I have edited the book and also changed some of the scenes but don't worry, it will only enhance the book more. ***Winks***
𐙚𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩
New Delhi
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The wooden floor beneath my bare feet is cool, a familiar comfort as I step into the center of the modest dance studio. Sunlight filters through the wide windows of the orphanage, casting golden streaks across the room, illuminating the eager, bright eyes of the children gathered before me. Their laughter and chatter settle as the first melancholic notes of “O Re Piya” fill the air. A hush falls over them, anticipation crackling in the silence.
My heartbeat synchronizes with the rhythm, slow and deliberate, as I take my first step, raising my hands in a graceful arc. The soft tinkling of my ghungroos resonates, an echo of my soul’s unspoken words. I close my eyes, allowing the music to seep into my being, its melancholic longing wrapping around me like a whisper from a forgotten dream.
Udne laga kyon maan bawla re…
A gentle spin, the fabric of my anarkali swirling like cascading waves around me. My arms extend, wrists flicking elegantly, fingers tracing unseen poetry in the air. My movements are fluid, deliberate, each step a conversation between me and the earth beneath.
Aaya kahan se yeh hosla re…
I shift into tatkaar, my feet striking the wooden floor in a rhythm so precise it merges seamlessly with the song’s beat. The vibrations pulse through my veins, an unbreakable connection between the music and my body. With each beat, I surrender more, allowing myself to be carried away, yet never losing control.
Tanabana tanabana bunti hawa…
I twirl again, my dupatta billowing around me like a whispered secret. The children watch, captivated, their young faces reflecting the emotions my dance conveys. In their eyes, I see wonder, curiosity, longing. They don’t just watch the dance—they feel it.
Boondein bhi to aaye nahi baaz yahan…
My feet lift, barely touching the ground as I transition into chakkars, spinning, spinning—each turn a prayer, a call to something beyond myself. The world around me blurs, only the music and my heartbeat remain, thrumming in unison. My breath is steady, but there’s a fire ignited within me, a flame that refuses to be contained.
O re piya…
I slow, the whirlwind of motion dissipating like mist at dawn. My hands fold in anjali mudra as I bow, my forehead brushing against my fingertips. Silence follows, the kind that lingers in the air, thick with emotion, before the children erupt into claps and cheers.
