SS: Ashes to Carats

Chapter 1: The Making of a Prince

From the Penthouse of Kapoor Tower, Mumbai shimmered like a jewel in the rain—restless, radiant, and pretending to sleep. Headlights crawled along Marine Drive in long, slow trails of gold and white, as if the city were threading itself back together after a long, chaotic day. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the air pressed in close, heavy with the promise of it.

Rishabh Kapoor stood before the glass wall, still in the black shirt from the investor dinner, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open. The drink in his hand had gone untouched. Behind him, the penthouse lay silent—no staff, no music, no noise save for the steady hum of the city far below. Everything he owned—everything the world believed mattered—stood behind him in glass and steel. But what filled his mind tonight came from somewhere older. Somewhere quieter.

They called him the Diamond Prince now. The self-made visionary. The boy who had carved an empire out of stone and silence. But few knew where he came from. None knew where he had gone.

Certainly, no one in the press knew about the river. His Maiyya.

He had been seventeen when his father— Devendra Kapoor—had cast him out. Rain lashed the stone courtyard of the palace that night, lightning reflecting off the wet marble like his own shattered heart. His father had stood tall, unmoved, his voice cold and final: “There is no place for broken loyalty in my house.”

There had been no yelling, no scandal. Just exile—clean and sharp as a blade. The guards hadn’t needed to lay a hand on him. The shame had done the job.

Rishabh had walked away with nothing. No money, no name. Only the weight of what he’d seen, and the silence he was forced to keep.

He had wandered without purpose, catching a train at random, letting it carry him out of the city. He had no plan. No destination. He only stepped off the train when he heard the sound of bells and the rising chants of a river-side aarti. He followed the sound and found her—the Narmada. Quiet, endless, watching.

Locals mistook him for a Parikramavasi, one of the pilgrims walking the sacred path around the river. They gave him simple food, spare clothes, space by the fire. And with no other path before him, he walked.

Days folded into each other. He stopped counting.

At first, he walked in numb silence. But the river had her own way of speaking. In her curves and currents, in the voices of strangers who gave without asking, in the stillness between steps, he felt something return to him. Not identity. Not purpose. Just breath. A sense of being held. Fed without question. Named beta by people who didn’t know him. Bit by bit, the shame washed away, and something stronger took its place.

Faith.

Not the kind sold in temples or wrapped in gold thread—but a quiet, rooted kind. The kind that grows when everything else is gone.

One night, months later, after the parikrama had brought him full circle, he knelt at the riverbank and whispered the only prayer he had left: “Maiyya, if I have a place in this world, show me where it begins.”

The answer came moments later.

A man and woman stood at the ghat’s edge, watching him with the curious softness of people who see more than what’s in front of them. Reva and Shiva Patil. She carried a tin of warm poha. He leaned on a carved cane. They didn’t ask what he’d done or where he’d come from. They asked if he was hungry.

He was.

They took him in. Back in Mumbai, he swept floors at their shop, Patil Jewels, ate quietly, and listened more than he spoke. But his eyes always lingered on the gold work—the tools, the precision, the unspoken rhythm of it all. Shiva taught him the old ways. Reva taught him the new ones: how to speak to people, how to read their stories between what they said.

He learned fast.

The designs came like breath. Necklaces that moved like water. Rings with stories tucked into their curves. Bangles that echoed temple bells. Soon, customers increased.

The shop grew. Then became a brand-- REVATI.

And when the time came, he moved the Patils—his Aai and Baba—into a bungalow of their own. Tiled roof, mogra vines, the kitchen always warm. Reva still brought modaks to the shop once a week. Shiva still liked to sit behind the counter and complain about margins, even if he hadn’t touched the ledger in years.

Rishabh had moved into the penthouse. Global meetings, private jets, shows in Paris and Geneva. REVATI became a name people wore like a secret spell. He became the man his father never expected.

But he never spoke of the river.

The world called him self-made. Let them. He knew the truth.

Every Sunday, he still visited the bungalow. Aai always had his favorite food waiting. Baba always had opinions. They never spoke about the palace. They never needed to. In their home, he was not the Diamond Prince. He was just Rishi.

A soft rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The glass fogged slightly where his breath met the pane. Below, the city shimmered and blinked—full of lives he’d never touch, and memories he could never leave behind.

He set the untouched drink down on the marble counter and pressed his palm to the glass.

No one knew how far he had walked.

No one knew how deeply he still listened to Maiyya’s waters.

But somewhere in the quiet hum of the night, somewhere between the glass towers and the muddy banks of the past, he felt her.

Still flowing. Still watching.

Still carrying him forward.

Chapter 2: The Forging of a Queen

They refused to even hear his name.

Her father stood by the mandir, unblinking, as if even acknowledging it would desecrate the space. Her mother pressed her lips into silence, looking away—not in protest, but in quiet agreement. “Don’t say it again, Kanna,” her father said, his voice low, final. “If you speak of him once more, you will leave this house with his name on your lips, and you will never return with ours.”

They hadn’t asked who he was. They didn’t want to meet him. They didn’t care that she loved him.

It wasn’t about love.

It was about control.

_____________________________________________________________________

The sun had sunk low behind the Chennai skyline, casting long shadows over the busy railway platform. Bhagyashree Iyer stood alone on platform three, clutching the small, worn suitcase she’d packed in a trembling rush. Hours passed like whispered promises, but he never came.

She had called him twelve times.

On the twelfth, he picked up.

“Hello?” she asked quietly.

There was a pause. Then his voice.

“I’m not coming.”

Flat. Direct. Final.

“I’ve thought about it,” he continued. “And I can’t throw everything away for this.”

“Wh-What do you mean?” she said, though she already knew.

“I have a future lined up. My family’s watching. There’s land, business, and responsibility. If I leave now… I lose everything.”

She swallowed hard. “And what about me? What about us?”

He sighed. “You have nothing, Bhagya. No inheritance. No legacy. We’d have nothing.”

The call ended before she could respond.

The man she loved—the one her heart had chosen—was a ghost that day, a silence louder than any farewell.

The train she’d hoped to board with him pulled away, leaving her behind in the gathering dusk.

She called her brother next, her hands trembling.

Saumya bhabhi answered.

“You shouldn’t be calling."

“Please. I need to speak to Anna.”

“He doesn’t want to speak to you. Neither does Appa. He said if you made your choice, then go live with it. Don’t come back.”

Then the line went silent.

Bhagyashree stood up, pulled her suitcase handle, and walked away from the station. She didn’t know where she was going. She just knew she was leaving.

____________________________________________________________________

The journey north was long, the clatter of the train beneath her a steady heartbeat guiding her forward. Mumbai welcomed her with its chaotic arms—strangers and streets that whispered of possibility, danger, and survival.

The city didn’t ask questions. It didn’t offer help either. That was fine.

She enrolled in a Fashion Design degree, throwing herself into fabric and form, drapes and silhouettes, as though she could sew herself back together. Her hands moved faster than her thoughts. Her heart, slower.

Her professors noted her precision. Her classmates called her quiet, intense. She made a few friends, mostly by accident. She laughed sometimes. Mostly, she worked.

In her second year, the college organized a textile heritage trip to Madhya Pradesh—a tour of ancient looms, tribal weaving clusters, dyeing workshops, and temples by the river.

Bhagyashree hadn’t planned to go. She didn’t like trips. She didn’t like leaving her rhythm. But her professor insisted. Said she needed to see the stories behind the cloth.

And so, reluctantly, she boarded the bus.

In Maheshwar, the group stayed near the fort, a palace overlooking the Narmada. The river moved like a story told in a forgotten tongue—broad, calm, unwavering.

The others took photos. Laughed. Splashed water on each other.

Bhagyashree wandered.

She found herself at the ghats just before dawn, barefoot and uncertain, drawn not by curiosity but by something quieter, older. The river mist curled around her like smoke. A lone priest lit the first lamp of the morning. Bhagyashree stood still, her breath soft and shallow.

Something in her recognized the silence.

And in that moment, she felt it—Narmada Maiyya.

Not as a vision or voice, but as a presence. Steady. Gentle. Watching.

Tears slipped down her cheeks before she knew they were there. Not sorrow. Not anger. Just release.

She folded her palms. The prayer came without words. She didn’t ask for anything.

But the river gave her something anyway.

Devotion.

Not just a balm, but an anchor. To Shiva—not the god of destruction, but of transformation. The one who burns so new life can rise from ash.

She stayed by the river for hours that day, missing the weaving tours and the local bazaar. No one noticed.

When she returned to the hostel, her classmates teased her gently. But Bhagyashree didn’t answer. She just smiled—small, private, knowing.

Something had shifted.

She didn’t become religious. But every day after that, she lit a lamp before work. A rudraksha mala appeared around her wrist. And when things grew chaotic, she whispered just one name in her mind:

Shiva.

Not as a plea. As a rhythm.

She weaved her pain and dreams into every stitch, every sketch. The city was an unforgiving tutor—friends came and went, hardships knocked at her door—but Bhagyashree never wavered.

Her hands learned to conjure tradition and future in the same breath: ancient motifs breathed anew, the South’s deep roots entwining with the bold, restless spirit of the North.

5 years passed, and with them, a name was forged—silent but fierce. Her fashion label -Shringāra.

Her label became a secret language worn by those who dared to dream beyond boundaries. A rage among the Gen Z brides, a harmony of old and new, heritage and innovation.

Now, Shringāra is the leading name in Indian fashion. In bridal trousseaus across Gujarat and Tamil Nadu, in fashion editorials, and on red carpets. The brand known for blending tradition with innovation—ikat jackets, reworked lehengas, heritage patterns in minimalist silhouettes.

Everyone knew the label.

Yet Bhagyashree remained unseen. A ghost to the media’s hungry eyes—never on the cover, never in the limelight. She moved in the shadows she chose, letting her work speak louder than words ever could.

She was not the girl who waited on a lonely platform in Chennai.

She was a force.

She was the future.

And still, she carried the weight of that day—the absence that drove her forward.

Some say it’s a marketing strategy. Others say she’s retired. The press calls her the ghost queen of fashion. But those who’ve met her in private call her something else.

The Ice Queen.

She’s calm. Direct. Efficient. Designers leave her studio both inspired and unnerved. She gives no second chances. She doesn’t explain herself.

She doesn’t get personal.

She doesn’t let anyone close.

And that part’s not a strategy. It’s just who she became.

No one knew the miles she had traveled—not just across the country, but inside herself.

No one knew the fire she kindled beneath the quiet.

But somewhere, in the pulse of a city that never sleeps, and in the patterns worn by a generation unafraid to blend worlds, Bhagyashree’s spirit burned.

Still fierce. Still untouchable.

Still hers.

She’s respected. Admired. Untouchable.

And she never lets anyone in.

She gave away her heart once. It wasn’t returned.

Now she keeps it locked away.

No one hears about her family. No one knows about the platform, the calls, or the voice that told her she had nothing.

But sometimes, when the studio is quiet and the windows are open to the sea, she thinks about it.

Not with anger. Not with regret.

Just a quiet sentence that repeats in her head:

He said I had nothing.

Now they all wear what I made out of it.

Thks for the tag dear