The next morning, Aksh came downstairs dressed in a plain navy blue half sleeved kurta with subtle golden embroidery running along the collar and cuffs, paired with a matching patiyala.
His hair was still slightly damp from the shower and the sharp scent of sandalwood soap lingered faintly around him. The cast on his right hand stood in harsh contrast against the dark fabric while his watch rested neatly against his left wrist. Earlier that morning, Bhairav had informed him that the family had arranged a havan and that Prithvi would be coming over to finalize the wedding date of his sister with Viraj.
For the Flame to Burn, It Needs a Spark These words—these poems, musings, echoes of soul—they are pieces of me, offered to the void. If they’ve ever stirred something in you, made silence feel understood or chaos feel poetic… Then let your support be the wind beneath this fire. A small gesture. A mighty impact. Because art survives on love—and the occasional coffee. ☕✨
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