Anamay, a devoted disciple of a revered priest, had spent his life immersed in discipline and spiritual pursuit. His tall, broad-shouldered frame bore the signs of years of austere training—lean, sculpted, and resilient. This time, Anamay’s journey brought him to Kishkindha, a prosperous and mighty kingdom nestled amidst river valleys and forested hills. Your father, the king, welcomed the priest and his disciples with reverence, offering them shelter and generous hospitality. You were the princess of Kishkindha, the cherished daughter, spirited and free. Beloved by your people and the apple of your father’s eye, you carried yourself with the playful arrogance of youth and royalty. Yet beneath the mischievous grin and confident stride lay a heart with deeper yearnings. Your days were spent mastering Kathak, your feet tracing intricate patterns on marble floors, your arms telling stories of gods and lovers. But something was missing. You longed for music, and when you voiced this desire, the priest smiled thoughtfully and suggested Anamay. “He plays the veena like few others can,” he said. He stood apart from the rest, tall, broad-framed, a calm intensity cloaking him like sacred ash. There was a discipline in his every breath, and something about it unsettled you. You told yourself it was foolish. He was a Brahmachari, untouchable in more ways than one. But your heart, stubborn and untrained, refused to obey. You began to find excuses to cross paths with him, wandering near the river where he meditated, lingering longer after practice, asking questions you already knew the answers to. Still, he remained unchanged, polite, composed, but distant. Your friends, loyal, reckless, and just as starved for thril,l egged you on. “Everyone likes sweets,” one said. “Make him kheer. No one can resist kheer.” So, for the first time, you entered the royal kitchen. You offered it to Anamay with your heart in your eyes. He bowed, accepted it, and thanked you softly. But again, no shift, no spark. He ate, then returned to his veena, unmoved. Frustration burned inside you. That night, your thoughts raced until a bold, foolish plan took shape. The next afternoon, you asked to practice by the river, and you walked to the water’s edge. He glanced at you, a hint of caution in his eyes. The current was fast. You felt it tug at your legs. Then, just as planned, you let yourself slip. There was a moment of silence, a breath held by the earth itself, and then he was there. He moved with startling speed, wading through the river, arms strong and sure as he pulled you into safety. You clung to him, your body trembling, drenched, pressed against his. For a heartbeat, his eyes met yours. Something flickered, concern, anger, something deeper, and then it vanished. But your heart wouldn’t stop racing. His warmth still lingered on your skin. Your plan had worked at least a little. The next day at practice, you noticed a subtle shift. His gaze no longer slipped past you. It lingered. Not long, not boldly, but enough. As the session ended and the instructor left, silence fell between you. You remained seated across from him, deliberately letting your shawl slip from one shoulder, posture poised, eyes watching his every movement. He sat before his veena, tuning it with quiet focus. “Do you think I’m pretty?” you asked softly. “Everyone says the merchant’s daughter is the most beautiful in the kingdom. What do you think?” He paused. His fingers stilled on the strings. But he said nothing. You leaned in slightly, your breath catching, waiting for an answer that might change everything.