She Who Wears the Veil

The streets beyond Padmavati's eastern wall had begun to settle into twilight. Smoke curled from clay chimneys. Oil lamps flickered behind bamboo blinds. The hush of dusk gathered like a shawl around the city, soft but watchful.

Dattadevi moved through it like a shadow — veiled, alert, unafraid.

She had chosen a plain brown sari, its antariya draped tight for freedom, her arms bare except for cloth tied high around her shoulder, hiding the wound beneath. Her long black hair — thick, oiled, and braided — was tucked under a simple scarf. No jewels, no anklets, no perfume. Just dust on her soles and determination in her gaze.

She passed through alleyways known only to servants and outcasts. Past a shuttered market. Past an abandoned shrine where jasmine bloomed wildly through cracked brick.

Beyond it stood a grove of neem trees, ancient and creaking in the evening wind. And nestled within their roots was a strange, lopsided hut — half stone, half thatch, leaning slightly as if too proud to fall.

A crooked wooden sign hung at its entrance:

"Do not knock. Do not beg."

She didn't knock.

She stepped inside.

The air was thick with the scent of burnt ghee, crushed tulsi, and old scrolls. Jars filled with herbs lined the shelves — some sealed, others open and buzzing faintly. Bundles of dried roots dangled from the ceiling like charms.

And at the center, hunched over a grinding stone, sat a man.

His robes were dark, stained. His hair uncombed, streaked with silver. The creases on his forehead looked carved, not wrinkled.

Vaidya Vishnugupt.

He didn't look up.

"I treat no royals," he muttered, crushing leaves into paste with a stone.

"No more gold. No more 'urgent' palace summons. You'll all remember us again when your blood boils or your limbs rot."

Dattadevi stepped quietly, placing a folded piece of cloth wrapped in copper thread on his table. "Then don't treat a royal," she said. "Treat a brother."

That made him look up.

His eyes were sharp, black as ink, assessing her. "You speak like one of them."

"I speak like myself," she answered.

He tapped the cloth once with the end of his pestle. "And this?"

"It was beneath his pillow. My brother's breath shortened day by day. His limbs shake. No healer can name it. But the poison is slow... sure."

Vishnugupt leaned forward. He didn't touch it yet. His eyes moved over her bandaged arm. "And your injury?"

"Fighting raiders," she said. "The same ones who poison and burn villages while nobles argue about shadows."

His hands stilled.

Then, abruptly, he turned back to his tools. "I don't go near the court. Not for coin, not for cause. I keep myself alive. That's enough."

She stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, she began to untie the cloth binding her shoulder.

The air stung her skin as the fabric pulled away, revealing dark, dried blood beneath. The wound was raw but wrapped neatly, clean from Rajima's careful tending.

"I came here," she said, voice steady despite the throb of pain, "not as a princess. But as a sister. As a woman who cannot let her people or her brother die waiting for men with titles to decide what's important."

He didn't turn. His silence was louder than before.

Dattadevi's vision swayed for a moment. Her arm, unwrapped, pulsed with pain. Blood began to trickle down her skin again. She felt her knees soften, the weight of her body suddenly heavy.

Just before she collapsed, a hand reached out.

Strong. Steady.

Samudragupta.

He caught her by the waist, lifting her with care and quiet confidence. His touch was not rough, but unshakable. His presence filled the room before she even saw his face.

"You again," she whispered, surprised, her breath catching.

"You never stop bleeding, do you?" he murmured, almost smiling.

"I never stop fighting."

He held her upright until she regained balance, then stepped back — not letting go too soon, nor too long.

Vishnugupt's head turned sharply.

And for the first time, his eyes truly focused.

Recognition.

He stared at the tall man before him — eyes hawk-sharp, shoulders relaxed but ever-ready, a presence like quiet thunder.

He knew who stood before him.

And yet, he said nothing.

Instead, he gave a slow, respectful pranam, palms joined, head dipped.

"It has been long," he said softly.

"But your walk hasn't changed."

Samudragupta gave a brief nod. There was no surprise in his expression. Only understanding.

"She came to you because she still believes in dharma," he said. "You may have left the world behind, Vishnugupt. But not your skill. Not your vow."

Vishnugupt exhaled through his nose, old breath for old memories.

He finally picked up the cloth Dattadevi had left. Sniffed. Frowned.

"Hemlock. Mixed with amaltas. Slow. Smart. The kind of poison cowards use."

He glanced once at Dattadevi, who had steadied herself against the doorframe.

"Rare combination. Not fatal if caught early. But you don't have time."

He turned his back again. And then, surprisingly, began gathering his tools into a leather satchel.

"I'll come. Not for your name. Not for your palace. But for your brother."

Dattadevi straightened, shoulders aching, but her voice firm.

"Then I offer you pranam," she said, folding her hands slowly. "As a sister. And a seeker of truth."

He grunted, hiding what might've been the ghost of a smile.

Outside, the neem grove stirred in the wind. The three of them walked down the narrow dirt path — Dattadevi slowing only once, and Samudragupta silently offering his arm. She didn't refuse.

He did not speak. But when her steps faltered again, he gently placed his hand at her elbow, guiding her weight as if he had done it a hundred times.

She did not thank him. But she leaned slightly closer than before.

And behind the shrine wall, just beyond the light, Harisena stood still — watching.

He had followed from the shadows not to spy, but to understand. In his hands, he held a piece of parchment, its corner already ink-stained.

He would not write a poem yet.

Not yet.

But later, he would describe this moment with the line:

"Two storms walked beneath neem trees — and didn't even know they had met."

hemlock : a poisonous plant with stems covered in spots and a mass of small white flowers growing at the end of it 

Samudragupta conquered Padmavati and its Naga king, Ganapati Naga, as part of his campaigns in North India. The Allahabad Pillar inscription details his "extermination" of several North Indian rulers, including Ganapati Naga, after which their territories were annexed into the Gupta Empire. This likely involved military conflict, though the specifics are not fully detailed in the available historical records.

{this story is based on imagination just inspired by real life characters}