission. Festival evenings. Temple bells echoing softly through crowded streets. Her grandmother sitting cross legged on the floor stringing jasmine flowers. Her mother standing over the stove insisting very seriously that food absorbed the emotions of the person cooking it.
“If the cook is peaceful,” her mother used to say, “the dessert tastes peaceful.”
At this point, Ananya was fairly certain this kheer had absorbed enough emotional instability to become self aware.
She sighed tiredly and resumed stirring, slower this time, watching the thickened milk move lazily around the vessel while rain tapped steadily against the windows. The apartment had grown quieter now except for the soft bubbling of the kheer and the distant sounds of traffic below. Then somewhere behind her, very softly, someone laughed.
Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just softly enough to send immediate irritation through her spine.
Ananya closed her eyes immediately.
“No,” she said firmly to absolutely nobody. “I refuse.”
“A strong reaction,” came the amused voice behind her, warm as candlelight and entirely too entertained already. “And I haven’t even done anything yet.”
She turned around slowly and there he was.
Krishna sat comfortably on the kitchen counter beside the rain streaked window like he had always belonged there. The dim silver evening light settled softly around him while rain scented wind drifted through the open window, stirring dark curls around his face. The peacock feather behind his ear shifted gently every time the breeze touched it, and gold ornaments gleamed softly against warm dusky skin beneath the dim kitchen lights.
He looked entirely too peaceful for someone committing theft.
Because in his hand was her plate of roasted cashews.
Or rather, what remained of it.
Ananya narrowed her eyes immediately.
“You’re eating the garnish.”
Krishna glanced down at the handful of cashews in his palm before calmly eating another one. “I’m preserving quality,” he replied without a trace of shame.
“You are stealing.”
“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”
“You ate half the plate!”
“I was helping with quantity control.”
Ananya stared at him in exhausted disbelief. There were very few things more frustrating than arguing with Krishna because he carried the confidence of someone who had spent centuries escaping consequences successfully. He looked entirely too comfortable in her tiny kitchen, and that was another deeply irritating thing. The apartment itself was small, barely enough space for one person some days. Narrow counters. Old cabinets. Yellow lights that flickered occasionally whenever it rained too heavily. And yet somehow the second Krishna appeared, the entire place felt fuller. Warmer. Like the kitchen itself relaxed around him.
Which was objectively unfair considering he contributed absolutely nothing except theft, commentary, and emotional instability.
“You look troubled,” he observed casually after a moment while watching her return to the stove.
“I am troubled.”
“The kheer attacked me.”
Krishna looked genuinely thoughtful at that. “That seems avoidable.”
“You weren’t here when it happened.”
“A tragedy.”
“It was traumatic.”
A smile tugged slowly at the corner of his mouth then, small and unhurried, and annoyingly enough it softened something inside her immediately. Ananya turned away before he could notice. Unfortunately, Krishna noticed everything. That was perhaps the worst thing about him. Nothing escaped him. Not the extra spoon of sugar she added unconsciously. Not the way she hummed softly while stirring. Not even the fact that she had started making slightly larger portions these days without fully realizing why.
Krishna leaned comfortably against the counter while rain murmured softly outside. “You know,” he remarked after a while, “most people making prasad usually chant something devotional.”
“I am chanting.”
“Hm?”
“I’m repeatedly chanting ‘why did I decide to do this.’”
Krishna looked delighted. “That counts as suffering, not devotion.”
“There’s a difference?”
“A significant one.”
Before she could respond, the milk suddenly rose again. Ananya gasped violently and lunged toward the stove. “Oh no you DON’T.” The kheer bubbled aggressively like it had accepted the challenge personally. Ananya pointed the spoon at it immediately. “Don’t start.”
Krishna burst into laughter.
Not fair. Absolutely not fair.
Because his laughter always ruined her ability to stay properly annoyed. It filled the tiny kitchen too easily, warm and bright and deeply distracting, slipping through the smell of cardamom and rain until even the walls themselves seemed softer somehow.
“You’re enjoying this,” she accused suspiciously.
“Immensely.”
“You are a terrible person.”
“Historically inaccurate statement.”
“You emotionally harass me every evening.”
“And yet,” he said thoughtfully while reaching for another cashew, “you continue cooking enough dessert for two.”
The sentence landed softly between them, quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the sound of rain. Ananya immediately looked away and pretended to focus very intensely on stirring because annoyingly enough, he was right. Somewhere along the way she had unconsciously started preparing extra portions. An extra bowl beside the stove. More nuts than necessary. More sugar than she normally used. As though some quiet hidden part of her expected him to appear eventually.
Which was ridiculous.
Because this was literally Krishna. Cosmic deity. Destroyer of egos. Beloved of millions. And yet most evenings he chose to sit in her kitchen stealing ingredients and criticizing her cooking technique like a retired uncle with unlimited free time.
“You’re stirring too aggressively,” he informed her after a while.
Ananya closed her eyes slowly. “I need you to understand something very important.”
“Hm?”
“One day I genuinely will throw this spoon at your head.”
“That would become an extremely controversial religious event.”
“You deserve controversy.”
Krishna looked deeply pleased by that response while rain continued falling steadily outside and the kitchen slowly filled with warmth and sweetness. Milk simmered softly on the stove while thunder rolled somewhere far away across the dark evening sky. Gradually, without her realizing it, the atmosphere softened. Because beneath all the teasing and irritation, there was something strangely comforting about him simply being there. Watching her cook. Stealing ingredients. Filling the apartment with laughter and noise instead of silence.
For a while neither of them spoke. Krishna simply watched her quietly while she stirred the thickened kheer, and somehow those moments always affected her most. Because when Krishna stopped joking, his attention became unbearably gentle. The kind that noticed loneliness too easily. The kind that made empty spaces feel occupied.
After a while he glanced toward the vessel again where the kheer had finally thickened into soft golden sweetness.
“It smells nice,” he admitted quietly.
Ananya blinked in surprise. “That’s suspiciously normal behavior from you.”
“I am capable of normal behavior.”
“You once compared my rotis to damaged geography.”
“They lacked emotional stability.”
“Rotis cannot have emotional instability.”
“You’ve clearly never seen your own cooking process.”
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it, and Krishna immediately looked unbearably pleased with himself again. Deeply suspicious behavior.
Then after a moment his expression softened slightly as he watched her stir the kheer more gently now.
“You always cook like someone is going to stay,” he said quietly.
The spoon slowed slightly in her hand.
Outside, thunder rolled softly through the rain while inside the kitchen suddenly felt smaller somehow. Warmer.
Ananya looked down at the kheer to avoid his eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me.”
His voice had gone softer now, stripped of its usual teasing, and somehow that always affected her more. Because when Krishna stopped joking, it always felt like the entire world leaned closer to listen.
“You put too much effort into food for someone living alone,” he continued quietly. “People who expect loneliness eventually stop cooking properly.”
Something tightened unexpectedly inside her chest. The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly sweet now, thick with milk and cardamom and rain soaked air drifting through the windows.
“You say strange things,” she murmured softly.
“I say correct things.”
Comfortable silence settled gently between them after that, the kind that made her suddenly aware of tiny things. The warmth of the stove against her skin. The sound of rain against glass. The soft chiming of the anklets around his feet whenever he shifted slightly against the counter.
And somewhere inside all of it, something painfully tender settled quietly into her chest. Not devotion. Not longing. Something smaller. Softer.
Like the relief of not feeling alone in the kitchen anymore.
(so I was writing this story based on the idea suggested by @javvaduu-jameel , then realised that i wanted the same characters for this one-shot so I made it into a Side story. hehe.
but this is so fucking long. I swear to good I need to know when to stop with writing )
Syama had been in a long-distance relationship with Madhav for the past two years.
Even now, when she thought about it too hard, it felt strange. Unexpected. Not impossible, never impossible with him, but strange in the way destiny often was. After all those years of yearning, heartbreak, separation, and that unbearable phase where she thought she had lost him again, he had simply re-entered her life as though he had only stepped out for a moment.
And now he occupied it completely.
Syama had moved back to Bengaluru to stay with her parents for a while. They had insisted gently at first, then emotionally, and eventually she had agreed because somewhere beneath all their worrying she knew they were scared for her. That entire heartbreak phase she went through before Madhav returned had frightened them deeply.
So now Syama stayed with them in Bengaluru while Madhav remained back in Hyderabad.
Oddly enough, he had been the one encouraging her to go.
“You need a change of place,” he had told her during one of their late-night terrace conversations. “And your mother misses you terribly.”
“And you?” she had asked quietly.
His smile had softened at that. “I’ll survive.”
Madhav had been nothing but supportive ever since. Whenever she spiraled into self-doubt about her future, he sat through it patiently, listening to every anxious rant about applications, interviews, and career choices. He was the one who kept sending her links to mental health facilities, therapy centres, NGOs, and counselling internships.
“Apply everywhere,” he would insist. “You underestimate yourself too much.”
And annoyingly enough, he was usually right.
It was also Madhav who pushed her into opening an Instagram page for her singing.
Initially she had refused outright.
“No,” she had said immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I sing for devotion, not content creation.”
“Madam,” he had replied dramatically, “you say that as if Instagram personally insulted the Vedas.”
She had rolled her eyes so hard he laughed for two whole minutes.
Still, he convinced her eventually. He edited her first few videos himself, forced her to upload covers despite her embarrassment, and shamelessly hyped her up under every post.
And somehow… it worked.
One video became five. Five became twenty. Then came invitations to small devotional gatherings, temple events, and eventually singing gigs in cafés and cultural spaces around Bengaluru.
Syama had mixed feelings about that part.
She preferred temples. Preferred singing before idols adorned with flowers and lamps rather than fairy lights and coffee cups. But the café gigs paid surprisingly well, and she could not deny that she enjoyed singing regardless of the setting. Music had always belonged to him anyway. Every note felt like an offering.
Unfortunately, that exact issue was now responsible for the deeply offended-looking man sitting before her on her laptop screen.
“Madhav,” Syama said slowly, trying very hard not to laugh, “he was only complimenting my singing.”
“Yeah,” Madhav replied immediately, crossing his arms. “By hugging and rubbing all over you.”
Syama bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a sigh.
The thing was, she genuinely did not understand where this sudden possessiveness came from. Madhav was usually composed. Teasing. Observant. But occasionally, especially after her café performances, something territorial woke up inside him.
And honestly?
She found it ridiculously adorable.
“Madhav,” she repeated patiently, “he is already committed. And he is literally my friend’s boyfriend. You do not have to worry about him.”
He continued sulking anyway.
“…I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t like it when others touch you so casually and all I can do is sit and watch your stories.”
Syama’s lips twitched upward helplessly.
The screen cast a soft glow over his face. He was sitting at his study table, curls messy, one arm folded beneath his chin as he glared at her through the camera with the seriousness of a betrayed husband.
It was impossible to take him seriously.
“Well,” she said softly, leaning closer to the screen, “who is stopping you from touching me? All you have to do is come here.”
The expression on his face changed instantly.
“Oh, you don’t know how badly I want to do that,” he said, smirking slightly.
Warmth crept up Syama’s neck immediately.
“Well,” she replied, trying to sound unaffected, “the doors of my house are always open.”
“Always?” he repeated thoughtfully. “How dangerous. I might show up one fine day and kidnap you.”
Her cheeks heated further despite herself.
Not that he actually needed to kidnap her. She would probably go willingly if he simply held out his hand. But the thought of running away with him somewhere distant and unreachable sent a strange thrill through her chest.
Madhav narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
“You are awfully into that idea,” he said dramatically. “Madam, please refer to your DSM. You do not seem to be in the right state of mind. Look at her romanticizing her kidnapper.”
“Oh shut up.”
His laughter spilled warmly through her earphones, low and familiar, the kind of sound that immediately softened something inside her chest.
A comfortable silence settled between them afterward.
Neither of them rushed to fill it.
They simply looked at each other through the screen, smiling faintly, existing together in the strange intimacy long-distance relationships created. Tiny pauses. Shared breaths. Familiar expressions memorized pixel by pixel.
Finally, Madhav sighed softly.
“Well,” he murmured, “I guess it’s time for you to sleep. You have work tomorrow.”
“Hm.”
“I miss you,” he said quietly.
The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache.
He was resting his cheek against his palm now, looking at her with that unbearably soft expression he only ever wore for her.
“Me too,” she whispered. “I miss you too.”
“See you soon, Syama. Good night. Have sweet dreams…” His lips curved mischievously. “…about me.”
She rolled her eyes immediately.
“Well, it wouldn’t be sweet if you are in it. Because you are not sweet.”
“Is that why you call me Madhav?” he asked teasingly. “Because I’m not sweet?”
“You— Ugh, fine. Fine. You win.”
He laughed openly at her annoyed expression, clearly delighted by it.
“Good night then,” Syama said reluctantly. “Bye.”
Her voice carried both annoyance and longing so obviously that Madhav’s expression softened again.
“Good night, Syama.”
And then his face disappeared from the screen.
The room suddenly felt quieter.
Syama stared at the blank laptop for a few moments before sighing softly and setting it aside. She curled beneath her blanket slowly, exhaustion settling into her bones.
Now she had a night routine.
One entirely built around him.
She plugged her earphones into her phone and pressed play.
Immediately, slow flute melodies filled her ears.
Soft. Deep. Gentle.
Madhav had started recording flute tunes for her months ago. At first it was only one small recording sent randomly at midnight with the caption:
“Since you miss Vrindavan so much.”
Then came more.
Morning ragas. Half-finished improvisations. Tiny recordings from rooftops, from empty parks, from hotel balconies during his NGO travels. Some had background sounds of birds. Some had traffic noises. Once she could even hear rain.
She had an endless collection now.
An unlimited supply of him.
The music soothed her instantly. Her breathing slowed. Her chest loosened. Somewhere far away, Hyderabad existed with all its distance and loneliness, but his flute bridged it effortlessly.
Syama smiled faintly and closed her eyes.
And slowly, listening to Madhav’s flute, she drifted into sleep.
Days passed.
Their relationship existed through tiny modern rituals stitched carefully into ordinary life.
Good morning texts before sunrise.
Random reels sent at two in the morning with captions like “this is literally you.”
Late-night FaceTimes where Syama accidentally fell asleep while Madhav continued talking softly because he liked hearing her sleepy hums in response.
Sometimes she would wake up hours later only to realize the call was still connected and he was still there quietly working on something while watching her sleep.
He became irrationally possessive in the funniest ways whenever she mentioned another man helping her at work.
“You already have me,” he would complain half-seriously. “Why do you need him?”
And Syama always pretended to be irritated by it even though secretly she loved hearing him say things like that.
Loved the way he spoke as if she belonged to him.
Madhav was not openly expressive with everyone. Most people saw him as charming, social, effortlessly warm. But Syama knew another version of him entirely. A deeply attentive one.
He noticed everything.
When her replies became shorter.
When her smiles during video calls did not reach her eyes.
When she said “I’m fine” immediately after crying.
Sometimes during calls he would simply stare at her quietly.
“What?” she would ask eventually.
“Nothing,” he would reply softly. “Just missing my girl.”
Those words always pierced her heart a little.
Because she missed him too.
Desperately.
But unlike him, she at least had distractions here. Her parents. Her friends. Work. Music gigs.
Madhav, despite being a complete social butterfly when required, never truly went out for himself. He stayed alone in Hyderabad most of the time, far away from his family too.
That thought bothered Syama deeply.
Especially because he spent so much of himself taking care of everyone else.
Recently he had been working closely with several NGOs. Some focused on children. Some on animal rescue. Others worked with rural education and environmental welfare.
He traveled constantly because of it.
One week he would be visiting village schools. The next he would be helping rescue injured animals somewhere on the outskirts of the city. Sometimes he disappeared into rural areas for days with barely any network.
Syama remembered constantly texting him things like "Eat food on time"
He always replied with either heart emojis or deeply unhelpful sarcasm.
Still, she admired him endlessly for it.
Madhav loved people with an openness that exhausted and inspired her at the same time. He gave so much of himself to the world so naturally that sometimes Syama wondered if he even realized how rare that was.
And yet despite constantly surrounding himself with people, he always returned to an empty apartment.
That thought stayed with her longer than she admitted.
One night, while they were on call again, she finally said quietly,
“Why don’t you come here for a few days?”
Madhav looked up immediately.
“I’m also getting tired,” she continued softly, “of loving your screen.”
Silence.
He did not joke this time.
He simply looked at her quietly through the camera.
And smiled.
That was enough for Syama to understand.
He was silent because he could not come yet.
But he also did not have the heart to reject her.
The realization hurt more than she expected.
Still, she smiled back immediately and shifted the topic before he could apologize.
Because loving Madhav also meant understanding the things he could not say aloud.
After that incident, something in Madhav seemed to quietly retreat inward.
At first, Syama convinced herself she was imagining it.
He still replied to her texts. He still sent his usual good morning messages before sunrise and soft little goodnight texts with a red heart at the end. Sometimes he randomly sent photographs during the day. A street dog sleeping beneath a tea stall. Orange clouds spilling across the evening sky. A horribly made cup of chai with the caption:
“This looks tragic. Thought of you.”
Sometimes it was a random song.
Sometimes a blurry picture of rain against a train window.
Sometimes just a voice note of flute music recorded somewhere far away, wind rushing softly in the background while his faint laughter lingered at the end.
He was still there.
And yet… he wasn’t.
The calls became shorter.
Their nightly FaceTimes, which once stretched for hours until one of them accidentally fell asleep mid conversation, now ended within fifteen or twenty minutes. Sometimes he would suddenly glance away while she was speaking, expression tightening slightly as his phone buzzed beside him.
“Sorry love, one second. Work call.”
And then he would disappear.
At first Syama didn’t think much of it. Madhav had always been busy with NGO work. Children’s shelters, animal rescues, environmental projects, rural education drives. He threw himself into everything with frightening sincerity, as though the suffering of the world physically hurt him.
One week he would be helping rebuild a flooded school somewhere.
The next week he would be coordinating rescue work for injured cattle after heavy rains.
She admired him for it.
Loved him for it, even.
But slowly, over nearly six months, the pattern began eating away at her.
The late replies.
The shortened calls.
The distracted smile.
The exhaustion beneath his eyes.
The way he sometimes stared at her silently during video calls as though he had something important to say but swallowed it back down every single time.
And at night, lying alone in her apartment in Bengaluru, those ugly thoughts began creeping into her head one by one like poison dissolving into water.
Did something happen?
Why is he working himself to the bone like this?
Is he actually busy?
Did I do something wrong?
Is he getting bored of me because of the distance?
And finally—
Is he falling out of love?
She hated herself every time the thought appeared.
Because this was Madhav.
The same Madhav who remembered the exact date of her first public singing performance.
The same Madhav who listened patiently while she rambled about psychology theories and difficult patients at two in the morning without complaining once.
The same Madhav who recorded flute melodies for her because he knew she could no longer sleep peacefully without them.
And yet insecurity was cruel.
It did not care about logic.
It grew best in silence.
One particular night finally broke her.
They had planned a proper call after almost two weeks of barely speaking properly. Syama had finished work early that evening. She had washed her hair, changed into one of his favourite kurtas, and even made coffee before sitting cross legged on her bed waiting for his call.
Instead, a text arrived.
“I’m really sorry, love. Something urgent came up. Can we talk tomorrow?”
That was all.
Something inside her simply collapsed.
She stared at the message for a very long time before quietly locking her phone and placing it face down beside her pillow.
That night she cried herself to sleep.
At first the tears came silently, slipping into her hairline as she curled beneath the blanket. But eventually her chest began aching with the terrible fear she had been trying to suppress for months.
Maybe distance really did ruin relationships.
Maybe love faded slowly without either person realizing.
Maybe one day she would simply become another fond memory in Madhav’s impossibly long life.
For the first time in months, she did not listen to the flute recordings he sent her.
She didn’t even open his messages.
They were probably apologies anyway.
Or “I miss you.”
Or “Goodnight, my girl.”
Tonight she couldn’t bear reading any of it.
Eventually exhaustion dragged her into sleep.
The next morning her eyes felt painfully swollen.
The moment she woke up, fresh tears threatened again. Her throat burned. Her head hurt from crying.
But before she could bury herself back into bed, she heard loud voices downstairs.
Laughter.
Her father’s unmistakable booming laugh.
Her mother speaking over him in that animated way she always did whenever guests arrived.
Syama frowned weakly.
Relatives?
Ugadi was tomorrow after all. Their house always became crowded around this time with cousins, aunties, sweets, noise, and endless gossip.
Groaning softly, she rubbed her eyes and stepped out of her room.
Their home was an old double storied house filled with warmth in ways that couldn’t be described properly. Brass lamps sat in corners polished lovingly by her mother every Friday. The walls carried framed gods, faded family photos, and little traces of years spent together. Even from upstairs, she could smell curry leaves crackling in hot oil and fresh filter coffee drifting through the house.
As she slowly descended the staircase, still heavy with sleep and sadness, a familiar voice drifted upward.
“Yes uncle, I heard about that recently too—”
Her heart stopped.
No.
No way.
Before she could even think properly, her feet were already moving.
She nearly ran down the stairs, gripping the railing tightly as her pulse thundered in her ears.
And then she saw him.
Madhav.
Sitting comfortably at the dining table beside her parents as though he had always belonged there.
He wore a simple black kurta with rolled sleeves, his hair slightly messy like he had travelled overnight without resting properly. One hand rested around a steel tumbler of coffee while he listened attentively to her father.
And her parents…
That nearly shocked her more.
Her father sat relaxed in his chair, one leg folded over the other, looking entirely comfortable beside him. His reading glasses rested low on his nose while he animatedly discussed something, laughing loudly. Her father had always been like that. Loud laughter. Sharp observations. A softness hidden beneath endless teasing. He carried the kind of presence that made people feel safe within minutes.
Her mother stood nearby serving more coffee despite nobody asking for it, the edge of her saree tucked carefully at her waist while she fussed over whether Madhav had eaten enough. There was warmth in her face already. Not complete trust yet, perhaps. But curiosity. Affection. The beginning of acceptance.
For one suspended moment, Syama forgot how to breathe.
“Madhav!” she blurted out.
He turned instantly.
And the second his eyes landed on her, his entire face lit up.
“Syama!”
She didn’t even remember crossing the distance between them.
One moment she was near the staircase and the next she was wrapped around him so tightly that he stumbled backward slightly laughing in surprise. Her arms locked around his neck as she buried her face into his shoulder.
He immediately tightened his hold around her.
“Syama?” he asked softly.
And then he felt it.
Wetness against his neck.
“I… I thought…” she choked out, unable to continue.
“You thought?” he asked gently, teasing already slipping into his voice. “That can't mean anything good.”
She pinched his back hard.
“Ow,” he laughed softly.
Then his expression melted into something unbearably tender.
“You overthink too much,” he whispered, brushing messy strands of hair away from her swollen eyes.
“Ahem.”
Both of them froze.
Slowly, Syama turned her head.
Her parents were still sitting there.
Watching everything.
Her father looked deeply entertained.
Her mother looked one second away from bursting into laughter.
“Are you not going to introduce your… friend?” her father asked innocently, though the amusement dancing in his eyes ruined the seriousness entirely.
Syama wanted the earth to split open and swallow her whole.
“Uh… Nanna… this is Madhav. My bo… boyfriend.”
The word felt absurdly embarrassing out loud.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
Exciting.
All at once.
Madhav stood beside her looking entirely shameless.
“Hello uncle, aunty,” he said politely. “Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Madhav… Syama’s lover.”
Syama nearly combusted on the spot.
Her mother pressed her lips together immediately to stop herself from smiling too widely.
Her father simply leaned back slowly, studying Madhav carefully now.
Not harshly.
But like a father silently measuring the man standing beside his daughter.
“Sit, both of you,” her mother said while getting up. “I’ll bring breakfast.”
Syama immediately stood too.
“I’ll help—”
“Syama,” her father interrupted calmly.
She froze.
“Sit down.”
“…yes, Nanna.”
She quietly sat beside Madhav while her father watched the two of them over folded hands.
Her father had never been the overly strict type. He believed respect mattered more than control. But Syama knew him well enough to understand the quiet protectiveness beneath his calm expression. Especially after what she had gone through years ago. He had watched his daughter rebuild herself piece by piece after heartbreak. Of course he would be cautious now.
“So, Madhav…” her father began casually. “What exactly do you do?”
“I currently work with multiple NGOs, uncle.”
“Oh?” her father nodded appreciatively. “That’s rare these days. Full time social work is not easy.”
Madhav smiled modestly. “It keeps life meaningful.”
Her father hummed softly, thoughtful now.
Syama could almost hear the questions forming in his mind.
Does he earn enough?
Is he stable?
Will he disappear one day and leave her shattered again?
Meanwhile her mother returned carrying plates of hot bondas and chutney, immediately placing extra on Madhav’s plate despite his polite protests.
“Eat properly,” she instructed. “You look thin.”
“Maa…” Syama muttered in embarrassment.
“What?” her mother replied defensively. “He does look tired.”
Madhav laughed softly. “Thank you aunty.”
Her mother sat down finally, eyes still observing him carefully in that uniquely maternal way that somehow felt both loving and terrifying.
“So,” she said knowingly, “I’m assuming you didn’t suddenly travel all the way here just for breakfast.”
“Yes exactly!” Syama immediately asked. “What are you doing here without informing me?”
Madhav placed his plate down slowly.
Then he turned fully toward her parents, expression sincere now.
“Uncle. Aunty. I know you met me only today and you don’t know much about me yet. But I genuinely love your daughter very much.”
Syama’s heartbeat quickened instantly.
“These past two and a half years have been very difficult staying away from her.” He glanced briefly at Syama before continuing softly, “So… I came here to take her back with me.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Her mother blinked rapidly.
Her father leaned back slowly.
Then both spoke at the same time.
“Two and a half YEARS?”
“She is not leaving. You shift.”
Syama nearly choked.
“That’s what you focused on!?” her mother exclaimed, horrified. “She has been hiding a relationship for TWO YEARS!”
“Obviously that matters less right now,” her father argued immediately. “Why should she leave Bengaluru? If he wants, he can relocate!”
Madhav looked genuinely startled for once.
Syama covered her face in embarrassment.
But beneath the argument, she heard it clearly.
Fear.
Her father’s fear.
Because years ago he had watched his daughter stop eating properly. Stop laughing. Stop living fully.
He had sat outside her bedroom at night pretending to read the newspaper because he was scared she would break down alone.
Her mother too had noticed every tiny thing. The untouched coffee cups. The swollen eyes hidden behind excuses. The way Syama stared at nothing for hours.
They had carried her pain quietly beside her.
Of course they were afraid now.
Her father sighed before turning toward Madhav more seriously.
“What happened to her years ago…” he said quietly, “I don’t want her going through something like that again.”
Madhav’s expression softened immediately.
“I promise that won’t happen again,” he said firmly.
“What happened then was unavoidable. And yes, it hurt her deeply. I won’t deny that.” His voice softened further. “But I promise she will never feel abandoned by me again.”
Then he smiled faintly.
“Unless there are exceptions. Like work trips. Or her coming here to visit you.”
Her mother laughed softly through suspiciously watery eyes.
Madhav slowly reached for Syama’s hand beneath the table.
“I cannot promise we’ll never have problems,” he continued honestly. “But I can promise she will never feel unloved, unsupported, or lonely with me.”
His thumb brushed gently across her knuckles.
“I love her,” he said simply. “And I fully intend to spend a very long time loving her.”
Her mother’s eyes softened completely then.
Because mothers knew.
They knew when affection was performative.
When respect was forced.
When love was selfish.
And this did not look selfish.
Her father sighed dramatically as though deeply burdened by romance.
“Fine,” he muttered finally. “You have permission to take her.”
Then he pointed a warning finger.
“But not in the same house.”
Madhav blinked.
“…huh?”
“If you wanted that arrangement,” her father replied calmly, “you should have hidden the relationship from us.”
Syama buried her face in her hands.
“We’re old fashioned in some matters,” her mother added smugly. “Same house only after marriage.”
“Amma!” Syama groaned instantly. “We are not even discussing marriage yet!”
Madhav meanwhile looked genuinely thoughtful.
“Okay,” he nodded seriously. “Different flats. Same apartment building?”
Her father shrugged.
“That’s acceptable.”
Her mother smacked her husband’s arm lightly. “You’re negotiating as if you’re renting out property.”
“How else should I handle this situation?” he argued.
For the first time that morning, Syama laughed properly.
And the sound alone made both her parents visibly relax. Just slightly.
Finally her father looked toward her gently.
“What about you, Syama?” he asked softly. “Do you want to go?”
And suddenly all the embarrassment melted away.
Because they were giving her a choice.
Trusting her.
Loving her enough to let her decide for herself.
Syama stood abruptly and wrapped her arms around both her parents tightly from behind.
“Thank you,” she whispered shakily. “Thank you so much.”
“Aiyo enough drama,” her mother muttered affectionately while patting her hand.
But Syama noticed the way her mother leaned back into the hug anyway.
Her father reached up and squeezed her wrist gently.
“So?” he asked again softly.
Syama turned toward Madhav.
He was already looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.
And for the first time in months, all her fear disappeared.
