Prem Kahaniyaan

1.

Ishana Khatri stared out of the window of her sleek, modern apartment in Delhi, the cityscape a familiar blur of skyscrapers, traffic, and neon signs. The hum of city life was something she had always thrived on. The endless noise, the rush of people, and the constant buzz of ambition were as much a part of her as her job as a journalist for Urban Pulse, one of Delhi's most popular lifestyle magazines. Today, however, the familiar energy did little to soothe her growing frustration.

Her boss, Meera, had just handed her what Ishana considered a pointless assignment: cover the Madhavpur Harvest Festival. A village festival? Really? She had been chasing a profile on a well-known fashion designer, a piece that could elevate her career. Instead, Meera had sent her to some remote village she had never heard of.

Ishana let out an exasperated sigh as she threw her assignment folder onto the bed. She had worked hard to establish herself as a journalist in a city that devoured the weak. She wasn’t going to let this derail her career. "How is this going to help me, Meera?" she had asked earlier, trying to hide her irritation.

“Because you need a break from the superficial, Ishana,” Meera had replied with her trademark calm. “You’ve done enough of the glamorous pieces. I want you to experience something different, something real. Trust me, this will be good for you.”

Real? Ishana had thought to herself. What was more real than the hustle of city life? The bright lights, the fast cars, the fashion shows, and the cocktail parties—this was the pulse of life as she knew it. But there was no arguing with Meera. She was already packed for the village, whether she liked it or not.

The next morning, with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, Ishana arrived at the bus terminal, feeling distinctly out of place. As the dilapidated bus pulled up, the smell of diesel filling the air, she couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose. It had been years since she’d taken public transport for anything more than a quick story. A taxi would have been preferable, but Madhavpur wasn’t exactly a taxi-accessible place.

“Here goes nothing,” she muttered to herself as she stepped onto the bus, clutching her ticket. The bus was already packed with villagers heading back to Madhavpur, and she was one of the few people not dressed in traditional attire. The vibrant colors of their saris and turbans contrasted with her black jeans, white top, and leather jacket.

As the bus pulled out of the terminal and left the city behind, Ishana found herself surrounded by a new world. The tall buildings and endless traffic began to fade into the distance, replaced by fields, dusty roads, and the sight of people working in the farmlands. It was a world she had only ever seen in movies or read about in her textbooks.

The village landscape was so foreign, so quiet. There were no blaring horns, no crowds rushing past each other in the subway, and no skyscrapers stretching toward the sky. Instead, there was only the rolling countryside, dotted with small huts, the occasional cart pulled by an ox, and endless greenery stretching out beneath the wide blue sky.

As the bus bounced along the uneven road, Ishana tried to focus on her assignment. She pulled out her notebook and started jotting down ideas for her article. The village’s annual harvest festival was renowned in the area, though not many outsiders covered it. It celebrated the end of the agricultural season, thanking the gods for the year’s crops, and showcased traditional dances, food, and crafts. The locals saw it as a tribute to their heritage and a way to preserve their customs.

But how was she supposed to turn that into a story that her readers—urbanites with little interest in rural life—would care about?

The bus rattled to a stop hours later, jolting her from her thoughts. The sign ahead read “Madhavpur” and beyond it lay the village she would call home for the next few weeks. Ishana stepped off the bus and took in her new surroundings. The village looked exactly like the photos she had skimmed online: small, quiet, and worlds apart from the urban jungle she knew. It was picturesque, in a way, with narrow lanes winding through rows of mud-brick houses, and the smell of freshly tilled earth in the air.

As she stood there, unsure of where to go next, a man approached her. He was in his mid-thirties, with a kind face and a warm smile. His clothes were simple but clean, and his eyes gleamed with curiosity.

“You must be Ishana Khatri, the journalist from Delhi?” he asked in Hindi, his voice soft yet confident.

“Yes, that’s me,” Ishana replied, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I’m here to cover the festival.”

“I am Ramesh, the village headman’s son. We’ve been expecting you. Let me show you to your accommodations.”

Ishana followed Ramesh through the village, feeling slightly out of place. The villagers stopped and stared at her as she passed, murmuring amongst themselves. Ishana wasn’t used to being an outsider. In the city, she blended in with the crowd, just another ambitious face among millions. Here, she felt like a spectacle.

Ramesh led her to a small guesthouse at the edge of the village. It was simple but well-maintained, with a thatched roof and a view of the surrounding fields. “This will be your home during your stay,” he said, handing her the keys. “If you need anything, just ask. My father and I will be happy to help.”

“Thank you,” Ishana said, trying to muster a polite smile. She wasn’t sure what to expect from this place, but the kindness of the villagers was at least reassuring.

As she unpacked her things, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being out of her depth. This wasn’t just another story for her magazine. This was a world she didn’t understand, full of traditions and customs that felt foreign and distant. How was she supposed to capture the essence of this place when she barely knew what to make of it herself?

She sat down at the small desk by the window and opened her notebook again, staring at the blank page. The sounds of the village drifted in through the open window: the rustle of the wind in the fields, the distant laughter of children playing, the call of a bird. Everything felt slower here, more peaceful, but also more uncertain.

As the evening light began to fade, Ishana leaned back in her chair and sighed. This assignment was going to be harder than she thought.

Little did she know, her stay in Madhavpur would not just be about writing an article. It would change her life in ways she never imagined.