MEET THE SRIVASTAVA's👨👩👦👦
Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce to you the Srivastavas, a family that stands as a shining testament to the embodiment of nobility and regal stature. In their presence, you will find a blend of prestige, opul...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The temple courtyard lay bathed in the soft glow of the evening sun, the scent of incense curling into the air, weaving a sacred stillness around the ancient walls. Before the towering, majestic figure of Hanuman — his Anjani Suta — Ishwarlal Rajput sat cross-legged, his weathered hands folded respectfully, his forehead resting gently against his thumbs in prayer.
The statue, adorned with fresh garlands and clothed in simple orange, seemed almost to breathe with life, its mighty presence a silent guardian to the words that weighed heavily on Ishwarlal's heart.
"Anjani Suta, my protector, my companion in every moment of doubt," he began, his voice low, steady, woven with threads of reverence and an ache that age had only sharpened. "In this life, I have faced storms and hardships without complaint. Yet today, it is not my own fate that troubles me — it is the future of my daughter, my Mahalaxmi, who carries my entire world within her smile."
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory of Mahalaxmi's late mother, pass through his mind like a whisper. The ache of old wounds sharpened anew, but Ishwarlal steeled himself and continued.
"You were witness, Anjani Suta, to the sacrifices of my youth. You know how I mortgaged every inch of my land, every grain of pride, to help Chandra and Falguni carve a new life when they left Bangaon. I never regretted it. Chandra is my brother in everything but blood. His victories, I celebrated as my own. I feel as though something terrible is looming over us, and I can't shake off this feeling.""
He paused, drawing in a deep breath that trembled slightly. "But today, my concern is not the old debts of loyalty. It is the uncharted path that lies ahead for Mahalaxmi."
His mind drifted to the conversation, still vivid, from four months ago — Chandra's voice over the crackling phone line, requesting a favor: to host Hariday, his son, under Ishwarlal's roof. Chandra had been gentle, apologetic even, but the truth had lain between the words: Hariday, though a son of privilege, was yet unproven. A youth accustomed to easy victories and unearned comfort.
"I welcomed the boy with an open heart, Anjani Suta," Ishwarlal confessed softly. "Not for his sake, but for the sake of our bond. And over these months, I have watched him... closely. I have seen him lay aside some of his arrogance, I have seen him rise — slowly — to meet the weight of expectations. He has shown flashes of the man he could become."
A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of his lips, fleeting as a passing breeze. "I see how he looks at Mahalaxmi — not with arrogance, not with entitlement, but with something gentler, something true. And I see her heart waver in response."
His smile faded, replaced by the heavy mask of a father's fears.
"But love, Anjani Suta, is not enough," Ishwarlal said, his voice firm, almost stern. "In our world, marriage is not a dalliance; it is a sacred bond. A woman, once wed, cannot return to her father's home with her dreams broken and her dignity bruised. It is her 'sasural' that becomes her new world, her new honor. If that honor is not upheld, she carries that burden forever — and so do those who gave her away."
