Sharma Niwas

The Sharma Nivas was alive with the warmth of dawn. The air carried the faint fragrance of freshly ground sandalwood, marigold garlands, and the sweet simmering of jaggery laddoos being prepared in the kitchen. A homely rhythm pulsed through every corner—duties flowing as naturally as the morning sun spilling over the golden sands of Jaisalmer.

At the heart of the house, Sharma Dadi sat cross-legged in the family temple, her wrinkled but steady hands carefully arranging marigold flowers around the silver idol of Lord Ganesha. The soft chime of bells and the faint murmur of her Sanskrit mantras created a sacred melody. In the adjoining kitchen, her daughter-in-law, Richa, was busy grinding spices and overseeing the preparation for the grand Ganesh Chaturthi puja. The clatter of brass vessels, the aroma of ghee, and the crackle of the tempering echoed her soft but purposeful movements.

Meanwhile, in the living room, the head of the family, Pranay Sharma, sat with authority yet simplicity. The room's walls carried hand-painted Rajasthani motifs, with a faint modern touch—cream marble flooring that shone under the morning light and intricately carved wooden furniture softened with elegant embroidered cushions. He spoke to his workers in a calm but firm tone, instructing them about the new jewelry collection to be launched before the festive season. By his side sat Piyush, his son, going through balance sheets and account books with quiet dedication, a reflection of his father's business discipline.

From the staircase, Rishab Sharma descended, adjusting the cuffs of his neatly pressed kurta. A tall, striking figure, his charm held the sincerity of a hardworking man and the warmth of a son who carried both responsibility and affection with pride. He paused before the temple, looking at his Dadi sa. He smiled and walked into the drawing room, bending to touch his Dada Sa's feet, and then his Bapu Sa's, who blessed him with a rare smile of approval.

The Sharma Haveli itself was a blend of tradition and a touch of modern elegance—a two-storied home built in golden sandstone, with jaali windows carved in intricate patterns, verandahs lined with brass planters of tulsi and rose, and an open courtyard at the center where a swing hung. The walls bore age-old Rajasthani murals of elephants and peacocks, while subtle modern additions like sleek lighting and soft pastel drapes gave the home a fresh, graceful glow.

Every corner breathed heritage, discipline, and love—a family bound not just by name but by tradition, each playing their part in the larger harmony of the house.

Rishabh's steps softened as he entered the temple. The fragrance of incense swirled in the air, mingling with the faint sound of his dadi's mantras. He bent down and touched her feet reverently.

"Jeeti raho, mere chirag," Dadi's stern face softened instantly as her wrinkled palm cupped his cheek, her thumb gently caressing it. Her strictness melted for this one grandson—her pride, her light. A rare smile tugged at her lips as she added, "Tu hi toh meri aankhon ka taara hai, Rishabh."

"Bas aapka aashirwad chahiye, Dadi," Rishabh replied softly, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead. His voice carried respect and affection, the kind that only he could bring out from her guarded heart.

Draped in her crisp saree, the pallu neatly covering her head, she walked in with the grace of a woman who lived and breathed traditions. Her sharp eyes scanned the temple and the offerings.

Rishabh's lips twitched into a faint smile before he moved towards the kitchen.

Inside, his mother, Richa Sharma, was busy with preparations for Ganesh Chaturthi. The air was filled with the aroma of ghee and cardamom as she stirred a big pot of kheer, her dupatta neatly pinned to her shoulder. Sushma Daima chopped dry fruits while her daughter, Veenu Baisa, kneaded dough.

"Daima, badam aur pista achhi tarah katna. Veenu, aata thoda aur soft gundhna, puja ke baad laddoo bhi banane hain," Richa instructed softly but firmly.

Just then, Rishabh entered. "Maa," he said warmly, the respect in his tone evident.

Richa turned, her face lighting up instantly. "Aagaye beta? Tum toh subah se busy the Bapu sa ke saath. Ek din toh ghar ke kaam mein haath bata diya karo."

Rishabh chuckled, stepping closer. He gently touched her cheek. "Maa, yeh ghar aapke haathon ki mehnat aur pyaar se hi toh chal raha hai. Aapki muskaan hi sabse badi puja hai mere liye."

Richa's eyes welled up as she touched his forehead lovingly, then suddenly pulled his ear. "Bss kar ab Maa ko maska lagana or jaa uss aalsi ko utha ."

Rishab holds his ear. " Aoo... Maa, leave me."

From the corner, Veenu paused, her hands coated in flour, her gaze lingering a little too long on Rishabh. Her heart beat faster at his every word, but she quickly lowered her eyes, hiding her feelings.

At just 29, Rishabh Sharma was a man of immense discipline and responsibility. He was running a flourishing journalism empire in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan Times, but in this haveli, amidst the aroma of kheer and temple bells, he was still the dutiful son and grandson—the pride of the Sharmas, the apple of his Dadi's eye.

Rishabh shook his head as he climbed the wooden staircase of their haveli. his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors of Sharma Nivas. His dadi's strict rules were known to everyone, yet somehow, Ira always ended up being the only one under constant watch.

He shook his head and muttered under his breath, "Sab ke liye alag, aur Ira ke liye alag kanoon... Dadi sa ki duniya hi kuch aur hai."

Stopping in front of his youngest sister Isha's room, he knocked loudly.
"Wake up, you sleepyhead!"

No response. Only silence.

Beside the door sat a carved wooden drawer with small Rajasthani sculptures neatly placed on top. With a knowing smile, Rishabh pulled open the drawer and fetched out the spare key. He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Unlocking the door, he entered to find Isha, sprawled on the bed, sleeping as if the world outside didn't exist. Shaking his head, he walked to her bedside, and with mischief dancing in his eyes, he tugged the pillow from beneath her head.

"Oye, monkey! Wake up!" he said, smacking the pillow gently against her face with a playful grin.

Isha groaned, mumbling something incoherent as she turned to the other side, refusing to budge.

"Not today, drama queen," Rishabh muttered before pulling off her quilt in one swift motion.

"Bhaiyaaa!" Isha sat up with a jolt, rubbing her sleepy eyes, glaring at him. "Stop it! I don't want to waste my precious words on you this early in the morning."

Rishabh folded his arms across his chest, raising a brow, his tone dripping with mock authority.
"Oh really? Then let me remind you... if you're not ready in the next ten minutes, Dadi sa would love to use her precious hands on you. Aur tumhari super-hero Bapu sa bhi tumhe bachane nahi aa payenge."

At the mention of their formidable grandmother, Isha's eyes flew wide open. In a flash, she jumped out of bed and almost ran into the bathroom, her long braid bouncing behind her.

Rishabh chuckled, shaking his head at her usual antics. "Pagal ladki..." he muttered under his breath.

Stepping out of the room, he pulled out his phone, his fingers automatically dialing Ira's number as a hint of irritation and concern flickered across his face.
**********************

On the jharoka, a phone kept beside a traditional jhola buzzed insistently. A young boy came running, eyes widening at the flashing name on the screen—Bhaiya. He turned quickly, gaze landing on the graceful figure moving in rhythm before him.

There she was—Ira.

Her delicate ankles were adorned with ghungroos that echoed with every trill. The white anarkali she wore flowed around her like liquid light, perfectly sculpting her curves. Her long braid reached her waist, tied at the end with a blooming gajra. As a soft "O Re Piya" played in the background, she danced her kathak with flawless precision. Every posture was clean, every gesture alive with meaning, her movements like poetry in motion.

Children sat on the stone steps, watching her with rapt attention, while carved traditional pillars stood witness. This was no ordinary space—this abandoned fort in Jaisalmer had long been forgotten by time, but for the people here, it was known as Ira's Heaven. A place where she danced like a swan, unchained and divine.

"Ira Didi! Rishabh Bhaiya is calling!" the boy shouted.

Ira twirled, stopping mid-spin, her anklets ringing one last time before silence filled the hall. She turned toward the boy, and at once, her beauty struck—eyes like dark doe with midnight pupils, button nose, petal-soft lips, her face a heart-shaped canvas of purity, her figure the kind sculptors would fail to capture. A goddess in motion.

She smiled faintly, gesturing for him to bring the phone.

Beside her, her Guruma stepped forward, smiling warmly.
"It's okay, Ira. Take the call. You've been practicing for two hours already. Go home, child—otherwise your Dadi sa will scold me for keeping you here." She made an exaggerated face of fear.

Ira laughed softly, her voice sweet enough to melt the hardest of hearts.
"Thank you, Guruma," she said.

The boy handed her the phone. Breathless, she pressed it to her ear.
"Bhaiya..."

From the other end came Rishabh's gentle yet commanding tone.
"Iru, where are you? It's been two hours!"

Her voice faltered. "Is... Dadi angry?" she whispered, fear lacing her softness.

"Not yet. She doesn't know. But come home quickly from the back door. Maa said Dadi will soon start looking for you."

Ira gulped, her heartbeat quickening. Guruma gave her a firm nod of encouragement. She quickly disconnected the call and hurried to gather her things. Untying her ghungroos, she placed them carefully in a small pouch, slipped it into her bag, and adjusted her dupatta properly around her shoulders. Pulling it over her head, she hid her face before stepping out.

"Cover your face properly, Ira," Guruma reminded sternly. "If any lady sees you, they'll complain to your Dadi. You know that."

Nodding, Ira tightened the veil and ran. Outside the fort, greenery surrounded a nearby waterfall, the beauty of which made locals call this place Heaven. But everyone also knew why it belonged only to Ira—because this land was owned by the Veer Agnivansh's family.

Her anklets jingled as she ran down the rocky path. Suddenly, her jutti slipped off her foot, left behind on the road. "Oh no, not here..." she whispered, panicking. She turned back, just as a luxurious black car screeched to a halt before her.

Her breath caught. She froze in place, hands trembling.

The driver's door opened and an elderly man stepped out. "Bitiya, are you alright?"

She stood still, face veiled, only her wide frightened eyes visible. Her hair had loosened, strands falling across her face in the breeze.

"Th-thank you, Kaka," she whispered. "If you hadn't stopped, I would have—"

He interrupted firmly, bowing slightly. "No, Bitiya. Sir saw you in time. I only followed his command."

Her gaze flickered toward the car. The windows were tinted, hiding the passenger within. She couldn't see him—but from inside, he could see her. Her eyes. Those eyes that seemed to pierce straight through.

Ira bowed politely to the driver. "Thank you, Kaka," she murmured again, quickly picking up her shoe. Pulling off the other, she held them in her hands and ran barefoot. Her dupatta slipped from her head, and her braid unraveled as her hair cascaded freely in the wind.

Inside the car, the unseen man clenched his fist tightly, jaw locked.

"She's fine, Sir," the driver assured as he got back behind the wheel. "No need to worry." The car moved away, leaving only dust in its wake.

Ira hurried through the back gate of her haveli. Isha flung it open instantly, eyes wide with panic.
"Where were you? Dadi is looking for you already! I told her you'd gone to fetch masala. Here, quick—take this packet!"

Ira kissed her younger sister's forehead softly, taking the packet. Isha fussed over her, fixing her dupatta and tucking her hair into a messy bun. Both knew Dadi never allowed Ira to leave her hair open, fearing it would "invite evil eyes."

For all of Jaisalmer already whispered about her beauty. Ira—the girl whose very face was poetry.

*********************

Ira moved with quiet steps across the marble floor, her payal chiming softly with every hesitant movement. She tried to slip into the kitchen unnoticed, but her Dadi's sharp eyes caught her from the divan area before she could escape.

 Dadi narrowed her gaze, her voice calm but laced with authority.
"Kahan thi, Ira? We have been looking for you for so long."

Ira froze, her breath hitching. She knew this was coming. Her palms grew damp as she slowly turned, lips parting to form some excuse.

Before she could say a word, Richa spoke from the kitchen doorway, trying to shield her daughter.
"Maa sa... maine hi bheja tha. Masala khatam ho gaya tha, toh dukan se lene gayi thi."

Isha came and stood beside her sister.

Ira dropped her gaze, clutching her dupatta tightly. She was such a poor liar, her voice always betraying her, and everyone in the haveli knew it. Dadi's hawk-like stare didn't soften.

Just then, Rishabh came down the stairs, buttoning his crisp kurta. He immediately sensed the tension, his lips curving into a small smile as if he knew his sisters needed rescuing.

"Dadi sa," he said warmly, touching her feet. "I was thinking of heading to the office today. You know..."

Pooja immediately interrupted, frowning.
"Aaj Sunday hai, beta. Office kyun?"

He walked toward her, brushing an affectionate hand over her shoulder, eyes flicking briefly toward his sisters.
"Company abhi nayi-nayi upar ja rahi hai, Dadi sa. Ek din bhi waste karna nahi chahta."

But his sisters caught the subtle smile on his lips. Ira and Isha both realized instantly—he was distracting Dadi for them.

"Kuch waste nahi hoga," came Pranay's deep voice as he entered, his son Piyush at his side. He placed a proud hand on Rishabh's back.
"No need to rush, beta. Today or tomorrow, the office can wait. I have an announcement."

Everyone turned, curiosity brimming. Pranay's eyes softened when they rested on Ira. She looked down, cheeks warming. For him, she wasn't just his granddaughter—she was Lakshmi. The day she was born, the family's fortunes had doubled.

"Baith jao sab. Ira, Isha... andar jaake apni maa ki madad karo," he said warmly, but there was a protective undertone. He had caught Dadi's sternness and immediately softened it with his own authority.

Meanwhile, Piyush bent to kiss his mother's forehead. Pooja cupped his cheek, her eyes lighting up at her son's gesture.

Pranay cleared his throat. "Actually... yesterday Veer and his family arrived in Jaisalmer. For Ganesh Chaturthi puja... and also to fix the engagement."

Pooja's hand froze mid-air as she was arranging the brass thali of flowers.
"Kya? Bhai sa kal se yahan hai aur humein bataya bhi nahi? Aur... sagai? Humein toh koi khabar nahi thi."

Pranay reached out, laying a calming hand on her wrist.
"Pooja, ghabra mat. Unka kal hi phone aaya tha, sab so rahe the. Maine socha subah bataunga. Phir busy ho gaya. Abhi unhone dobara call kiya tha. Ganesh Chaturthi ke din hi engagement karni hai."

Richa came out of the kitchen just then, a tray of steaming ginger tea in her hands. The cups rattled slightly; she was shaken.
"Bapu sa, par yeh toh bahut jaldbaazi hai. Tyaari kaise hogi?"

Pranay gave her a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry. Rai Sahib se kaha hai aur mazdoor bula liye jaayenge. Tumhe aur Maa sa ko zyada bojh nahi uthana padega. Ira bhi ab bahar mat niklegi—paparazzi aur reporters sheher mein ghoom rahe hain. Aariv ka yahan aana kisi ko nahi pata, lekin media waale paagal ho jaayenge agar khabar mili toh." He looked at his grandson.

He shrugged, looking at emails on his phone. CM in the city who won't want to cover the news.

At his words, Ira's throat went dry. Her fingers dug into her dupatta, her eyes lowering to hide the storm inside.

He is here.

The name dropped like a stone into the silence.

Ira's heart skipped. Aariv.
Her palms went cold, her lips quivered. She had only seen him on television, heard his ruthless reputation whispered in every corner of Rajasthan. People spoke of his punctuality, his sharp mind, his god-like features... but always with fear.

She felt her younger sister's nudge. Isha smirked, leaning closer to whisper, "Oh... so finally Mr. Handsome Hunk is here."

Ira glared at her, shaking her head desperately. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, as if her heart would burst.

She tried to calm herself, but the fear in her eyes was raw. This was not the flutter of love. This was a suffocating fear of an unknown man, an unknown future.

Everyone had been molding her since childhood—for him. To be Aariv's bride. To fit into his world. But a bitter thought gnawed at her heart—Did anyone ever mold him for me? Did anyone ever tell him to change for my preferences?

Her silent questions had no answers.

Isha placed a hand on her trembling shoulder, her mischievousness fading when she saw Ira's pale face. "Don't worry, behna," she whispered softly, her tone uncharacteristically tender. "No matter what happens... I am here. Always."

Ira swallowed hard, blinking away the moisture in her eyes, but the storm inside her heart only grew stronger.

********************