In the opulent chamber adorned with gilded tapestries and intricate carvings, Krishneshwari sat perched on a grand, ornate seat. Her small frame was draped in layers of silk, shimmering like the stars above Ujjain. Her heart fluttered awkwardly in her chest as a procession of kings approached, their faces illuminated by reverence.

Nearby, her parents—King Dilip with his regal stature and Queen Aarvi radiating grace—stood proudly, their gazes fixed upon her. They exchanged knowing smiles, unaware of the turmoil in their daughter’s heart.

She felt like a mere girl, lost in the grandeur surrounding her, yet they bowed as if she were the very embodiment of divinity. Krishneshwari’s heart raced, a mix of confusion and discomfort swirling within her. She watched their solemn faces, the way their eyes glistened with admiration, and felt like a shadow in the midst of brilliant light. She fidgeted with the hem of her silk garment, casting fleeting glances at the kings, their ornate crowns gleaming with jewels.

"Akhand Maharani ki jai ho !" One king, resplendent in royal garments, stepped forward, his demeanor solemn yet gentle.

She watched, wide-eyed, as he reached into his robes and retrieved a small pot of vibrant red powder. With a steady hand, he applied a tilak on her forehead, the cool touch sending a shiver of disbelief through her. Next, he unfurled a breathtaking jewelled fabric, its colors shifting like a sunset, and draped it over her head with utmost care. The weight of it felt foreign, like a mantle of expectations she didn’t believe she deserved.

Then, with a deep bow, he lowered himself to the ground, placing his gleaming crown before her feet. The room fell silent, the air thick with devotion. The worship felt surreal, as if she were an idol sculpted from stone rather than a girl of ten. She stole a glance at her parents, their eyes gleaming with pride and joy, while she felt like an imposter, a fleeting shadow cast by an unseen light.

Why was he doing this? She was just Krishneshwari—nothing more, nothing less.

Despite the grandeur surrounding her, a sense of unease nestled in her heart. As she shifted, another king stepped forward, his imposing figure softened by his humility. His eyes, glistening with unshed tears, locked onto her innocent gaze. Kneeling before her, he lowered himself to the floor, the rich fabric of his robe pooling around him. "Akhand Maharani, hum par kripadrishti banaye rakhe." He muttered.

With trembling hands, he reached out and touched her delicate feet, resting his forehead against them. Krishneshwari's heart raced. Clenching her fists tightly in her lap, she struggled to understand the scene unfolding before her. How could someone so esteemed worship her, a mere child ?

Another noble king, tall and regal, approached with deliberate grace. Clasping a small bowl of vibrant red tikka, he knelt before her, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and devotion. As he gently dabbed the tilak on her delicate feet, the weight of this gesture sent a ripple of discomfort through her. He then offered a garland of fragrant flowers at her feet, their colors vibrant against the starkness of the chamber.

"O Devi," he intoned, his voice trembling with reverence, "humare rajya ko sukh aur samriddhi se sampann kare."

As the words washed over her, Krishneshwari's heart sank. A Devi ? The title felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. She shifted uncomfortably on her throne, her small hands fidgeting in her lap. How could she grant prosperity she believed she could not bestow ?

Krishneshwari’s heart pounded with confusion. As each king worshiped her, calling her the answer to their prayers, she felt a growing unease. She glanced at her parents, King Dilip and Queen Aarvi, who stood proudly by, their eyes gleaming with love and belief. Yet, she could only feel the weight of their expectations.

Amidst the reverence, a whisper of doubt fluttered in her heart. Who was she to deserve all this ? She felt like an imposter, a mere girl surrounded by kings, unable to comprehend the divine adoration being bestowed upon her. The curse loomed large in her mind, a shadow obscuring the truth of her being.

Every week, sometimes daily, it seemed, another king or a throng of them, would journey from distant lands, their eyes filled with devotion, treating her as if she were the very essence of divinity. It puzzled her deeply. She recalled tales of other princesses, each with beauty, wisdom, and grace, why did they not seek them instead ?

To her, it was an uncomfortable seat of honor that seemed to belong to someone far greater.

Soon each king bowed low, their hands clasped in prayer. Faces that usually bore the weight of empires were now softened in humility, their eyes downcast, reflecting awe and devotion. She glanced at the men who, despite their power, rendered themselves powerless before her.

Unable to bear the dissonance between their worship and her sense of unworthiness, she rose from her throne, her movements imbued with a sudden urgency. The moment she stood, the kings pressed their foreheads further to the ground, their powerful forms humbled in her presence, a collective gasp escaping the air.

Aarvi, standing beside her, noticed her daughter's distress. "Kya huya putri ?" she gently inquired, concern etched across her face.

"Um.... Nidra aa rahi hai...." Krishneshwari’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with exhaustion.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the grand hall, leaving behind a heavy silence, hearts trembling, and a lingering aura of divinity unclaimed.

Her footsteps echoed through the ancient corridor. With each step, the weight of the sacred cloths placed upon her head felt heavier, a constant reminder of the worship she neither sought nor understood. Her delicate fingers brushed against the soft fabric as she peeled it away, letting it slip to the cool marble floor. The sacred rice grains that had been sprinkled over her by the rulers began to tumble from her hair.

The cloth fell with a whisper, and immediately, a nearby servant rushed forward, eyes wide with reverence. They gathered it up, cradling it as if it were a fragment of the divine, a piece of a goddess made tangible. Each cloth that fell became a treasure in their eager hands, a blessing they believed to be bestowed, yet to her, it was a reminder of the chasm between her existence and that of the goddess she was meant to embody. A few even scooped up the rice, cradling these remnants as if they could capture the essence of her divinity.

Krishneshwari caught their eyes, a mix of devotion and awe reflected within them. She felt their reverence, yet their veneration only deepened her confusion. Though she noticed the care with which they handled her offerings, she said nothing, her heart heavy with the gnawing question of her true worth.

Instead, she continued walking, the corridor stretching endlessly before her, a path between worlds she could neither embrace nor escape.

In her earlier years, the worship felt like a simple game, a play where she was the center of attention— the kings and emperors would bow and she'd just keep her hand over their heads. But now, as the edges of childhood had started to blur into the complexities of adolescence, the masquerade felt like a cage. Why were they bowing ? What made her deserving of such honor ? These questions churned in her mind, haunting her as she stepped into the quiet of her chambers, away from the adoration she had begun to question.

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A/N

The girl has begun to question who she really is.... The first step that leads to Aatmagyaan ✨