Tera Mera Pyaar

| Hari Hari Churiyan |

Hathon ke paron mein rang dekh abhi tak hai taza

Wo titliyan dil ke har koney mein

Raat aur din gungunaye

Teri churiyan

Hari hari churiyan

The next day, a beautiful, traditional funfair unfolded in the town square with vibrant colors, lively music, and the aroma of street food filling the air. Colorful tents and carts housed a variety of  games, while hand-painted carousels and Ferris wheels spun with joyous laughter. Locals gathered in their favourite attires consisting mostly of kurta shalwars, and anarkalis, creating a festive atmosphere where families enjoyed cultural performances and indulged in local delicacies like samosas, chaat, and gol gappe, to name a few.

The air resonated with the sounds of traditional instruments, creating a delightful blend of tradition and merriment.

The Grand Mela was held every year before the young prince's birthday, a celebration of Nawab Shahnawaz's soon-to-be successor. Yet, the Nawabzaada seemed to be nowhere in sight each year. Or so they thought.

Stood in the window of the highest tower of Roshan Nagar's mahal, Murtasim Khan always had the best view of the festival from afar. But somehow, he was never interested in joining the celebrations despite his father's insistence that he should go out and celebrate with his people.

But this year, the celebration felt different. This year, much to his own surprise, Murtasim found himself eagerly looking forward to being part of the mela. And the reason for it was one particular lady who seemed to have caught his attention in the most unexpected way.

The perfectly ironed shalwar kameez in his closet finally saw the light of day as Murtasim pulled out a white set. Having just stepped out of the shower, he quickly pulled on the clothes before making his way to his dresser and doing his hair. He applied a decent amount of gel, careful not to overdo it as he ran his fingers through his dark strands and combed his hair away from his face; the new hairstyle a stark contrast to his usual one where his hair normally lay messily on his forehead.

He wanted to dress to impress, but he reminded himself that he could not stand out among the crowd. At least not for now. After all, he had told her he was a stable boy. So he kept it simple and comfortable with a white shalwar kameez; the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black, freshly polished shoes.

Opening a drawer that housed his collection of wrist watches, he picked up his favourite one with a brown leather strap, and strapped it around his wrist. Casting a satisfied smile at his reflection in the floor-length mirror, he grabbed his wallet and made his way to the rear entrance of the palace.

Retrieving a bandana from his pocket, Murtasim swiftly covered his face, skillfully navigating through the bustling staff in the palace. As he headed towards the back door, an unexpected voice halted him mid-step, "Chotei Maalik?" Startled, Murtasim froze in his tracks.

Letting out a low groan, he turned to face Bakhtu, who had, albeit unintentionally, just revealed his identity to the servants present around them. Everyone seemed to be minding their own business as they went about their daily tasks, but Bakhtu had just made them aware that the young man rushing towards the back exit with his face covered, was not just anyone but the nawabzaada himself.