TARA : Beyond The Time

The hollow celebration

Dhruv's pov

Half-heartedly, I forced myself to meet the guests who had gathered to celebrate our shared birthday. The joy that should have filled the air felt hollow, for Tara lay unconscious in her room, a stark reminder of the unexpected threat that had marred our celebration.

As I exchanged pleasantries with the well-wishers, my mind remained tethered to Tara's condition. Every smile I forced felt like a facade, masking the worry that gnawed at my insides. The festivities continued around me, but the weight of the moment lingered.

After exchanging forced pleasantries with the guests who had gathered to celebrate our birthday, my heart urged me back to Tara's room. The festivities that should have been a shared joy were overshadowed by the somber reality of Tara lying unconscious.

As I hurried through the palace corridors, the weight of the situation pressing on me, I unexpectedly crossed paths with Vandana. Her presence, usually a source of discomfort due to her unacknowledged feelings, now seemed an unwelcome distraction.

"Rana dhruvesh ," she greeted, her voice carrying a calculated sweetness.

I nodded in acknowledgment, my focus on Tara's well-being. However, Vandana, true to form, couldn't resist weaving her usual tapestry of subtle negativity.

"It's unfortunate about Tara, isn't it?" she remarked, a sly undertone betraying her attempt to cast doubt.

My frustration simmered beneath the surface, and I replied tersely, "She'll recover. Now, excuse me, Vandana, I have more pressing matters to attend to."

But Vandana, persistent and oblivious to the shift in my mood, continued her attempt to sow seeds of discord. "It's just surprising, isn't it? An arrow on your birthday. One might wonder who would have a reason to harm her."

My patience wore thin, and I shot her a sharp look. "Vandana, today is not the day for baseless insinuations. Tara is in need of care  , not gossip."

She faltered for a moment, realizing that her attempts to instigate were falling on deaf ears. But the green-eyed monster within her was relentless.

"It's just strange, Rana Dhruvesh . She seems to bring trouble wherever she goes," Vandana remarked, her jealousy thinly veiled.

My frustration erupted, and I retorted, "Enough, Vandana. Tara is not the cause of this. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have someone important to check on."

Without waiting for a response, I continued on my way, leaving Vandana with her unsolicited opinions. Today, my focus was on Tara's well-being, and I refused to let anyone, especially Vandana, tarnish the urgency of the situation with baseless accusations.

I entered Tara's room, the flickering candlelight casting a subdued glow over the space. Instructing Vaidya and Rekha to leave us alone, I sought a moment of privacy with Tara. Before they exited, I turned my attention to Vaidya, urgency lacing my voice, "Why hasn't she regained consciousness yet?"

Vaidya, her expression a mix of concern and professional restraint, replied, "The poison's effects are lingering longer than expected, ranasa . It's not uncommon given Tara Baisa's previous injuries, but we are doing everything we can."

Nodding in acknowledgment, I watched them leave, closing the door behind them. Alone with Tara, I couldn't maintain the facade any longer. The room, once filled with the warmth of shared moments, now felt cold and unsettling.

Approaching her bedside, I couldn't help but trace the path of the arrow's impact on her left shoulder. Guilt gnawed at me, the reality of her condition a stark reminder of the danger she faced because of me. "Tara," I whispered, my voice filled with regret.

The room was filled with the soft rustling of the wind outside and the distant sounds of the palace. I took a seat beside her, my hand gently reaching for hers. "I'm so sorry," I muttered, as if the words could undo the harm caused.

The air hung heavy with a sense of helplessness. "You didn't deserve any of this," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "This was supposed to be a day of celebration, not suffering."

The room echoed with the silence that followed. Tara lay still, her unconscious form a poignant reminder of the unexpected turn our shared birthday had taken. As I sat by her side, the weight of responsibility and remorse pressed upon me, overshadowing the joy that should have filled the room.

"I lost my father in a similar kind of attack," I admitted, my voice a mere whisper, as if the walls themselves held the weight of that memory. "The pain of that loss has lingered, shaping my fears and influencing every decision I make."

Tara lay there, a silent listener to the echoes of my past. I continued, the vulnerability in my words laid bare, "When I saw you injured by the arrow, the fear of losing you, too, gripped me. The thought of history repeating itself, of another person I care about being taken away in such a violent manner-I couldn't bear it."

I looked at her, my gaze searching for any sign of a response. Her stillness only amplified the gravity of the moment. "You mean more to me than I've allowed myself to admit," I confessed, my words heavy with sincerity. "The idea of losing you, especially because of me, terrifies me more than anything else."

Holding her hand gently, I rested my head on the edge of the bed, seeking solace in the shared silence of the room. As I lingered in that moment, a subtle shift occurred-Tara, lost in the realm of her unconscious mind, began to mumble.

Her words were fragmented whispers, carried by the winds of her restless dreams. "Stuck... fire... lost," she mumbled, her voice fraught with a palpable sense of fear.

I tightened my grip on her hand, a reflex born from the desire to offer comfort in the face of her apparent distress. "Tara," I spoke softly, my voice a mere breath in the quiet room, "you're safe. I'm here with you."

Her murmurs persisted, painting an unseen canvas of the nightmares that haunted her subconscious. "No, please... don't leave," she pleaded, the vulnerability in her words tugging at the strings of empathy within me.

"I won't leave you, Tara," I assured her, my words a gentle promise. "You're not alone. Whatever you're facing, I'm here."

As her unconscious struggle continued, I wondered about the demons that tormented her dreams. Was it a reflection of a past trauma or a manifestation of her deepest fears? The room, once a sanctuary of shared moments, now held the weight of unspoken struggles.