Prem Kahaniyaan

2.

Ishana woke early the next morning to the sound of birds chirping outside her window. The golden light of dawn spilled through the gaps in the wooden shutters, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. For a moment, she almost forgot where she was—until the distant hum of village life reminded her that she was far from the fast-paced streets of Delhi.

Sighing, she stretched and sat up in bed, feeling a little more rested than she had expected. The simplicity of the village, the quiet nights, and the fresh air were in stark contrast to the constant noise of the city. While the village’s calm had initially felt alien, it was starting to have a subtle effect on her—though she wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

After freshening up, Ishana grabbed her notebook and camera, determined to start her work. The festival preparations were in full swing, and she needed to gather material for her article. As she stepped outside, the warmth of the morning sun greeted her, along with the earthy smell of the village. The streets were already bustling with activity. Women were sweeping their doorsteps, men were gathered near the fields, and children were running through the narrow lanes, their laughter ringing in the air.

Ishana had barely walked a few steps when she bumped into Ramesh again. He greeted her with a friendly smile. "Good morning, Ishana ji! I hope you had a restful night."

"I did, thank you," she replied, trying to match his warmth. "I’m planning to explore the village today and see how the festival preparations are coming along."

"Ah, perfect timing!" Ramesh said, his eyes lighting up. "We’re about to begin the preparations for the Puja at the village temple. It’s a very important part of the festival. You’ll get to see how our traditions come to life."

Ishana nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure how excited she was about covering a religious ceremony. Still, she reminded herself that this was part of the job. She followed Ramesh through the village, trying to take in every detail—the rustic charm of the mud-brick houses, the vibrant clothes of the villagers, and the rich tapestry of sounds that filled the air.

As they neared the village temple, Ishana was struck by the sight of a massive mural painted on one of the outer walls. The painting depicted scenes of village life: farmers working in the fields, women drawing water from wells, children playing, and a vibrant harvest scene. The colors were bold and alive, and the details were so intricate that it felt as if the mural was a living, breathing snapshot of Madhavpur itself.

“Who painted this?” she asked, mesmerized by the artwork.

“That would be Vedant Rathore,” Ramesh said, following her gaze. “He’s one of our village’s most talented artists. He paints murals for the festival every year.”

Ishana scribbled down the name in her notebook. “Do you think I could meet him? I’d love to include him in the story.”

Ramesh nodded. “You’ll probably run into him soon enough. He’s been busy with the final touches on the festival decorations. But for now, let’s head inside. The Puja will begin soon.”

The temple courtyard was bustling with activity. Women were arranging flowers and preparing offerings, while the men were setting up decorations. In the center of the courtyard stood a large, ornately carved idol of Goddess Lakshmi, adorned with marigold garlands and colorful fabric. The air was thick with the smell of incense and the sound of prayers being chanted.

Ishana watched as the villagers moved with a quiet sense of purpose, their devotion evident in every gesture. While she wasn’t particularly religious herself, she couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty of the moment—the sense of community and reverence that bound these people together. She snapped a few photos and jotted down notes, trying to capture the atmosphere.

But even as she worked, her thoughts kept drifting back to the mural. Who was this Vedant Rathore? And what kind of person could create something so vivid and full of life?

The Puja lasted for over an hour, and by the time it was done, Ishana was feeling the weight of the heat and the day’s activities. She was about to head back to her guesthouse when she noticed a tall figure standing near the temple entrance, watching the proceedings with quiet intensity. He wore a simple white kurta and jeans, his hair slightly tousled as if he had been lost in thought. There was an air of calm about him, yet his eyes—dark and focused—gave away a deeper, more restless energy.

Ramesh must have noticed her gaze because he leaned in and whispered, “That’s Vedant. The artist I was telling you about.”

Ishana’s heart skipped a beat. The mural artist? She had expected someone older, maybe grizzled with years of experience. But this man looked no older than his early thirties, with a demeanor that was both approachable and distant at the same time.

“Well, you wanted to meet him,” Ramesh said, nudging her forward with a grin. “Here’s your chance.”

Swallowing her nervousness, Ishana approached Vedant. He turned to her as she neared, his expression unreadable. Up close, she could see the faint streaks of paint on his hands, as if he had just come from working on another mural.

“Vedant Rathore?” she asked, trying to sound confident.

“That’s me,” he replied, his voice calm but carrying a hint of curiosity.

“I’m Ishana Khatri, a journalist from Delhi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m here to cover the festival for a magazine, and I saw your mural. It’s incredible.”

Vedant looked at her hand for a moment before shaking it lightly. “Thank you. The festival murals are something I’ve been working on for years. It’s a way to capture the spirit of the village.”

There was a pause, an awkward silence that neither of them seemed eager to fill. Ishana quickly realized that Vedant wasn’t the type to engage in small talk.

“I was hoping to interview you for my article,” she said, trying to break the tension. “Your art seems to be an important part of the festival, and I think my readers would love to know more about it.”

Vedant considered her for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose I could make time. But the festival keeps me busy, so you’ll have to work around that.”

“I can do that,” Ishana replied, grateful that he hadn’t brushed her off entirely. “Maybe tomorrow afternoon?”

Vedant agreed, and with that, the conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. He gave her a polite nod and excused himself, disappearing into the crowd. Ishana watched him go, feeling a mix of intrigue and frustration. He was clearly not the easiest person to talk to, but there was something about him—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on—that made her want to know more.

As she walked back to her guesthouse, she found herself thinking about Vedant’s quiet intensity, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the village on his shoulders. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. And while she still didn’t know how she felt about being in Madhavpur, one thing was clear: this story was going to be more than just another assignment.

By the time she reached her room, the sun was beginning to set, casting the village in shades of gold and pink. Ishana sat by the window, gazing out at the landscape. The simple beauty of the village, the warmth of its people, and the mystery of Vedant were starting to weave their way into her thoughts.

Maybe, just maybe, there was something here worth exploring after all.