"Jab jo bura kaha uska koi matlab nahi, jab jo bura kiya uska koi matlab nahi, iss pyaar me sahi aur galat ka koi matlab nahi, bas aik cheez ka matlab hai, ki me hamesha hamesha tumse..."

(Whatever wrong I said doesn't mean anything, whatever wrong I did doesn't mean anything, right or wrong doesn't matter in this love, the only thing that matters is, I will forever and ever...)

The auditorium echoed with applause, a standing ovation for the poignant scene that had just unfolded. Arnav lay motionless beside Khushi, their performance nothing short of spectacular.

As the final act drew to a close, it was time for the curtain call. The audience anticipated Arnav and Khushi's rise, expecting them to acknowledge the applause with gracious smiles. But the minutes ticked by, and they remained still, stirring concern.

The host, sensing the unusual stillness, approached with tentative steps. His attempts to rouse them — a gentle pat, a soft call, then frantic shakes — were met with silence. A palpable tension filled the air as he checked for signs of life, his hands trembling. The absence of breath, the stillness of a heartbeat, sent a wave of shock through him.

The words fell like a hammer, "I'm sorry, they're dead," the doctor announced, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough to slice through the murmurs of the crowd.

"What? What are you saying?" Anjali's voice trembled, disbelief etching her features as she clutched at Devyani for support.

"How can this happen? They were all fine," Devyani's words were laced with shock, her eyes searching the faces around her for an answer that refused to come.

The Raizadas were engulfed in grief, their sobs a haunting melody against the backdrop of hushed whispers. The doctor moved among them, his mind racing to unravel the mystery of the couple's untimely demise.

Unseen by the mourning family and the bewildered crowd, two ethereal figures stood apart. One bore an expression of stoic calm, his visage devoid of emotion; the other, her eyes wide with astonishment, gazing upon her kin as they wept for her. The divide between the living and the departed had never felt so profound, yet here they were, the observers to their own tragedy, silent witnesses to the sorrow that unfolded in their wake.

"Arnav-ji, why are they crying?" Khushi's voice, tinged with innocence, broke the silence between them.

"And why aren't they hearing us, Arnav-ji?" she continued, her confusion growing as she sought answers from her husband.

"Why are we lying there when we are here, Arnav-ji?" Her gaze fixed on their lifeless forms, a frown creasing her forehead.

"Boliye na, Arnav-ji," she implored, her plea for understanding hanging in the air.

(Please say something, Arnav-ji,)

"Batane ka mauka dogi tabi toh bata paunga na, crazy woman," Arnav finally spoke, his tone a mix of irritation and exasperation. A scowl hinted at the corners of his mouth as he regarded the gravity of their predicament. His words, though unheard by the world, offered a semblance of comfort in the surreal divide they found themselves in.

(I can only tell you if you give me a chance to speak, crazy woman,)

Khushi's confusion was palpable. "But why—"

"Because we are dead," he interjected bluntly.

Her eyes widened in shock. "Haww! We are dead, matlab, we are ghosts, now?"

(Haww! We are dead, does that mean we are ghosts, now?)

"You can say that," he conceded with a weary nod.

Khushi's mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief and humor. "Hey, Devimayya, aapko hum itna pasand hai kya? Ki aapne hume aise hi bula liya?"

(Hey, Devimayya, do you like us so much that you called us to you just like that?)

She pondered further, her curiosity piqued. "Lekin humari baat toh teek hai, par Arnav-ji toh nashtik hai, vo aap pe vishwas hi nahi karta, phir aapne unhe kyu bula liya?"

(But it's okay about me, but Arnav-ji is an atheist, he doesn't even believe in you, then why did you call him?)

Arnav's patience frayed. "Khushi, can you just shut your mouth?" he snapped, the frustration evident in his tone.

But Khushi was lost in her thoughts, a frown creasing her brow. "Lekin hum mar gaye. We died. How? Why? Hame toh Salman Khan ko bhi dekhna tha," she lamented, the reality of their demise dawning on her.

(But we died. We died. How? Why? I even wanted to see Salman Khan,)

A sudden spark of excitement lit her face. "Arrey haan, ab hum toh bhoot hai toh Salman Khan ke ghar bhi jaayenge aur unhe dekhnege toh koi nahi rukega, yaaayyy!" she exclaimed, finding a silver lining in their ghostly state.

(Oh yes, now that we are ghosts, we can go to Salman Khan's house and see him, and no one will stop us, yay!)

"Shut up, Khushi!" Arnav's voice was a growl now, his exasperation reaching its peak.

She retorted with equal fervor, "Aap shut up, laad governor!"

(You shut up, lord governor!)

Arnav shook his head in disbelief. "Seriously, Khushi, we are dead here and all you can think about is Salman Khan?" he questioned, incredulous at her one-track mind.

Khushi's exuberance faded as quickly as it had appeared. She fell silent, her gaze drifting to her family, witnessing her jeeji's tears. The reality of their loss, the depth of their family's grief, settled heavily upon her, muting her spirited defense.

The air was thick with sorrow as Khushi's voice, laced with disbelief and grief, reached out to her loved ones. "No, jiji. I'm here only, don't cry. Di, Nani..." Her voice trailed off as she sniffed into her dupatta, the sight of her family's tears breaking her heart.

(No, sister. I'm right here, don't cry. Sister, Grandmother...)

Arnav, unable to bear the sight of his wife's tears, stepped closer to offer solace. "Shh. Khushi, it's okay. Don't cry..." he murmured, his voice a soothing balm.

But Khushi, overwhelmed by the surreal reality, pushed him away. "Hatiye, Laad governor. Kiase kare don't cry. Look at my dead body, I'm deaddd... I became a ghhhosstttt," she wailed, her voice a mix of horror and disbelief.

(Move aside, Lord Governor. How can I not cry? Look at my dead body, I'm dead... I became a ghooossttt,)

Arnav's gaze shifted to where Khushi's lifeless form lay. He approached her silently, his movements heavy with sorrow. Gently, he caressed her soft cheeks, and a solitary tear escaped him, a testament to the pain that constricted his heart. "Khushi..." he whispered, his fingers tenderly brushing her hair.

Khushi, who had been lost in her own despair, paused and stared at Arnav. Confusion etched on her face as she wondered why he was mourning her lifeless body when she stood right behind him, alive in spirit. "Laad Governor, he left me alone crying for a lifeless body of mine!" she pouted, feeling abandoned and starting to walk towards him.

"Laad Governor, hum yaha hai," she called out, frowning at his back.

(Lord Governor, I am here,)

Arnav, gathering his composure, took one last look at her earthly remains before turning to face her soul. "I know," he replied, his voice steady yet heavy with unspoken emotion.

Khushi, still grappling with their fate, sought answers. "But Arnav-ji, hum mare kaise hai? Hum teek hi toh the na drama ke vakt," she questioned, her mind racing for explanations.

(But Arnav-ji, how did we die? We were fine during the drama,)

"Of course, poison. We only ate sweet, so it's obvious there was something in it that killed us, what else can it be other than poison?" Arnav concluded, his logical mind piecing together their untimely demise.

Khushi's thoughts turned to the afterlife. "Ab hum kya kare, Arnav-ji? Aur hame angels kyu nahi lene aaye ab tak?" she pondered, her voice tinged with worry.

(Now what do we do, Arnav-ji? And why haven't the angels come to take us yet?)

"Apne Devimaiyya se puch lena khud," Arnav retorted, his patience wearing thin.

(Ask your Devimaiyya yourself,)

Khushi couldn't help but remark on his unchanged demeanor. "Laad Governor, bhoot banne ke baad bhi vahi akhadu jaise hai, khadoos kahi ka," she scolded, a hint of her usual spunk returning.

(Lord Governor, even after becoming a ghost, you're still the same grumpy, stubborn person,)

"Suna maine," Arnav shot back, his ears catching every word despite his feigned indifference.

(I heard you,)

"Suna na, yaad bhi rakhiyega, Akdu Singh Raizada," Khushi quipped, her spirit undimmed by their ghostly predicament.

(Heard that? Remember it, Mr. Stubborn Singh Raizada,)

Khushi's voice echoed with a mix of frustration and despair, "Hai Devimaiyya, hum yaha mar gaye toh inhi ke saath marna tha kya? Subah paper me bhi laad Governor ke saath hi photo aayegi, aap hum akele nahe maar sakte the? Inhe ke saath kyu? Yaha bhi enka shut up aur what the hi sunne ko mil raha hai," she lamented, her words filled with the irony of their shared fate.

(Oh Goddess, did I have to die with him? Our photo will be in the morning paper with the Lord Governor. Couldn't you have killed me alone? Why with him? Even here, all I hear is his 'shut up' and 'what the,')

Arnav, overhearing her, felt a sting of pain. The thought that she might have preferred to face death alone, without him, that she resented their joint obituary in the morning paper, wounded him deeply.

"Kyun ki aapse nafrat karte hai, jitna aap karte hai usse kahi zyada."

(Because I hate you, even more than you do.)

"Kyun ki aap pyaar ki layak hi nahi hai, Mr. Raizada."

(Because you are not worthy of love, Mr. Raizada.)

Her past words cut through him. She hated him, that much was clear. Or so her words seemed to suggest.

Before he could dwell on her harsh words any further, Khushi was at his side, her presence a balm to his aching soul. "Arnav-ji, aapne suna kuch?" she asked, her tone urgent.

(Arnav-ji, did you hear something?)

"Kya?" he responded, puzzled.

(What?)

"Suniye na, hume sunayi de rahi hai," she insisted, her voice a mix of wonder and curiosity.

(Listen, I can hear it,)

"Kya sunayi de rahi hai, Khushi?" Arnav inquired, his attention now fully on her.

(What can you hear, Khushi?)

She leaned closer, her words barely a breath. "Arnav-ji, someone is talking," she confided, a shiver running down her spine.

"Who and about what?" Arnav pressed, his protective instincts kicking in as he scanned their surroundings for any sign of danger.

"About our murder," Khushi replied, her face pale as the moonlight.

Arnav's eyes narrowed, a mix of skepticism and intrigue in his gaze.

"Chaliye, jaake sunte hai," she decided, dragging him with her.

(Let's go and listen)

As they moved stealthily towards the source of the whispers, A man's voice was merely a haunting echo in the silence. "I'm sure they were killed because of the curse here," he murmured, his belief unwavering.

In the dimly lit corridors of the hall, the air was thick with whispers of the past. Arnav and Khushi, now mere ethereal presences, stood silently, their ghostly forms barely disturbing anyone. They listened intently, their translucent eyes reflecting a story long buried in the shadows of time.

The two men, unaware of the spectral audience, continued their hushed conversation, their voices a soft murmur in the vast emptiness of the hall. They spoke of a curse, a tale of love, revenge, and betrayal that had seeped into the very stones of the hall.

"Curse?" one man echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Don't you know the history of this place?" the other replied, his gaze drifting to the grand portrait that hung on the wall, its subject a haunting reminder of a tragic past.

"I think so," his gaze fixed on the portrait, "She was the princess of Chandrakanta Kingdom, wasn't she? But I heard she was killed," the first man said, a note of sorrow in his voice.

"Yes, she was killed and people say her ghost roams around here, separating lovers," the second man whispered, a shiver running down his spine.

"Yuvrani Ariyana's ghost?" the first man asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Of course. Whatever happened to her was cruel. I wish god never bestows such a horrible ending to anyone," the second man lamented, his eyes filled with an unspoken empathy for the princess's fate.

"What has even happened? Plan to tell?" the first man pressed, eager to hear the full story.

"Princess Ariyana Indu Devi, with eyes like sapphires and a smile that could coax flowers from the coldest earth, was the jewel of their kingdom, Chandrakanta Rajya. She was the muse of poets and the envy of artists. Her grace in the courtly dances was unmatched, and her fingers strummed melodies on the lute that made even the moon weep. The king and Queen doted upon her, granting her every wish. A garden of roses? It bloomed overnight. A library of rare tomes? It appeared in the east wing. But then, on one wonderful day, she met Prince Arjuna Eashan, the Yuvraj of Neelgiri Rajya," the second man began, lost in the world of magic, his voice taking on the cadence of a storyteller.

"I thought it would be a commoner but if she fell in love with a prince, what went wrong?" the first man who was drowning in the magic his words weaved, interjected, his interest growing.

"Their kingdoms had been rivals for generations, locked in a bitter struggle for supremacy. Despite this, Yuraj's and Yuvrani's love blossomed like the rarest of flowers, hidden away from prying eyes. They exchanged secret letters, they stole moments together. The elders were blind to their passion, consumed by their own hatred. The monarchs of Neelgiri and Chandrakanta would never sanction such a union, " the second man continued, "And so, one fine day, tired of fighting their parents and people who had grown loathing in their hearts, Yuvrani Ariyana Indu and Yuvraj Arjuna Eashan ran away to-" his story cut short by the sudden awareness of being watched by a few people.

He took the man away from there, not wanting attention on them.

Arnav and Khushi, the silent witnesses to this retelling of the tale, exchanged a glance that expressed confusion and irritation. They tried following them but were cut short by a voice. 

A feminine voice.

"Aage ki kahani hum sunayenge."

(I'll tell you the rest of the story.)

Regards, 

Poly,

22-04-2024

P.S. It was, like, written a year and a half ago! The next shot will be updated too, in some time. Until then guess the person to whom the feminine voice belongs.