Whispers of the Brass Bells on ankles...
||chapter 4 : RED||
you can find the prologue and chapter 1 -3 under the pinned post, do read it!
all the credits goes to my fav @irantaboutkanha for giving me idea to carry the story forward^^
The ninth day of the ache arrived smelling of rain. Jayani was mending a torn ghungroo strap, the needle a clumsy weapon in her restless hands, when the first distant thunder growled. Her head jerked up. The sound was so like the deep, rolling bayal of the pakhawaj from the royal court that her breath caught. In that suspended moment, she wasn’t in her quiet room; she was spinning, the world a blur of gold and sandstone, her eyes desperately scanning for a flash of canary yellow- The needle bit her thumb. “Ah!” She dropped the bells, sucking the tiny bead of blood. The metallic taste, the sting, anchored her back to the present, to the quiet, to the unbearable absence. Frustration welled up, hot and sudden. Stupid. He’s not in the thunder. He’s probably in some lavish hall, not even remembering… “But he knows my name,” she muttered to the storm-darkening window. Ambika’s voice, calling her to leave, had handed that piece of her to him on a silver platter. And what did she have? A smile in moonlit water. A title. Glimpse of his eyes, the gem on his earring. She pressed her wounded thumb to her lips, whispering softly while looking at the gathering clouds, to her Narayan that she lovingly worshipped, “You don’t play it fair, Narayan. You'll let that man have an upper-hand? i don't want heartbreaks all over again”
Unbeknownst to her, the flute bearer, the minister - smiling the way he did that night, soft, knowing with an undertone of teasing.
"Knowing does not stray one from the ache it invites with itself, jayani"
The afternoon sun, having wrestled the clouds aside, poured liquid gold over the city. Jayani walked through the market, a splash of simple yellow amidst the noise. A single red hibiscus was tucked into the long braid resting over her shoulder. The kajal lining her eyes felt less like adornment and more like armor. The stain of aalta on her palms from yesterday's performance was a fading map of a past self.
Her steps were unhurried, her gaze no longer desperately scanning the crowd, but observing it. She was looking for the familiar aalta-seller's stall. She paused by a flower vendor, her fingers brushing the velvety petals of a marigold garland. And then the world tilted. Across the market, through the shifting sea of shoppers, vendors, and cattle, she saw him.
He was walking with two other ministers, their heads bent in conversation, but his attention—his eyes—were not on them. They were on her. Even from this distance, even through the chaos, she felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. The canary yellow dhoti. The flute tucked at his waist. The sun catching the gold of his skin, making him glow like a living ember. For a suspended breath, their eyes locked. And then she looked away unable to bear the weight of the moment. It was instinct—fear, protocol, the thousand rules carved into her bones since childhood. Her gaze dropped to the flowers in her hand, her heart hammering against her ribs like a captive bird.
Don't be foolish. He is a minister. Walk away. She paid the vendor quickly, fingers fumbling with the coins, and turned. Not toward him. Never toward him. Toward the narrow lanes that led away from the main market, away from those honey-glaze eyes that threatened to undo her completely. She ducked into a quiet alley, pressing her back against the cool stone wall, eyes squeezed shut. Her breath came in ragged gasps.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He saw you. He knows you saw him. What must he think? That you're a silly girl swooning over a minister you only saw once ? That you're—
"You're hiding."
The voice was soft as silk, smooth as the glide of a water strider. And it came from behind her, from the deeper shadows of the alley where the sun did not reach.
Jayani's eyes flew open. She spun around.
He stood there, leaning against the wall as if he had been there for hours, as if the universe had simply placed him in this spot to wait for her. The sunlight from the market's edge caught only half his face, leaving the rest in shadow—a study in light and dark, in divine and mortal. The faintest smile played on his lips.
"How—" she started, then stopped. Swallowed. "You weren't... I didn't hear you follow."
"No," he agreed, pushing off the wall with an effortless grace that made her chest ache. "You didn't."
He walked toward her slowly, unhurried, deliberate. Like a predator who had already caught his prey and was simply enjoying the approach. But there was nothing threatening in his demeanor—only that soft, knowing smile, those honey-glaze eyes that seemed to see straight through every layer of pretense she possessed. He stopped an arm's length away. Close enough to touch. Close enough that she could smell sandalwood and something else—something warm and ancient, like sun-baked earth after rain.
"The hibiscus suits you," he said, his gaze flicking to the flower in her hair. "It lacks the subtlety of the moonflower, but it has... conviction."
Jayani's throat went dry. "My Guru-maa says it draws the eye," she managed, the words coming out too fast, too defensive. "For the performance."
"And does it?" His voice dropped lower, intimate as a secret. "Draw the eye?"
Her eyes met his—a mistake, a glorious, terrible mistake. Because in them she saw not the teasing minister, not the smooth politician, but something deeper. Something that recognized her. That knew her, in a way that made no sense and yet felt more true than anything she had ever known.
She looked away first. Again.
"The dyes," she said, clutching her package like a shield. "I was buying aalta. For the next performance. The quality here is better than near the palace."
He tilted his head, a gesture of genuine curiosity that made a few dark curls fall across his forehead. "Is it? I've never had cause to notice. Though I imagine a dancer would know such things intimately." A pause. "The difference between a shade that fades and one that burns."
Was he still talking about dyes? Her pulse said no.
"The riverbank," he said suddenly, his tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. He glanced up at the strip of sky visible between the rooftops. "The air is clearer there in the evenings. If one seeks respite from the chaos."
She blinked. "I... yes. I suppose."
He smiled—that soft, knowing smile that she was beginning to recognize as uniquely his. "Good. The river has a way of drawing those who need its peace." He stepped back, giving her room, giving her space to breathe.
"Be well, Jayani." Her name on his lips was a prayer, a promise, a possession. "And next time... don't hide so obviously. It only makes you more visible."
And then he was gone, melting into the shadows of the alley as if he had never been there at all. Leaving her pressed against the wall, heart pounding, the hibiscus in her hair suddenly feeling less like armor and more like a declaration.
She didn't see him again that day. Or the next. But on the third evening, when she slipped away from the dancers' quarters under the pretense of needing air, her feet carried her toward the riverbank without conscious thought.
She told herself it was just to see the sunset. Just to feel the breeze. Just to escape the suffocating walls of the palace compound for a few stolen moments.
She sat on the smooth stones at the water's edge, watching the sun bleed orange and gold into the darkening sky. The river murmured its eternal song, indifferent to the wars and loves of mortals.
She didn't hear him approach. But she felt him—a warmth at her back, a presence that shifted the very quality of the air.
"You are here ."
Not a question. A statement of fact, delivered with quiet satisfaction.
She didn't turn. Couldn't turn. If she turned, she would see him, and if she saw him, she would be lost.
"The air is clearer here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You were right."
A soft laugh, warm as summer honey. She heard the rustle of fabric as he sat beside her—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch. A deliberate distance. A courtesy.
"I'm always right," he said. "It's exhausting, really. One longs for the thrill of being wrong."
Despite herself, a laugh escaped her—small, surprised, genuine. She glanced at him sideways. In the dying light, his profile was etched in gold: the curve of his brow, the slope of his nose, the impossible softness of his smile.
"You're strange," she said. "For a minister."
"And you're brave," he replied, turning to meet her gaze. "For a dancer who speaks to ministers like that."
Their eyes held. The river flowed. The sun dipped lower.
"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping to that intimate register that made her skin prickle with awareness, "do you always wear hibiscus? Or was today a... deliberate choice?"
Her hand flew to her hair. She had forgotten—hadn't even thought—but yes, the red flower was there, tucked into her braid as naturally as breathing.
"I—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's just a flower."
"Is it?" His gaze was too knowing, too warm.
She looked away, at the river, at the sky, anywhere but those honey-glaze eyes that saw too much. "I don't know what you mean."
He didn't push. He simply sat with her, sharing the silence, as the stars began to pierce the velvet dark. And when the chill of evening crept in and she knew she should return before Ambika noticed her absence, he rose with her, walking her to the edge of the path that led back to the palace.
"Jayani." His voice stopped her. She turned. He stood silhouetted against the last glow of twilight, unreadable, eternal.
"The riverbank is peaceful," he said. "But lonely, sometimes. If you find yourself here again... you might not be alone."
A statement. Not a question. Not a demand. Just a possibility, placed gently in her hands like a moonflower at midnight.
She walked back to her quarters in a daze, the hibiscus still in her hair, his words echoing in the hollow chambers of her heart.
And when she lay in her bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she heard Ambika's soft breathing across the room and thought of honey-glaze eyes and riverbank silences.
You might not be alone.
The next evening, she wore the hibiscus again.
And when her feet carried her to the river, he was already there.
Waiting. . . . .
(been in my drafts for months- thought i'd complete this one before moving onto the new story)
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