Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
सारा मेरा हो तू और मैं तेरा यही मेरी बेशरतेँ हैं यही मेरी जस्तजू
इश्क़ है ये इश्क़ है इश्क़ है इश्क़ है
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The late evening sun spilled gold across the hills, casting a molten glow that lingered on the winding road climbing toward Anantara Kutir—Adhiraj's ancestral home, the fortress of generations, and now the sacred sanctuary that breathed with her presence. Every curve of the road was etched into his bones, but today, each turn felt laden with something more tender. A quiet anticipation nestled beneath his ribs, fluttering like prayer flags in the wind.
In his hand, he held a bouquet of red roses—rich, velvet petals in the deepest shade of crimson. Thorns snipped carefully. A labor of quiet love. He'd selected them himself from a modest florist tucked into a street corner of Anuvarta, discarding three other bunches with silent disapproval before his eyes landed on these. She had never once said that red roses were her favorite. But he remembered. The way her fingers brushed their petals a little longer. The way her eyes softened when they stood tall in a vase near her window. She never said it aloud—but her silence told him enough.
As the iron gates creaked open with a familiar groan, they revealed a vision untouched by time—sweeping lawns sculpted to precision, veined with trailing bougainvillaea, their blossoms painting the pale sandstone in careless pinks and purples. The domes of the kutir rose against the amber sky like watchful guardians—silent, noble, eternal.
There was no flurry of movement to welcome him. No ceremonial bustle. No staff lined in formation. Just the hushed stillness of home waiting, breathing. It was how he preferred it now—quiet. Intimate. Without fanfare. Because what he returned to was no longer a kingdom. It was a life.
He stepped out of the car, his shoes crunching softly on the gravel. The breeze carried the heady scent of jasmine interlaced with the earthy musk of recent watering—fragrance of familiarity. Of her. His hand adjusted the cuff of his shirt, fingers tightening briefly around the stems of the roses as he stood still, absorbing the air like a man parched.
