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Mathura’s Grace: The Queen Who Waited
Scene: In the Palace of Mathura
The golden morning unfurled gently over Mathura, casting a warm glow through the jharokhas of the royal palace. In a high-ceilinged chamber scented with jasmine and sandalwood, mitti diyas in intricately carved golden stands flickered like living stars. The soft rustle of silk and the quiet chime of anklets echoed in the stillness, as seven maidens surrounded their queen with hands full of golden jewels and hearts full of reverence.
Seated on a low cushioned platform draped in ivory brocade, Shrutakirti, queen of Mathura, was a vision of serene majesty. Her embroidered sea-green sari shimmered like river water under sunlight, and her magenta sleeveless blouse was stitched in the finest thread, hugging her form with regal poise. Her long, dark hair had been oiled and braided in silken plaits, now being decked with pearls and tiny floral pins.
Around her, the maids worked gracefully—each adorned in printed saris of different hues, from marigold to indigo, sage to wine. Their names were whispered like petals in a breeze: Dhvani, the soft-spoken one who placed the waistband; Lata, who fastened the earrings; Dhara, who anointed her arms with fragrant oil before slipping on the armlets; Charita, adjusting the drape of her pallu; Nimaya, careful with the bangles; Yamini, tending to her hairline; and Prisha, placing the final touch—a glowing maangtika resting against her brow.
As Yamini smeared a thin line of red vermillion through Shrutakirti’s parted hair, she giggled softly.
“Your Highness,” she said with a smile, “how does it feel—going from Ayodhya’s quiet palace gardens to the roaring halls of Mathura? From a gentle royal bahu to a queen whose husband slayed evil itself?”
Shrutakirti’s lips curved into a soft smile, her eyes sparkling like morning dew. “Strange at first,” she admitted, “Mathura has a pulse of its own. It breathes war and victory, pride and rebuilding. In Ayodhya, we bathed in traditions. Here... we forge them anew.”
Dhvani tilted her head, slipping a bracelet over Shrutakirti’s wrist. “And your Lord? Is he different now—since the war?”
A pause followed. Then, Shrutakirti looked toward the window where sunlight kissed the marble floor. “He stands taller,” she said gently. “But not from pride—rather from responsibility. Shatrughna bears the weight of Mathura as if it were a wounded child. I see the warrior in him now. Fierce, yet kind.”
Prisha laughed. “And we see a queen in you. Calm, yet fierce.”
The others joined in the laughter, but quickly returned to their tasks. One adorned her fingers with rings, another adjusted the necklace on her collarbone.
Shrutakirti looked at each of them fondly. “You all make me feel more than adorned—you make me feel understood. Here in Mathura, I am not just Ayodhya’s daughter-in-law. I am its gift to a kingdom reborn.”
They smiled at her in reverence.
The last bangle slipped into place, a soft clink echoing in the golden morning air. The maidens stood back, admiring their work—not just the finery they had adorned, but the woman who wore it all with an elegance that surpassed decoration.
Shrutakirti’s reflection in the polished bronze mirror showed a queen in every sense—regal in form, radiant in spirit.
As the final touch was given by Charita, adjusting a stray curl near her ear, Dhara, the most curious of the seven, couldn’t help but speak with a gleam in her eye. “Your Majesty... now that peace has returned to Mathura, now that the kingdom is yours to shape... have you given thought to starting a family here?”
A gentle hush fell across the room. It wasn’t gossip—they loved her too much for that. It was genuine wonder. The kind that floated into their hearts like dandelion seeds on the breeze.
Shrutakirti’s gaze lowered slightly, her fingers brushing the pleats of her sea-green sari. “Queen Mother Sumitra asked me the same, some moons ago,” she said softly, a hint of laughter curling in her voice. “Though she asked it lightly, as if not to place weight upon my heart.”
Charita, standing nearest, asked carefully, “And what did you tell her?”
Shrutakirti turned her eyes toward the latticed window, where the sunlight poured like honey across the floor. “I told her I was waiting for the right time,” she murmured, her voice a blend of contemplation and calm. “And I still am. Not out of fear, but reverence—for what it means to bring new life into a kingdom that has just begun breathing again.”
She turned back to them, the red bindi glowing like flame on her forehead. “Mathura deserves children who will not just inherit walls and crowns, but peace. Joy. Stability. I want my children to be born not under the shadow of conquest, but the light of renewal.”
The maidens were silent for a moment, their eyes lowered in respect.
It was Nimaya who broke the stillness, whispering, “Then Mathura will wait with you, Rani-shree. And when the time comes, the earth itself will rejoice.”
Shrutakirti smiled at that—wide, radiant, content. Her fingers pressed lightly over her heart where her necklace rested. “When it comes,” she said, “it will not just be a prince or princess born. It will be Mathura’s blessing made flesh.”
From the corridors beyond, temple bells began to ring. Duty called. The queen rose, as her attendants bowed low, pride in their hearts.
And as she stepped out, the golden hem of her sari catching the light, they knew she was no longer just a queen adorned.
She was the heart of a kingdom—steadfast, wise, and waiting with love.
Outside, the conch blew in the temple towers. Inside, amidst the flutter of silk and the gleam of gold, a queen rose—gracefully, regally, divinely adorned—not just with ornaments, but with purpose.
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