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Everyone had gathered in the Pooja Mandapam, their heads bowed in quiet reverence as the Gauri Pooja was about to begin. The temple was a vision of devotion, adorned with vibrant flowers of every kind, their fragrance mingling with the soothing scent of sandalwood and incense. Rows of golden diyas flickered like stars, casting a warm glow over the sacred space.

The temple dancers stood neatly in a corner, waiting for the arrival of their king. Svara, however, lingered at the back, away from the others—watching, observing, almost as if she did not belong.

Suddenly, a clear voice rang through the air.

“Dwarkadhish Vasudeva Krishna has arrived!”

A hush fell over the temple. Svara’s breath hitched as she saw the grand procession entering through the temple gates. The royal family, adorned in regal silk, followed gracefully, surrounded by guards and attendants. The king himself walked at the center, welcomed with Aartis and flower garlands, his presence commanding yet serene.

Svara tried to catch a glimpse of him, but the crowd and the flickering lights made it difficult. Curiosity gnawed at her—everyone spoke of Krishna’s unmatched beauty, his divine aura, his presence that left people spellbound.

Her heart raced with an unfamiliar eagerness. Unable to resist, she stepped forward on her toes, stretching her neck, her eyes searching for a clear view of the man who ruled Dwarka and hearts alike.

But it was in vain.

No matter how much she tried, his face remained hidden from her view—veiled by the crowd, the flickering lamps, and fate itself.

With a sigh, she dropped back on her heels, mildly frustrated yet oddly intrigued.

Svara stood still, waiting as the King of Dwarka entered the temple. Maybe, if she just stayed a little longer, she could finally catch a glimpse of him. The thought stirred something restless inside her.

But before she could decide, Padma’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts.

“Svara! What happened to your anklets?! Look at them! I told you so many times to wear the new ones!”

Svara blinked, momentarily confused.

“Huh?”

She glanced down, and her heart sank. The silver beads on her right anklet were barely holding together, some already scattered across the temple floor. She hadn’t even noticed.

A lump formed in her throat. These weren’t just anklets—they were the first gift from her adoptive father, the man who had taken her in and raised her with love. She had a new pair, of course, but tonight, for the Gauri Pooja, she wanted to wear these. A small tribute to the man who had given her a home.

And now, even that was slipping away.

Padma sighed, exasperated. “Go to the hall and change into the new ones. Quickly. The pooja is about to start.”

Svara hesitated for a moment before nodding. As she turned to leave, the sound of her broken anklets jingled softly, as if mourning along with her.

As Svara walked away from the Pooja Mandapam, the soft jingling of her broken anklet followed her. With every step, more beads loosened, scattering onto the temple floor. She sighed, crouching down to gather them carefully.

The fragile anklet rested in her palm as she reached out, picking up the tiny beads one by one, trying to collect every last piece of what once meant so much to her.

Just then, another hand—larger, stronger, yet graceful—appeared opposite hers, gathering the beads alongside her own.

Startled, she lifted her head—only for her breath to hitch in her throat.

Before her knelt a man unlike any she had ever seen. No, not just a man—he looked like royalty.

Oh, gods, he is ethereal.

As if hearing her thoughts, the stranger looked up—and for the second time, Svara found herself utterly stunned.

His complexion was deep, rich, and as dark as the midnight sky. His eyes—calm yet piercing—resembled the blooming lotuses of the Yamuna, holding mysteries within their depths. His ebony curls, tucked beneath a golden crown, gleamed in the soft temple lights, with a single peacock feather resting elegantly atop. Draped in a yellow angavastra, he exuded a presence so divine, so magnetic, that for a fleeting moment, Svara forgot to breathe.

He lifted a single brow—a silent question, amused yet patient.

And just like that, reality came crashing

Svara’s heart thudded loudly in her chest. She quickly tore her gaze away, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over her. Had she been staring all this time?

She lowered her head, focusing back on the scattered beads, her fingers moving frantically as if that would somehow erase the moment.

The man, however, didn’t seem bothered. He continued gathering the beads at an unhurried pace, his movements graceful, effortless.

Svara hurriedly got up, clutching the broken anklet and the scattered beads in her hand. Her heart pounded against her ribs, the weight of realization crashing over her. She needed to get away—from his gaze, from his overwhelming presence.

Yet, as she took a step back, he too rose to his full height, unhurried, composed. In his outstretched palm lay the rest of the beads he had gathered. He held them toward her, waiting—expecting her to take them.

Svara hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around the beads in her hand. A strange warmth settled in her chest, a mix of nerves and something unfamiliar, something she dared not name.

Her gaze flickered between his face and the beads in his hand. There was no urgency in his expression, just quiet patience, as if he had all the time in the world.

Swallowing, she slowly lifted her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. As she reached for the beads, her small, altha-stained hands brushed against his—warm, steady, larger than hers.

A shiver ran down her spine.

For a fleeting second, time seemed to still. The weight of his touch, the quiet moment they shared—it all felt strangely significant.

Before Svara could slip away, a sharp, familiar voice echoed through the temple halls.

"Svara! How long will you take? Come fast!"

Startled, she whipped her head around to see Padma striding toward her, though the distance still kept her from seeing who Svara was with.

Panic surged through her.

Without thinking, she quickly pulled her hand away from his. The lingering warmth faded too quickly, leaving behind an odd emptiness.

She lowered her gaze, mumbling a soft, "Thank you." Her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder would make this moment too real, too significant.

With her hands clutching the scattered beads tightly, she turned and hurried away, willing herself not to look back.

But behind her, the man remained still.

Watching her retreating form, he murmured her name under his breath—testing the sound of it, as if committing it to memory.

"Svara."

His voice was soft, thoughtful, almost reverent.

And though she didn’t hear it, something deep within her stirred.

---------

Svara quickly slipped on her new anklets and rushed toward the pooja hall, her mind still tangled in thoughts of the unfamiliar man she had met earlier. By the time she arrived, the pooja was already halfway through, and the air was filled with the soothing scent of sandalwood and the rhythmic chants of the priests. It was finally time for the aarti, a moment of reverence led by none other than the king of Dwarka himself.

But Svara was barely paying attention. Her gaze was lowered, lost in thought, until a sharp nudge from Veda pulled her back to the present.

"Svara, look!" Veda whispered excitedly. "Dwarkapati himself is doing the aarti. Oh my goodness, he puts the gods to shame."

Curious, Svara lifted her head—and in that instant, her breath hitched.

There, standing before the sacred flames, was the same man who had helped her gather the scattered beads. Clad in royal attire, his presence was even more commanding under the golden glow of the oil lamps. His expression was solemn, his strong hands steady as he performed the ritual with unwavering devotion. The flickering light danced across his sharp features, highlighting the quiet intensity in his eyes.

"He is the king of Dwarka?" Svara murmured under her breath, her heart pounding.

"Yes, of course," Veda confirmed, her voice filled with admiration.

Svara barely heard her. Her mind reeled at the realization—how could the man she had mistaken for an ordinary stranger be none other than the ruler of Dwarka himself?

As the aarti concluded, the temple bells rang in unison, their deep chimes echoing through the grand hall. The air felt charged with divinity, yet Svara stood frozen, her thoughts a tangled mess.

The man—no, the king—turned slightly, lowering the aarti plate. The golden light illuminated his face, making him look even more otherworldly. She watched, unable to look away as he gracefully handed the plate to the priest and folded his hands in reverence.

"Everyone, go and serve the prasad," Padma instructed sharply, her voice firm yet composed.

In Dwarka, the temple dancers held a sacred place in society. They were more than just performers—they were considered divine, devoted entirely to the service of the gods. No celebration or ritual was complete without them. Their dedication was absolute, their lives woven into the very fabric of the temple. Unlike other women, they did not marry, instead choosing to surrender themselves fully to their devotion. In return, they were honored, treated almost like royalty, their voices carrying weight in temple affairs. No one questioned their authority within these sacred walls.

As soon as Padma’s words left her lips, the dancers moved with practiced grace, each taking their designated spot. They spread out, forming neat rows to ensure the distribution of prasad was smooth and orderly. Svara stepped into her position, her hands automatically following the familiar rhythm—take, offer, bless, repeat. But her mind? It was elsewhere.

Her thoughts kept circling back to the king of Dwarka. The very idea that the man who had helped her gather the beads was none other than him still unsettled her. She had met a stranger that morning, not a king. But now, she couldn’t separate the two.

She continued handing out the prasad, her eyes cast downward, lost in her thoughts. The line moved steadily, devotees stepping forward one by one to receive the sacred offering. Svara, still distracted, extended her hand out of habit, expecting the next person to take it.

But the hand never came.

Frowning slightly, she tried again, only for the person to subtly move their hand sideways, refusing to accept it. Confused, she furrowed her brows and lifted her gaze.

And there he was.

Dwarkapati.

The flickering temple lamps cast a golden glow around him, his regal presence standing out even amidst the crowd. His deep, unreadable eyes held hers, the slightest hint of amusement dancing in their depths.

Svara’s breath hitched. Her fingers tightened around the bowl of prasad as realization sank in.

Why was he here? And why was he looking at her like that?

"Prasad, Dwarkadhish…" Svara murmured, extending her hand gently, her eyes lowered in respect.

But he didn’t take it.

A moment passed. Then another.

Feeling the weight of his silence, Svara hesitated before speaking again, her brows slightly furrowing in confusion. “Are you not going to take it, Dwarkadhish?”

His voice was calm, yet laced with amusement. “I’m waiting.”

She blinked. “Waiting… for what?”

His next words sent a strange shiver down her spine.

“Waiting for you to look at me when offering it.”

Svara's breath hitched.

Her fingers tightened around the bowl, the warmth of the prasad pressing into her palms, grounding her. The devotees behind him were beginning to notice the delay, their murmurs barely audible over the temple bells. The scent of incense thickened the air, curling around them like an invisible thread pulling them together.

She had no choice. Taking a slow breath, she lifted her gaze.

Their eyes met.

The moment stretched—silent, charged, unexplainable. His gaze was unwavering, dark as a storm-touched sea, and for a fleeting second, she felt as if the ground beneath her feet had shifted.

And then, just as slowly, he reached forward, his fingers deliberately brushing against hers as he took the prasad from her hand.

A current ran through her at the brief touch.

"Now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?" he murmured, his lips curving ever so slightly.

Svara quickly lowered her gaze, her heart hammering in her chest.

He turned and walked away, but the moment remained, lingering in the space between them.

A moment that felt far from over.

------

After the completion of the pooja, the temple dancers retired to their chambers at the back of the temple, their duties for the day finally over. Some were gathered around playing Chausar, others were lost in quiet gossip, while a few had already drifted off to sleep, exhausted.

Svara sat in front of the bronze mirror, carefully removing her accessories, but her mind was far from the present. The day’s events played on a loop in her thoughts, refusing to fade.

Beside her, Veda stretched lazily before turning towards her with a knowing smirk.

"You know," she began, her voice teasing, "apparently, Dwarkadhish really loved our dance today."

The mere mention of his name made Svara still. Her hands, which had been untying her anklets, froze mid-motion as her attention snapped to Veda.

After distributing the prasad, all the dancers had gathered in the main hall to perform before the royal family, who sat in the front rows. Though Svara was still trying to process her strange encounter with the king of Dwarka, she had forced herself to focus, pushing away her distractions.

But now, hearing this…

Her heartbeat quickened, though she refused to acknowledge why.

"Ohh," was all Svara could say, still processing the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts swirling inside her. But Veda wasn’t finished.

"Do you know something else?" Veda leaned in closer, her voice practically buzzing with excitement. "Dwarkadhish will be coming every Friday from now on. At least, that’s what I heard."

Svara’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What? Why?" Her heart skipped a beat, a strange unease washing over her.

Veda gave a dramatic shrug, her face lit up with curiosity. "Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I heard that every Friday, he will visit the temple to watch our dance and participate in the Gauri pooja."

Svara blinked, her mind racing. The king coming every Friday? For their dance? It seemed too strange to believe.

The temple dancers, despite being highly respected, were not meant to dance for entertainment. Their art was sacred, a form of worship, and only performed during special occasions. But the mention of the Gauri pooja caught her attention.

In Dwarka, the annual Gauri Mata pooja was a grand event, drawing people from all corners of the land. Devotees came in droves, and the air was filled with the scent of incense, the soft murmur of prayers, and the shimmer of oil lamps. It wasn’t just a time for offerings, but a time for reverence. The temple dancers, though revered for their grace, also took on other duties—cleaning the temple area, plucking flowers, weaving them into garlands, and lighting diyas that flickered like stars against the evening sky.

Svara had seen it all before, but the idea of the king coming to witness their dance every week was something new. Something that felt, in some way, too intimate.

"But have you seen him today?" Veda sighed dreamily, her voice full of admiration. "He looked too beautiful to be true. Every woman in the temple was staring at him."

Svara couldn’t deny that part. Dwarkadhish—there was no other man quite like him. He truly was magnificent, the very image of power and grace. In the brief moments she’d seen him, it was impossible not to notice how the very air seemed to change when he walked in.

Svara chuckled softly, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I suppose you’re not wrong."

It was nearly nightfall, and the temple had settled into a peaceful quiet. Most of the dancers had already retired to their chambers, the rhythmic sounds of their breathing filling the air as they drifted into sleep. Veda, too, had gone to her bed, but Svara remained restless. Sleep eluded her.

So, with a soft sigh, she slipped quietly from the room, her bare feet padding against the cool stone floors. She made her way to the small lake behind the temple, the gentle ripples of the water catching the last light of the moon.

There, on the steps leading to the water's edge, Svara sat down, her legs folded beneath her. She gazed at the moon, its silver glow reflecting off the calm surface of the lake. This was where she came to find peace, where the world outside seemed to disappear, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The sound of the night—the soft chirp of crickets, the whisper of the wind through the trees—filled her senses, grounding her in this quiet solitude.

As the moonlight bathed her in its gentle glow, Svara couldn’t help but let her thoughts wander back to Dwarkadhish. His eyes, his presence, the way he had looked at her earlier that day... It was impossible to ignore. But she didn’t want to dwell on it, not now.

For now, she allowed herself to simply be—silent, still, and lost in the tranquility of the night.

In no time, Svara heard the sweet, melodic notes of a flute drifting through the air, and she closed her eyes in contentment. The music was as familiar to her as the night itself, a soft, soothing melody that seemed to wrap around her heart, calming her restless mind. For the past two years, she had been hearing it every night, yet she had never been able to find the person behind the music.

It was always the same—gentle, haunting notes that carried across the stillness of the temple, making everything feel right in the world. The melody brought her peace, like a quiet reassurance that everything was going to be okay.

Sometimes, when the weight of the day was too much or her thoughts too scattered, Svara would come to the lake just to hear the music. The sound of the flute became her refuge, her way of escaping the chaos of her mind.

She tilted her head back, letting the moonlight bathe her face, as she allowed the music to wash over her. The notes seemed to echo in the night air, pure and serene, filling the space around her with a kind of magic.

I wonder who plays the basuri, she thought to herself, the question lingering in her mind like a mystery she couldn’t solve. There was something so captivating about it, something that drew her in every time.

But for now, she didn’t mind the mystery. The music was enough, and for this moment, that was all that mattered.

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Author's note:

Here is the first chapter guysss, tell me how is it.

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