: The Veena of Vows and the Scourge of a Curse
The Shadow King's illusion was a relentless tide, but the memories of a past life were Devansh's anchor. The poignant image of Shweta's confession and flight dissolved, only to be replaced by another, more profound and ultimately tragic sequence. The cosmic drama of his own soul began to unfold before him, a heartbreaking prelude to the life he now lived.
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Swarga Loka - The Secret Grove
Days had passed since Shweta's breathless confession. A nervous tension hung in their hidden grove. When they finally met again, the air was thick with unspoken words. Shweta's shyness was still present, but it was now mingled with a desperate hope.
"Rajkumar," she began, her voice soft but steady. "I... I have something for you." From behind her back, she brought forth a veena. It was not as grand as his cosmic Anahata, but it was exquisitely beautiful. Its body was carved from pale, moon-kissed sandalwood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl that formed patterns of dancing Apsaras. The strings seemed to be spun from starlight.
"This is... 'Vani'," Shweta said, offering it to him. "I had it crafted by the most skilled Vishwakarma in the celestial realms. It is not for the Maha Rag, nor for Lord Indra's court. It is for you. For the music that comes only from your heart." Her eyes met his, filled with a love so pure it was almost painful to behold. "It is imbued with my blessings, with a part of my spirit. It will always protect the one who plays it with true feeling."
Pratham took the veena, his fingers brushing against hers. A jolt, like the first note of a new raga, passed between them. He could feel the power within the instrument—a gentle, protective, and deeply loving energy. It was the most precious gift he had ever received.
"Shweta..." he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It is perfect." He looked from the veena to her face. "I give you my word, upon this veena, upon my music, that my heart is yours. We will find a way. We will meet again."
It was a vow, sealed with a look that promised eternity. For a long moment, they simply stood, hands clasped over the veena, their souls speaking a language older than time. Then, reluctantly, they parted, each step away feeling like a tear in the fabric of their shared dream.
---
But their secret world had a crack. From the shadows of the Gandharva Mahal, Pratham's younger brother, Gandharva Durbhasa, watched them, his heart a festering wound of jealousy. He had coveted his brother's talent, his position, and now, he coveted the Apsara who looked at Pratham with stars in her eyes. The sight of their tender exchange, the gift, the palpable love—it was more than his bitter soul could bear.
Consumed by envy, Durbhasa went straight to their father, the Gandharva Raja.
"Pitashree!" Durbhasa exclaimed, his voice dripping with false concern. "A great transgression is occurring! Pratham... he has entangled himself with an Apsara! A mere dancer named Shweta! He meets her in secret, disregarding his duties, our traditions, everything! He is besotted!"
The Gandharva Raja was a staunch traditionalist. The news was a thunderclap. He summoned Pratham immediately.
"Putra, is this true?" the Raja boomed, his face dark with displeasure. "You, the chief musician of Swarga, consorting with a common Apsara? This is beneath you! It cannot be!"
Pratham stood tall, the memory of Shweta's gift giving him courage. "Pitashree, in matters of the heart, there is no high or low. I love Shweta. Not for her status, but for her soul. I intend to be with her."
His father's rage was immense. "NEVER! I forbid it! You will cease this folly at once!"
But Pratham's heart, once opened, could not be closed by decree. He continued to meet Shweta in secret, their love now a defiant flame in the face of opposition.
The gossip, fanned by Durbhasa, spread like wildfire until it reached the highest court of all—the court of Lord Indra.
The King of the Devas was not merely displeased; he was furious. This was not just a breach of protocol; it was a threat to the cosmic order. The master of celestial music, distracted by a fleeting romance? It was unthinkable. He summoned Pratham.
"Gandharva Pratham," Indra's voice was cold, resonating with absolute authority. "Your primary duty is to the cosmic balance, to the Maha Rag. This... infatuation with the Apsara Shweta ends now. You will not see her again. This is my final command."
Pratham stood before the mightiest of the Devas, but the melody of his love was louder than Indra's thunder. He did not argue. He did not plead. He simply bowed his head in a silence that was more defiant than any shout. He would not obey.
---
The stage was set for tragedy. The day of the next Maha Rag arrived. The Sabha was packed. The air crackled with tension. Everyone had heard the rumors. Lord Indra sat on his throne, his expression stern, watching Pratham like a hawk.
Pratham took his place, Anahata in his hands. But as he began to play, his focus was fractured. His eyes, almost of their own volition, sought out Shweta amidst the rows of Apsaras. He found her. And in that moment, the entire universe ceased to exist. There was only her. Her hopeful, loving gaze was a siren's call, pulling him away from the cosmic melody and into the intimate song of their hearts.
His fingers, usually so sure, faltered.
Pluck—SHARP!
A single, jarring, discordant note ripped through the hall. It was a sound of such profound wrongness that it felt like the sky was tearing.
The magic shattered. The lotuses that had begun to bloom wilted instantly. The light in Swarga Loka dimmed. The harmonious fabric of the gathering unraveled into stunned, horrified silence.
Lord Indra rose. His divine form seemed to expand, filling the hall with his wrath. The ground trembled.
"GANDHARVA PRATHAM!" The roar shook the very foundations of heaven. "For millennia, you have played the melodies that maintain creation! And today, you break it! For what? For a mere glance? For a common Apsara's face?"
Indra's eyes then fell upon Shweta, who was trembling, her face pale with terror.
"And you!" he thundered. "You, who distracted the artist from his sacred duty! You shall share his fate!"
He raised his hand, and the power of a divine decree charged the air, thick and suffocating.
"For this transgression, you shall fall!" Indra pronounced, his words etching themselves into destiny. "You will be reborn on the mortal soil of Prithvi, life after life, a soul forever lost, wandering without your memories... and without your voice."
Pratham gasped, his hands flying to his throat. A searing pain shot through him, as if his vocal cords were being torn out. The ghost of melodies, the potential of a million songs—everything was silenced, locked away in a deep, dark vault within his soul.
"Your powers will remain bound," Indra continued, his gaze pitiless. "They will not return until you are loved—truly and selflessly—for who you are, not for the magic in your music. Only a love that sees the man without his melody can break this curse."
His eyes then burned into Shweta. "And you, Apsara, shall join him. You will be reborn, life after life, destined to find him. But know this: until Pratham reclaims his song, your union will forever be tainted by sorrow. You will find each other, only to lose each other, in an endless cycle of heartbreak."
Indra clapped his hands once.
The world dissolved. The perfumed air of Swarga, the shimmering light, the feeling of a love so new and bright—it all shattered into a million pieces, swallowed by an endless, silent darkness. The first, agonizing note of their eternal curse had been struck.
In the present, within the illusion, Devansh felt the echo of that celestial silence, the ghost of that searing pain in his throat. He understood everything now. The weight of the curse, the reason for the emptiness in his soul, the purpose of his connection to Aaditya. It was a truth more devastating than any illusion the Shadow King could conjure.