The monsoon skies rolled thick and heavy over Mohenjo-Daro, casting deep shadows across the sandstone city. A thousand scents filled the air—rain-washed earth, fresh turmeric, the sweet smoke of incense curling from open courtyards.
And in the heart of it all, walked Aarav—now in the prime of his youth.
At eighteen, he had become the city's pulse: the merchant's ally, the people's speaker, and the quiet flame in many women's hearts.
His body, sculpted by tireless labor and blessed by the rarest talent—Perfect Body (Gold)—had become the envy of men and the whisper of dreams in the minds of women. His long, jet-black hair flowed like a warrior's, and his bare chest, marked by the sacred janevu, glistened with sweat and purpose as he walked the lanes with confidence.
But while the city watched with awe, his mother watched with concern.
---
"You must marry, Aarav," she said one morning, pressing a garland of fresh jasmine into a clay bowl. "This is not the age for wandering hearts. You've made your name. Now root your name in a home."
Aarav, seated on the courtyard steps, looked up with a smile.
"I've made wheels that turn faster than horses, Ma. But my own life, it turns slower."
She gave him a look. "Don't speak in riddles. You know Devika waits."
The name brought a shift to his eyes. Devika—the luminous daughter of Dhanak Seth, a powerful merchant and scholar of trade. Beautiful, intelligent, and full of quiet strength.
"She deserves more than a man still chasing fireflies," he murmured.
"She deserves you," his mother replied.
---
And so, under a red-dyed canopy woven from silk and song, Aarav and Devika were married.
The city rejoiced. Flowers rained from balconies. Conches blew, and Vedic hymns echoed through the sacred halls. Aarav stood tall in ceremonial gold, and Devika beside him—a vision of grace in her crimson sari, eyes locked in unspoken understanding.
> "This is not a chain," she whispered into his ear during the ceremony. "I will walk with you... not behind."
He nodded, heart thudding. "Then we will walk through fire. Together."
---
Marriage did not tame Aarav. It sharpened him.
With Devika's keen mind managing books and trade routes, Aarav returned to the forge, to the wheels and axles, to the dream he had carved with blistered hands—chariots for all terrain, for all of Bharat.
His name spread not just for charm, but for creation.
He sold his first fleet of chariots to a Sindhu merchant caravan. Then another to warriors of the western hill tribes. Gold flowed in, and so did respect.
Even the city's elders—once wary of his boldness—now watched him with approving nods.
---
But passion, like fire, does not always die with duty.
Aarav's beauty, sharpened by his Perfect Body, drew attention wherever he walked. Servant girls blushed behind baskets of grain. Merchant wives lingered longer at his stalls. And even the Chieftess, Dhanvanti, found her gaze straying more than once when he addressed the court.
He did not speak of these things. Neither did Devika.
But between them was an unspoken pact—trust earned not through promises, but through truth, action, and the fire they shared in the silence of their chamber.
---
The wheels of his chariots rolled across the valley. But so too did the wheels of fate.
And as the skies began to clear and the land soaked in the power of rebirth, Aarav stood ready—a husband, a maker, a storm cloaked in dhoti and destiny.
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