She turned to him, their faces inches apart. The air thrummed with unsaid words, and for a moment, she imagined it—a life of chasing sunrises with him, unshackled from duty. She leaned in, her lips brushing his, tentative and sweet, tasting of chai and possibility. His hand found hers, warm and steady, anchoring her to this fleeting dream

The ghats of Varanasi shimmered under the golden hue of dawn as the Ganges flowed quietly, carrying whispers of prayers and the fragrance of marigolds. Priya Kumari, a young diplomat’s daughter from Delhi, stood at Dashashwamedh Ghat, her dupatta fluttering in the breeze. She wasn’t here as herself today—no security detail, no itinerary, no suffocating protocol. Disguised in a simple salwar kameez and a pair of borrowed jhumkas, she had slipped away from her father’s delegation, craving a taste of freedom.

Her escape hadn’t gone unnoticed. Arjun Yadav, a local photojournalist with a knack for spotting stories, caught sight of her as she stumbled over a pile of earthen diyas near the water’s edge. Her wide eyes and nervous grace screamed outsider, yet there was something regal about her—like a princess playing at being ordinary. Intrigued, he adjusted his camera strap and approached.

“Namaste, behenji,” he said casually, flashing a lopsided grin. “Lost your way to the aarti?” Priya froze, then recovered with a laugh. “No, no, I’m just… exploring. First time in Kashi.” “Kashi, huh? Not many tourists call it that,” Arjun mused, tilting his head. “You don’t look like you’re here for selfies with sadhus.”

She blushed, caught off guard. “Maybe I’m here for the stories. Isn’t Varanasi full of them?” Arjun’s eyes lit up. “Arre, now you’re speaking my language. Come, I’ll show you the real Varanasi—no tourist traps, just the heartbeat of the city.”

Against her better judgment, Priya followed. What began as a cautious walk turned into a whirlwind day. Arjun led her through the labyrinthine galis, where the air smelled of sandalwood and frying jalebis. They paused at a chai stall near Manikarnika Ghat, sipping scalding tea from kulhads as Arjun spun tales of the city’s eternal dance between life and death.

Priya, usually so composed, found herself laughing freely, her guard slipping with every sip. “Tell me,” Arjun said, leaning closer over the rickety bench, “what’s a girl like you running from?” Her smile faltered. “Who says I’m running?” “Your eyes do. They’re restless, like the Ganga before a storm.”

Priya looked away, watching a boatman row past with a load of marigolds. She wanted to tell him—about the endless diplomatic dinners, the pressure to marry a suitable IAS officer, the life mapped out without her consent. But instead, she said, “Maybe I just wanted to feel alive.” Arjun nodded, as if he understood more than she’d said. “Chalo, then. Let’s make you feel alive.”

Their day unfolded like a Bollywood montage. They raced through the flower market near Vishwanath Temple, dodging aunties haggling over genda phool. Arjun taught her to haggle for a pair of mojris, laughing when she overpaid anyway. At Assi Ghat, they sat on the steps, sharing a plate of kachori and spicy aloo sabzi, the sunset painting the river saffron. When a group of kids dragged them into an impromptu game of kabaddi, Priya shrieked with delight, her dupatta tangling as she dodged grubby hands.

As night fell, they found themselves on a boat, drifting past the glowing ghats. The rhythmic chants of the Ganga Aarti echoed around them, and Priya rested her head against the wooden edge, mesmerized. Arjun snapped a photo of her—hair loose, eyes reflecting the flickering diyas—and murmured, “You look like you belong here.” Her heart skipped. “I wish I could stay.” “Then stay,” he said simply, his voice soft but serious.

She turned to him, their faces inches apart. The air thrummed with unsaid words, and for a moment, she imagined it—a life of chasing sunrises with him, unshackled from duty. She leaned in, her lips brushing his, tentative and sweet, tasting of chai and possibility. His hand found hers, warm and steady, anchoring her to this fleeting dream.

But reality crashed in like a temple bell. A motorboat roared nearby, and Priya spotted her father’s aide scanning the riverbank. Panic seized her. “I—I have to go,” she stammered, pulling away. “Priya, wait—” Arjun began, but she was already scrambling to the boat’s edge, calling for the boatman to dock.

“Take care, Arjun,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And… thank you.” He watched her vanish into the crowd, a regal silhouette swallowed by the night. Back at the guesthouse, Priya slipped into her silk saree, her hands trembling as she pinned the pallu. The next morning, she’d board a flight to Delhi, her day in Varanasi reduced to a secret she’d carry forever.

Arjun, meanwhile, sat at his desk, staring at the photo he’d taken. The headline he’d never publish hovered in his mind: The Princess Who Loved Kashi. He smiled wistfully, then tucked the picture away, letting her remain his untold story—a spark of mohabbat against the eternal city’s glow.