Nestled in the bosom of a tranquil yet proud village, stood a mansion—no, a temple of legacy—spread across two acres, a symbol of timeless grandeur and iron-clad dignity. It was not merely a house; it was an ancestral soul carved in stone and memory, woven with the breath of generations. With its architecture inspired by a sophisticated fusion of South Indian structural grace and North Indian aesthetics, this three-storeyed haveli stood tall like a revered monument. The intricate lattice of tradition and modernity whispered stories in every brick.
The main entrance, a colossal teakwood double-door framed by lotus carvings, bore ancient Sanskrit inscriptions. Above it shimmered the symbols of Shanti and Swastik, etched in gold leaf, glowing under the subtle lighting that lined the archway. A kalash rested at the threshold, brimming with rice, betel leaves, and a fresh coconut atop it, signaling prosperity and sanctity. Just beside the gate stood a mighty bargad tree—centuries old, its roots like the veins of history sprawling into the soil. Its sacredness was a known tale; villagers believed the tree was the protector of the house.
As one stepped through the entrance, the floor transitioned from black kadappa stone to a delicate checkered white marble with golden inlay. The air felt charged, like stepping into an energy preserved over eras. The central courtyard, or angan, lay open to the sky, and right in its heart sat Tulsi Maa, enshrined in a square marble altar, always surrounded by fresh yellow marigolds and red hibiscus. The house faced east, as per Vastu, so the early morning sun would shower its blessing straight into the angan, making it a favorite spot for the elders to sip tea and listen to the bhajans.
The Architecture
The mansion boasted eight meticulously designed bedrooms, each with an attached bathroom, walk-in closets, and private balconies. The entire structure was U-shaped, with the courtyard nestled in the arms of the three wings. The main drawing room, grand and opulent, had a ceiling twice the height of normal rooms. It held a majestic chandelier gifted by a royal family from Jodhpur, and against its cream-textured wall, a portrait of Lord Krishna playing the flute overlooked the room. Velvet drapes in earthy tones flanked the large windows, and antique brass lamps cast a warm golden hue across the room.
To the left of the main hall was the library—a world within a world. Dark mahogany shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, housing everything from rare law volumes to Tamil poetry, Urdu ghazals, Sanskrit scriptures, and even modern science journals. On the right side, an open-style modular kitchen gleamed with pristine granite counters, where three generations had cooked everything from Pongal to Rajma-Chawal. Two more kitchens—one a traditional firewood space for rituals, and the other a pantry-style cold kitchen—sat behind it.
A sweeping marble staircase with brass banisters spiraled upwards, opening onto a long hallway on the first floor. From here, bedrooms opened both ways. The master bedroom of Amritya Singh Rajput, the patriarch, faced the backyard—offering a panoramic view of the lotus pond and mango orchard beyond. His balcony had antique armchairs, a tea table, and a telescope.
The Dignified Dadu: Amritya Singh Rajput
The soul of the house, Amritya Singh Rajput, was not just the elder of the family—he was a living institution. A man of towering personality, fair skinned with silver-white hair and sharp features framed by a thick moustache, he resembled the sages of ancient India. His posture was always upright, his movements regal. Draped in his white dhoti and crisp kurta, with a gold-rimmed watch on his wrist and a rudraksha mala coiled in hand, he would often sit on his stately carved chair under the bargad tree, puffing his fine cigar—not as an indulgence, but like a sage inhaling the fate of his land.
People worshipped him—literally. He had once led the protest that brought electricity and school to the village. He built wells with his own wealth, arranged jobs, educated orphans, and set up scholarships. "Dadu is no less than a God," villagers would say with folded hands.
Dadi: Triveni Devi
Opposite in demeanor, Triveni Devi was the quiet storm of the household—a divine figure in a cotton silk saree, always clad in soft hues of sandalwood and rose. Her white hair was always tied into a neat bun with mogra flowers tucked at the edge. With a red bindi glowing on her forehead and eyes that radiated unconditional love, she glided like the very goddess of harmony.
She was a woman of rituals, but also of fierce intelligence. Her morning routine included lighting the agni, reciting the Durga Saptashati, and preparing laddoos with her own hands for the temple. Dadi was the balance to Dadu's fire—a moon to his sun.
The Sons: A Perfect Duality
Their elder son, Anshuman Singh Rajput, was not just an advocate—he was a brand. A man with a diamond-sharp intellect, Oxford education, and a courtroom presence so commanding that even his silence won arguments. As the CEO of the nation's largest law firm, he dressed in black three-piece suits, his eyes always focused, his tone always calm but never soft. Yet at home, he was a soft-hearted father and a dutiful son.
The younger son, Abhisek Singh Rajput, was the exact opposite. A mischievous charm radiated from him. Often in leather jackets and boots, he had taken up military training and specialized in psychological warfare. His laughter echoed through the mansion like a festival. He would often pull pranks on the maids, sneak sweets into the children's beds, or challenge his father to a chess match just to lose gracefully. But beneath the naughtiness, his loyalty was steel.
Adyugni Chakraborty: The Enchantress
And then there was Adyugni—not yet married into the family, but already a goddess in their stories. She was an advocate in training, studying with Anshuman in the same university. Her pictures had reached the mansion—photos where she stood in olive-green dupattas over maroon sarees, with cascading raven-black hair, eyes lined with kajal so deep it looked like nightfall, and an hourglass figure that made time stand still. Her elegance was divine, and her voice, they said, could stop even courtroom battles. She was soft-spoken, but with a mind sharper than the edge of her pen.
The House's Layout
The back of the house opened into a lush garden bordered with champa, neem, and jasmine trees. A long balcony ran along the second floor, looking into the courtyard on one side and the garden on the other. Each room had large arched windows, allowing the monsoon breeze to whisper through linen curtains. The backyard had a lotus pond and a meditation pavilion. The house had not one, but two puja rooms—one in marble with golden idols, and one in sandalwood with incense and silence.
Every tile told a tale, every painting carried a memory, and every corner echoed the footsteps of those who had laughed, cried, and lived in it.
This was not just a house. This was the first character of the story. The cradle of fate.
And soon, history was about to shift once again as a divine marriage approached...
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