-: Pancha Vastra :- ( By Shailu )

[shailu4ever]

 
He shifts slightly, and immediately regrets it.
 
Pain flares through his body, sharp enough to pull a groan from his throat.
 
He lifts his hands carefully.
 
They are wrapped in thick white cloth from wrist to fingertips.
 
Someone has treated his burns.
 
Someone has changed his clothes too. The damp hiking shirt he remembers wearing is gone. Instead, he’s dressed in a loose cotton kurta, simple, comfortable, and definitely not his.
 
A small altar stands in the corner of the room.
 
Fresh marigold flowers rest beside a clay oil lamp whose flame burns quietly. Thin streams of incense curl upward, filling the air with a calming fragrance.
 
The entire space feels strangely peaceful.
 
Sacred, almost.
 
Then…
 
“You’re awake.”
 
The voice startles him.
 
Arjun turns his head too quickly.
 
The room spins violently, forcing him to close his eyes until the dizziness fades.
 
For several long seconds he simply breathes, trying to steady himself.
 
Then he opens his eyes again.
 
And that is when he sees her.
 
When he looks again, he sees her.
 
A woman sits beside the bed on a low wooden stool.
 
But the moment Arjun truly focuses on her, something about her appearance immediately arrests his attention.
 
She looks to be in her mid-twenties, maybe a little older. Her posture is relaxed but poised, like someone deeply aware of her own presence. Long dark hair falls over one shoulder, tied loosely with a thread of red silk.
 
Yet there is something about her that does not fit the ordinary world he knows.
 
For a strange moment, Arjun finds himself thinking of the ancient sculptures and paintings he once saw in old history books, illustrations of women from forgotten temples and lost civilizations.
 
She does not look like a typical South Indian woman he has seen in cities or villages.
 
She looks older than time itself.
 
Not in age.
 
But in presence.
 
Her skin catches the soft morning light from the window in a way that makes Arjun stare for a second longer than he intends.
 
It is not white.
 
Not pale.
 
Not dark.
 
It carries a tone he has never quite seen before.
 
The closest comparison that comes to his mind is strangely specific,
 
like a pinch of sandalwood paste mixed with a hint of turmeric, dissolved gently into warm milk.