In the heart of the bustling city of Mewar where the ancient and the contemporary coexist harmoniously, stands the magnificent Mahal. This architectural marvel, a testament to opulence and heritage, is the abode of the revered Malhotras, who have ruled this land for generations.

The Mahal rises majestically against the azure sky, its sandstone walls adorned with intricate carvings that narrate tales of valor, love, and wisdom. The entrance, guarded by imposing brass gates, opens into a sprawling courtyard where fragrant jasmine vines entwine with marble pillars. The air is thick with the scent of incense, and the soft echo of temple bells reverberates through the corridors.

Inside, the palace unfolds like a labyrinth of secrets. The Durbar Hall, resplendent in gold leaf and crimson silk, hosts grand assemblies where decisions that shape the destiny of the city are made. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm glow on the mosaic floors depicting celestial beings and mythical creatures.

The Library, a treasure trove of ancient manuscripts, occupies an entire wing. Scholars and sages pore over faded parchments, seeking answers to life's mysteries. The library's stained glass windows filter sunlight into a kaleidoscope of colors, illuminating the wisdom of ages.

The private chambers of the Malhotras are a blend of tradition and modernity. Canopied beds draped in silk stand alongside state-of-the-art communication devices.

From the palace terraces, one can glimpse the cityscape-a tapestry of minarets, temples, and colonial-era buildings. The Jasmine Garden, with its fountains and peacocks, provides solace to weary souls seeking respite from the cacophony of life beyond the palace walls.

As twilight descends, the Mahal transforms. Oil lamps flicker , whole are is light up by lights it appears like day in night. The city below looks up to the palace, its people finding solace in the knowledge that the Malhotras, guardians of tradition and progress, watch over them.

Amidst the opulent splendor of the Rajasthan palace, an electric current of anticipation surged through the air. The grand hall, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and gilded moldings, stood as a testament to centuries of regal heritage. Tonight, however, it was transformed into a vibrant theater of celebration.

Chandeliers suspended from the lofty ceiling, cast a warm, golden glow upon the walls . Crystal prisms refracted light, scattering rainbows across the marble floor. The chandeliers themselves seemed to sway in rhythm with the collective heartbeat of the attendees, their delicate chains tinkling like distant wind chimes.

Floral arrangement, meticulously crafted by skilled artisans, graced every corner. Exotic blooms-jasmine, lilies and Lotus -released their heady fragrance, weaving a sensory tapestry that enveloped the room. Each petal held a secret promise: prosperity, love, and auspicious beginnings.

The multicolored lights, strategically positioned along the walls, danced with playful abandon. Some flickered like mischievous fireflies, while others morphed through a kaleidoscope of hues. The effect was mesmerizing-a celestial ballet that mirrored the joyous spirit of the occasion.

Workers , clad in traditional attire, moved with purpose. Their footsteps, muffled by plush carpets, echoed off the marble columns. They adjusted draperies, aligned chairs, and ensured that every detail adhered to perfection. The floral garlands ,meticulously strung, adorned doorways and arches, welcoming guests with fragrant embraces.

Security personnel, discreet yet vigilant, patrolled the perimeter. Their sharp eyes scanned the area , assessing each corner. For this was no ordinary gathering; it was a convergence of power, wealth, and legacy. The Malhotras, their name synonymous with influence, awaited the culmination of years of planning.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a final blush upon the palace walls, the grand hall brimmed with anticipation. The air hummed with whispered conversations, secrets shared between silk-clad dignitaries and diamond-clad socialites. For the Malhotras, this wasn't merely an event.

In the opulent hall of the palace, a vision descended-a woman draped in a saree that seemed spun from moonlight. Her presence was ethereal, commanding reverence. This was none other than Shraddha Abhimaan Malhotra,  the revered Rani sa of Rajasthan.

She is wearing a saree that is fabric flowed like a gentle monsoon breeze, its hue a delicate cream or off-white. But it was the intricate golden embroidery that stole the breath-a celestial dance of threads, weaving stories of tradition and elegance. Delicate sequins and beads adorned the saree, catching the light like stardust. Each embellishment whispered of opulence, as if the heavens themselves had bestowed their blessings.The blouse clung to her form, its golden motifs mirroring those on the saree. It revealed just enough skin to tantalize, leaving much to the imagination. Around her neck lay a heavy necklace-a cascade of beads, layers upon layers. The centerpiece, an elaborate pendant, seemed to hold the secrets of generations. It was a relic of heritage, a testament to her lineage.Her hands were works of art. Bangles adorned her wrists, their tinkling music accompanying every gesture. Rings graced her fingers, each one a memory or a promise. And on one hand, delicate henna designs told tales of celebration and love.

As she glided through the hall, her voice carried the weight of centuries. "Kaka," she addressed an elderly man," vo waha nahi rakhna hai , aap usko waha piller ke bagal khada kar dijiye"( "please don't place it there. Stand it next to the pillar.") Her words were gentle yet authoritative, a command that brooked no disobedience.

Today held significance-the first birthday of Abhimaan and Shraddha's son, Rudra Abhimaan Malhotra. The palace buzzed with anticipation, pots and pans seemingly holding their breath. But tradition clashed with familiarity.

"Maaf kariye ga, Rani sa," the man apologized, shifting the pots. But she had a request-one she had made countless times before. "Kaka," she said, her smile unwavering, "Aapko hame Rani sa bole ki jaroorat nahi hai, hum aap ko kitni baar bole ki aap hume shraddha bulaya kijiye"("you don't need to address me as Rani sa. Call me Shraddha." )Her eyes held hope, yearning for him to agree this time.

He hesitated, then smiled, joining his hands. "Nahi, Rani sa," he replied, "is umar mai ab yeh paap karne ko na kahiye"("at this age, I cannot commit such a sin." )His words pierced her heart, yet she remained composed.

"Fine," she said, her smile unyielding. " Hath mat jodiye , please, aap ko jo sahi lage aap hame vo bulaya kijiye" And with that, she turned, heading toward the kitchen. The feast was being prepared-the aroma of spices filling the air. She knew the whole family would partake, but her husband and dewars would only eat food prepared within these palace walls.

In the bustling kitchen, the air was thick with the aroma of spices and the promise of a sumptuous meal. Shraddha at the center of this culinary symphony moved with practiced grace, her hands deftly slicing vegetables, stirring pots, and coaxing flavors to life. She was no stranger to the art of cooking; her culinary prowess was legendary, and every member of the household eagerly awaited her creations.

As she focused on her task, the distant sound of a baby's cry reached her ears. The wail grew louder, pulling her attention away from the simmering curry on the stove. She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and there stood Kiara Abhiveer Malhotra, the third daughter-in-law of the Malhotra family. Kiara was dressed in a saree that seemed to have been spun from moonlight itself. Its mauve-colored, semi-transparent fabric clung to her form, revealing glimpses of her delicate silhouette. But it was the intricate gold embellishments and colorful floral embroidery that truly stole the show. The saree whispered of elegance and tradition, a perfect blend of old-world charm and contemporary allure.

Kiara's accompanying blouse was a rich shade of dark green, mirroring the lush foliage of a tropical forest. Its neckline dipped modestly, allowing the heavy necklace she wore to take center stage. The necklace was a masterpiece-a cascade of green beads interspersed with delicate gold details. It rested against her collarbones, a testament to her grace and poise. Matching earrings adorned her ears, their golden filigree catching the light as she moved.

Shraddha tugged the pallu-the loose end of the saree-around my waist, securing it with a practiced twist. Her attire was simpler, a reflection of my role in this bustling household. But today, as she  looked at Kiara, she couldn't help but admire her beauty. She was a vision, a living canvas painted with threads and jewels.

Kiara's face softened as she spoke, her eyes still sparkling with determination. "Bhabhi," she addressed me, "hamare chote Rudra utha gaye hai aur inko bhook lagi hai."( Little Rudra, our bundle of joy, had awakened from his slumber, demanding nourishment. ) she cradled him gently, making a tickle on his tummy to elicit giggles. Her love for him was evident, and Shraddha marveled at the way she effortlessly balanced tradition and modernity.

Shraddha nodded, understanding the urgency. "Kya aap vo counter per rakha dudh unko pila denge, Kiara? Hum yeh khana bana le nahi toh function suru hote tak yeh nahi ho payega." (Would you mind feeding him the stored milk at the counter, Kiara? We need to finish cooking before the function begins.)

Kiara hesitated, memories of a previous milk-feeding attempt playing in her mind. "Nahi, nahi, bhabhi," she replied, determination in her voice. "Aap ko yaad hai na jab pichli baar humne inko dudh pilane ka try kiya tha toh inhone pura hamare upar gira diya tha." (No, no, Bhabhi, do you remember the last time I tried to feed him milk? He ended up spilling it all over us.)

Shraddha chuckled, recalling the milk shower we had both received. "Aap hi pilayiye aur inko taiyaar bhi kar dijiye," Kiara said, offering me the responsibility. "Aakhir hamare kuwar sa ka janmdin jo hai."( After all, it's our little prince's birthday today.)

Shraddha s eyes softened, and she nodded. "Aur yeh hum dekh lenge, jo baki hai vo bana dete hai."Kiara said. (And I'll manage the rest; let's me finish cooking.)

"Thik hai phir," I agreed, taking Rudra from her arms. "Bas yeh halwa reh gaya tha. Aap yeh bana lijiye, hum inko taiyaar karke ate hai." (Alright then, we just need to make the halwa. You prepare it, and I'll take care of Rudra.)

As Kiara returned to the counter, shraddha cradled Rudra, his tiny fingers curling around mine.

As shraddha ascended the stairs, her eyes caught sight of a woman gracefully descending. She embodied timeless elegance, a vision that held me captive. The saree she wore enveloped her in a rich, vibrant orange hue, its folds catching the light like a radiant flame. Golden threads traced intricate patterns across the fabric, weaving tradition and elegance seamlessly. Her blouse mirrored this grandeur, adorned with the same golden embroidery, creating a harmonious ensemble.

Around her neck rested a majestic necklace, a statement piece combining green beads with delicate gold accents. It draped gracefully, emphasizing her regal appearance. Rings adorned her fingers, each one a testament to the celebration of beauty and tradition.

The sun's warmth kissed her skin as she stood there, a vision of timeless grace in her resplendent saree.

And then, she stepped forward, revealing her identity: Drishti Abhimanyu Malhotra. She descended the stairs and approached her , her eyes meeting Shraddha's. A subtle smile graced her lips.

As Drishti stood before her, her presence radiating warmth, she leaned down and planted gentle kisses on both of Rudra's plump cheeks. His giggles filled the room, a sweet melody that tugged at her heartstrings. In that tender moment, it struck her-the depth of Rudra's affection for his chachis.

Drishti straightened, her eyes twinkling with shared joy. "He's such a charmer," she whispered, brushing a lock of hair from Rudra's forehead. "Our little bundle of happiness."

Shraddha nodded, her heart swelling. "Indeed," she replied. "He loves both of his chachis."

"Bhabhi," she whispered, her voice barely audible."hum aap ki koi help kar de" ("May I help you with something?")

Shraddha nodded, appreciating her kindness. "Ha , Drishti, kiara kitchen mai halwa bana rahi hai aap toh unko janti hai na , aap unki help kar dijiye tabse hum Rudra ko doodh pila ke taiyaar kar dete hai. "

Drishti's smile widened, and she glided toward the kitchen, her footsteps echoing the elegance of her attire. As she disappeared.

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Some other characters --

Kalyani Shakti Malhotra - a stereotypical grandmother and Mother in law.

Rajveer Malhotra - Father of Malhotra brothers.

Meera Malhotra - Mother of Malhotra brothers

Many more will be introduced soon....