In the early 1300s, when dance and music echoed through the lands of Southern India, lived a woman whose beauty defied the heavens.
Chandra.
A devout Bharatanatyam dancer, Chandra offered her art solely to God as an act of unwavering devotion. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised within the sacred walls of a temple by the priest and his wife. It was they who taught her everything—life, faith, and the sacred art of Bharatanatyam. From the age of four, her world revolved around temple rituals and dance, and she vowed to dedicate her every performance to the divine alone.
Chandra possessed a beauty so rare, it felt like a blessing and a curse. Her almond-toned skin shimmered like silk in the sunlight. Years of disciplined dance sculpted her form with graceful curves and supple strength. Her face was round and delicate with sharp edges—reminiscent of an Egyptian goddess—and her most striking feature was her eyes: a rare blend of grey and brown, mesmerizing and mysterious. Her naturally curly, waist-length hair cascaded like a waterfall, often braided and adorned with fragrant jasmine.
Though admired by many, Chandra remained humble—almost unaware of her allure. Compliments made her shy; she believed others were merely being kind. She carried a quiet insecurity within, never seeing herself the way the world did.
On one radiant Friday, a day sacred to the goddess Durga, the temple shimmered under the golden sun. Dressed in her Bharatanatyam attire—a tightly pleated cloth covering her chest, and another flowing like graceful trousers around her waist—Chandra adorned herself with temple jewelry and a jasmine braid, preparing for her usual solitary performance before the deity.
As her dance began, she lost herself completely. Her body became rhythm, her soul became the song. Her sweet voice echoed through the temple, glorifying creation and the divine. The empty halls vibrated with the purity of her devotion.
But Chandra didn’t know that this day would change her life forever.
As her final pose held the air still, a sudden clap rang out from the shadows.
Startled, she turned—only to see the king himself standing at the edge of the sanctum.
Her heart raced in panic. She suddenly became aware of her exposed midriff, her attire, her vulnerability. Embarrassed and ashamed, she quickly turned and hid behind a pillar, her hands covering herself as tears welled in her eyes.
“O mighty king,” she stammered, trembling, “I did not know you were here… I beg your mercy… please don’t punish me.”
The king remained silent for a moment. In the distance, she heard familiar voices—urgent and fearful.
“Highness… please listen… please show mercy…”
Chandra recognized them—it was the priest and his wife. But the guards stood between them and the king. Still trembling, she peeked from behind the pillar, calling out, “Father… Mother…”
“Guards, allow them to pass,” commanded the king.
The priest rushed forward and fell to his knees before the king, tears in his eyes. His wife immediately went to Chandra, covering her with a shawl and holding her close.
“My lord,” the priest pleaded, “forgive us. This is all my fault. I didn’t inform her of your visit. Every Friday, she dances alone before the goddess, before the devotees arrive.”
He paused, choking on emotion. “She is not just a dancer to us, my lord. She is our daughter. After years of praying for a child… one morning, we found her—an infant, lying at the feet of Mata Durga. We took her in, raised her as our own. She has never known anything but this temple and the gods.”
The king gently placed a hand on the priest’s shoulder and helped him to his feet.
“No apologies are needed, good priest,” he said with a smile. “I was drawn in by the melody of her voice. Her dance… it was as beautiful as a peacock in monsoon. She is heaven's own creation.”
He turned to Chandra, stepping closer. “What is your name, divine one?”
Still looking down, too afraid to meet his gaze, she whispered, “Chandra…”
“A name as beautiful as its bearer,” said the king. “Please… do not cry.”
He held back the urge to wipe away her tears. Then, addressing the priest once more, he said firmly, “Now that I know she is your daughter… I humbly request your permission to marry her.”
Gasps filled the air. The priest’s eyes widened in disbelief. “My lord… you are the king. She is but a humble devotee…”
“Why worry?” the king said, smiling with regal confidence. “I am the king—I can care for her better than anyone in this land. Do you doubt my heart?”
“No, my lord,” said the priest, bowing his head. “You honor us beyond words. But… this is her life. The choice must be hers.”
Chandra clutched her mother’s hand tightly, trembling with emotion. Her mother gently cupped her face and whispered, “Don’t be afraid. Follow your heart. Durga will be with you.”
The king stepped forward, his eyes softening as he looked at Chandra.
“My legs carried me here when my ears heard your song. My heart knew you before my eyes did. I’ve already fallen for you, Chandra. Please… be mine.”
Chandra felt warmth rise to her cheeks. Her heart raced, and for the first time, she lifted her gaze to meet his. Their eyes locked—and in that moment, something shifted. He looked at her not with entitlement, but longing.
Tall and regal, he towered over her. She had to tilt her chin up to see his face. There was strength in his posture, but tenderness in his eyes.
And as her breath caught, the king smiled—just enough to make her heart flutter. Embarrassed, she looked away, cheeks burning.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. “Will you be mine?”
Her ears burned from the nearness of his voice. Her lips parted—but no words came. Slowly, she nodded.