The first thing the traveller noticed was the silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of something that had watched centuries pass. The afternoon sun blazed over the plains of Gujarat. Dust drifted across the road like faded silk. Parakeets screeched from neem trees. Somewhere beyond the fields, women sang while drawing water from wells. Yet as the traveller stepped beneath the carved entrance of the Adalaj Stepwell, the world seemed to change. The heat disappeared. The noise softened. And before him opened a world turned upside down.
Five storeys descended into the earth like a palace built for shadows. Pillars rose from darkness. Stone balconies hung in mid-air. Delicate carvings of flowers, elephants, dancers, serpents, and vines covered every surface. Sunlight filtered through openings high above, falling in golden shafts that seemed almost solid enough to touch. The traveller stood motionless. It was not a well. It was a memory. And memories, like deep water, often conceal stories at their bottom.
The old caretaker sitting near a pillar noticed the stranger’s fascination and smiled. “You are looking for the queen.”
“The queen?” asked the traveller. “Everyone who comes here is.” The old man pointed toward the depths where darkness pooled around still water. “She is down there.” The traveller laughed. The old man did not. Then he began his story.
Five centuries earlier, when Gujarat was a land of prosperous trade routes and walled kingdoms, there stood a thriving settlement called Dandai Desh. Its ruler was a Rajput king named Rana Veer Singh. The kingdom was not large. It possessed no mighty army capable of shaking empires. Yet it was wealthy, fertile, and beloved. Its fields yielded millet and cotton. Its markets overflowed with spices, indigo, and fine cloth. Camel caravans arrived carrying goods from distant deserts. Merchants spoke in many languages beneath colourful awnings while temple bells echoed through the streets at dawn and dusk.
The king’s greatest treasure, however, was neither gold nor land. It was Queen Rudabai. Legends remember her beauty. History remembers her intelligence. The people remembered both. Rudabai possessed the rare ability to listen. Farmers, merchants, priests, artisans, and soldiers all found in her a patient ear. She knew the rhythms of the kingdom as intimately as a musician knows the strings of a beloved instrument. But she also knew something else. She understood water.
In Gujarat, water was life itself. A failed monsoon could reduce abundance to misery. Rivers changed their moods without warning. Wells dried. Crops withered. Villages vanished. Water was not merely a resource. It was destiny.
One summer, after witnessing villages struggle through months of scarcity, Rudabai proposed something extraordinary. A stepwell. Not an ordinary well dug into the ground, but a monument, a sanctuary, a place where water, architecture, faith, and community would meet. The king embraced the idea immediately. Master craftsmen were summoned from distant regions. Stonecutters arrived carrying generations of knowledge in their hands. Sculptors travelled across deserts and mountains. Engineers studied the earth. Astrologers selected auspicious dates. And work began.
For months the air rang with the sound of chisels striking sandstone. Huge blocks were lowered into excavated depths. Pillars emerged from dust. Arches appeared where there had been only empty air. Carvings slowly bloomed across walls like vines turning into stone. Rudabai visited often. She walked among the workers carrying brass water vessels. She spoke with architects. She listened to artisans explain patterns inspired by stars, flowers, rivers, and sacred stories. The queen wanted the stepwell to belong to everyone. Travellers would rest there. Pilgrims would pray there. Women would gather there. Children would play there. And generations yet unborn would descend its steps seeking relief from the relentless Gujarat sun.
But beauty often attracts envy. News of the kingdom reached the court of Mahmud Begada. The Sultan was ambitious, powerful, and determined to expand his influence. His armies had already brought many territories under his control. When he heard of Dandai Desh and its prosperous ruler, his gaze turned toward the Rajput kingdom.
The invasion came swiftly. War drums rolled across the plains. Dust clouds rose from marching armies. Messengers raced through villages carrying grim news. The battle that followed was fierce but unequal. Rana Veer Singh fought bravely. His warriors fought beside him. Yet courage alone cannot always overcome numbers. When the fighting ended, the king lay dead. The kingdom had fallen. A silence settled over the land. Not the peaceful silence of evening, but the silence that follows grief.
For Rudabai, the world seemed to shatter. The unfinished stepwell stood abandoned. The sounds of chisels ceased. Dust gathered on half-completed carvings. Birds nested among silent scaffolding. And everywhere lingered memories of a future that would never arrive.
The Sultan entered the conquered kingdom expecting resistance. Instead, he found something unexpected. He found Rudabai. Even legends struggle to describe their first meeting. Some say he was captivated by her beauty. Others say it was her dignity. Still others insist it was her refusal to appear defeated despite her circumstances. Whatever the truth, Mahmud Begada proposed marriage. For many rulers of that era, such unions were instruments of politics. Victories could be sealed through marriage as effectively as through treaties. The Sultan offered Rudabai wealth, protection, and status. The queen requested time.
Days passed. Then she delivered her answer. She would agree. But only on one condition. The stepwell begun by her late husband must first be completed exactly as originally envisioned. The Sultan accepted. Perhaps he believed time would soften her grief. Perhaps he believed the magnificent structure would stand as a symbol of his generosity. Perhaps he underestimated her. Construction resumed.
Once again craftsmen filled the site. The air vibrated with hammers and chisels. Fresh sandstone arrived in carts pulled by oxen. The smell of dust mingled with incense. Sculptors bent over their work from sunrise until starlight. Months became years. And slowly the dream took shape.
The completed stepwell was unlike anything the region had seen. Descending into it felt like entering another world. Three entrance stairways converged at different levels. Massive columns supported intricately carved galleries. Lotus flowers bloomed in stone. Mythological figures watched from hidden corners. Geometric patterns intertwined with floral motifs. Hindu symbolism existed beside Islamic artistry. Rajput imagination met Sultanate craftsmanship. Architecture itself became a conversation between cultures.
The deeper one descended, the cooler the air became. Even in the fiercest summer heat, the temperature remained gentle. Light drifted through openings above, changing throughout the day like a silent performance. At dawn, the walls glowed honey-gold. At noon, brilliant shafts illuminated floating dust. At twilight, shadows merged into mystery. Water shimmered below, calm, patient, ancient.
The day finally arrived. The last stone was placed. The final carving completed. The stepwell stood finished. A masterpiece. Exactly as promised. Celebrations spread throughout the kingdom. Musicians performed. Incense perfumed the air. Priests offered prayers. Merchants decorated streets with colourful fabrics. The Sultan prepared for his wedding. And Queen Rudabai prepared for something else.
The morning dawned clear and bright. The sky stretched endlessly blue above Gujarat. People gathered around the magnificent stepwell. Some came to witness history. Others came merely to admire the wonder. Rudabai arrived dressed as a bride. Jewels glittered upon her. Silk shimmered in the sunlight. Yet those who watched closely noticed something unusual. She seemed serene. Not joyful. Not sorrowful. Simply resolved.
Before the ceremony, she requested permission to perform a final ritual. The Sultan agreed. No one suspected what would happen. The queen began descending the steps. One level. Then another. Then another. The crowd watched silently. Sunlight danced across carved pillars. Her anklets chimed softly against stone. The scent of flowers drifted through the air. She reached the water’s edge.
For a moment she stood perfectly still. Perhaps she remembered Veer Singh. Perhaps she remembered the years of construction. Perhaps she remembered the kingdom that had vanished. No one knows. The queen folded her hands in prayer. Then she stepped forward and disappeared into the depths.
A collective gasp swept through the gathering. Cries erupted. People rushed forward. But it was too late. The waters of Adalaj had claimed their queen. Some called it sacrifice. Some called it defiance. Some called it love.
History cannot tell us exactly what passed through Rudabai’s heart during those final moments. Yet her decision transformed a remarkable structure into an immortal story. Centuries passed. Kingdoms rose and vanished. Empires arrived and departed. Languages changed. Trade routes shifted. The world moved forward. But Adalaj remained.
Monsoons came and went. Dust storms swept across the plains. Travellers descended its steps. Poets wrote about it. Architects studied it. Lovers whispered beneath its carved ceilings. And always the story endured.
The old caretaker paused. Above them, sunlight streamed through an opening high in the ceiling. The traveller looked toward the dark water below. “Do you believe the story?” he asked. The old man smiled. “That depends.” “On what?” “On what you think this place is.” The traveller glanced around at the pillars, the carvings, the shadows, the water, and the silence.
The old man continued. “If this is only a well, then perhaps it is merely a legend. But if this is a monument built from love, completed through politics, and remembered because of sacrifice, then perhaps the queen never left.”
The traveller stood quietly for a long time. Far above, the afternoon sun blazed over Gujarat. Birds crossed the sky. Wind moved through distant fields. Yet deep beneath the earth, cool air drifted across ancient stone. And in the still water of Adalaj, where architecture had become memory and memory had become legend, the reflection of the sky trembled ever so slightly, as though a queen had just passed by.
RELEASING SOON
If the timeless story of Queen Rudabai and the silent depths of Adalaj stirred your imagination, this journey has only just begun.
Across India, mighty forts rise from deserts, mountains, forests, islands, and forgotten frontiers. Within their walls lie stories of courage and betrayal, sacrifice and survival, ambition and love. Some witnessed empires being born. Others watched them crumble into dust. Like the stepwell of Adalaj, they remain silent keepers of memory, preserving the echoes of extraordinary lives and remarkable events long after the people themselves have vanished.
Discover twenty such unforgettable tales in my next book to be released soon, Empires Left in Stone: Twenty Short Stories from the Forts of India, a collection that brings history alive through richly imagined fiction, transporting readers to the heart of India’s greatest strongholds and the extraordinary people who once called them home.
Watch this space. The stones still have stories to tell.
Copyright © 2026 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
Queen Beneath the Water, written by Trishikh Dasgupta, is the author’s sole intellectual property. This work of historical fiction is inspired by the history, legends, architecture, and cultural memory associated with the Adalaj Stepwell in Gujarat and the enduring narratives surrounding Queen Rudabai, Rana Veer Singh, and Sultan Mahmud Begada. While rooted in historical settings, architectural heritage, and regional traditions, the story is a dramatized and imaginative literary creation. All characters, dialogues, narrative elements, and fictionalised interpretations are protected under applicable copyright laws. All rights are reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews, academic commentary, and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
While the story references real historical locations, architectural monuments, events, and personalities associated with the Adalaj Stepwell and medieval Gujarat, the narrative is a work of fiction. Historical accounts concerning the construction of the stepwell, the life of Queen Rudabai, and the circumstances surrounding her death have been preserved through a combination of inscriptions, local traditions, folklore, and later historical interpretations, many of which differ in detail. The story does not claim to be a definitive historical account. Any conversations, motivations, relationships, emotions, characterisations, and narrative incidents have been created or adapted solely for literary purposes.
For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
This story is Free, and if you have found something here that stayed with you, some of my other books (collection of short stories, novels, and more) are available in print and digital editions. They gather many unique journeys, quieter questions, and stories that continue beyond this page.
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
This is a beautifully crafted piece of historical storytelling 🌿
The way you bring the Adalaj Stepwell to life is truly mesmerizing—blending landscape, architecture, myth, and human emotion into a flowing narrative. The atmosphere you create is especially powerful: the silence, the heat, the carved stone, and the sense that every step downward is also a step into memory.
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Thank you so much, Verma’ji. Your observation about each step downward being a step into memory captures exactly what drew me to writing about Adalaj. The stepwell is far more than an architectural marvel; it feels like a journey through layers of time, where stone, water, history, and legend converge. As writers, we often hope to transport readers to a place, but with Adalaj, the place itself seemed eager to tell its own story. I am delighted that the atmosphere resonated with you and grateful, as always, for your thoughtful reading and encouragement.
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We were there many years ago. My husband had to attend a conference. He retired from Manipal college of Dental Sciences in 2017. Your story brought alive the place. At that time we had admired the beauty of Adalaj ki Vav. Thank you.
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Dear Lakshmi, thank you. How wonderful that you have stood in those cool, carved corridors yourself. Places like Adalaj possess a rare magic. They are beautiful to look at, but even more beautiful once you begin to imagine the lives, hopes, and heartbreaks that unfolded within their walls. Knowing that the story brought back your memories of visiting the stepwell means a great deal to me. Sometimes history waits quietly in stone until someone remembers it again. Thank you for sharing your memory and for taking this journey with me.
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Thanks for sharing something new…I imagine I’ll read it more than once.
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I am sure that you would love this story. Thank you for your constant appreciation for my stories. Nothing gives me more joy than when someone at some far corner of the world enjoys one of my stories.
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The beauty of your writing gives me great pleasure, no matter what corner of the world. I’d love to see some of your paintings. hint hint lol
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I am so happy to have found an appreciative reader like you, who enjoys my stories so much. Yes, I do love to draw, with share with you someday.
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Thank you.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for another moving story written by your talented hand that has the unique power to bring the history to life and enchant readers to remember your words forever.
Joanna
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Dear Joanna, thank you so much for always liking my stories. I am so glad that my latest short story appealed to you too. My humble effort in keeping history alive through my short stories finds fruition in friends like you, who really enjoy reading them and carry these stories forward in memory and conversation.
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Thank you, Trishikh, for the wonderful reply! As always, you are more than welcome!
Joanna
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Yet another wonderful tale. Thank you ❤️
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Thank you Fiona, always appreciate your appreciation.
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🙏👍
Aum Shanti
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Thank you, love, peace, and blessings to you too.
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So many pretty pieces in this, shattering, then building, then the serenity of acceptance that all great works of politics require a blood sacrifice.
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Thank you. What struck me most about the legend of Rudabai was that same paradox. Human beings shatter kingdoms, relationships, and lives through ambition, yet from those fractures they often create works of astonishing beauty. Adalaj is both a monument and a memorial. Every carved pillar seems to celebrate creation, while the story beneath it reminds us of what was lost to make it possible. I am glad the themes of destruction, rebuilding, and acceptance resonated with you. Sometimes history’s most beautiful places are also its saddest.
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I think destruction, rebuilding, and acceptance resonate with me because it is the story of my life. A very micro history and I’ve spent a great deal of my life investigating the micro :0) but those themes echo through dimensions. To examine something small, carefully, is to also understand the same truth greatly expanded. All good works come with suffering and beauty that is born from suffering, makes the suffering worthwhile. That is art. That is the human struggle, at our best. I think the U.S. is much like how Rome must have been before it collapsed. There are still good people but there is also, this horrible culture of decadence. It’s heart breaking. Easy times often produce the opposite of what suffering produces. We are paradoxal beings. I think I just made up a word lol I do that a lot. I like confusing the computer lol I can’t sleep and it shows. Have a beautiful day.
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What you say is so true.
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Very powerful story. That must be an amazing place to visit. As usual, your ability to bring all the senses to experience your story is the thread that weaves the history and fiction together.
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Thank you so much, Katelon. Adalaj truly is an extraordinary place to visit. Even today, as you descend into its cool depths, the temperature changes, the light softens, and the noise of the world seems to fade away. It feels less like entering a structure and more like stepping into another time. For me, the challenge and the joy were to capture that sensory experience and weave it into the legend of Rudabai. I’m delighted that you felt those sights, sounds, and textures come alive on the page. Comments like yours make the journey of researching and writing these stories especially rewarding.
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Thank you very much for this very touching story!
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Dear Martina, so good to hear from you after some time. I am so glad that you liked the story. Hope you are doing well. I am doing good by the grace of God.
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Thank you very much, Trishikh, for your kind words! I have some problems with my eyes and can therefore not be on the computer for long. I am happy that you are well and can therefore go on writing such extraordinary stories such as this one concerning water for verybody:)
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Thank you Martina. Your words provide me much happiness. Take care of your eyes.
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🌻🤣
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Appreciated
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Thank you so much.
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The first thing the traveller noticed was the silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of something that had watched centuries pass. The afternoon sun blazed over the
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Thank you Safia for liking my story.
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That’s an impressive redesign of your website, I noticed as a longtime follower of yours. Given our past travels to India, I often relate to the spiritual context of your stories. Heroes and heroines, particularly strike my interest.
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Yes, you have been appreciating my stories for so many years. I really treasure that. In between I could not write for more than a year, but have been regularly writing once again for the past one year.
Now you can find many more short stories. I try and publish 1 free short story every Friday.
I am also creating Audio versions of my stories, so I publish them now and then, sometime in between the week. I started these audio stories because a lot of my visually differently abled friends wanted to hear my stories.
I have also published 4 books. 1 biography about my grand parents, 1 novel, and 2 collections of short stories. I am about to finish my 3rd collection of short stories.
Knowing the kind of love and appreciation that you hold in your heart for India, I am sure that you would love to have a collection of my short stories. You can buy them on Amazon if you like. Check them out at: https://storynookonline.com/buy-my-books/
Keep on enjoying my free readable and audio stories.
Thank you for your constant appreciation.
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I remembered Adalaj all over again through the lens of your rendition of Rudabai! Thank you, Trishikh.
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You are most welcome Kajoli. Glad that my rendition of this story could refresh your memory of the place and the legend.
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Excellent story!
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Thank you so much. So glad that you liked the story. Somehow, your comment was lying in the spam folder, glad that I spotted it and restored it, so the late response.
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Beautiful story 👏🏼 Adalaj not only a stepwell it’s a symbol of love ❤️
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Thank you Priti for liking the story so much. Yes, you are right Adalaj is a symbol of love.
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🙏🙂
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Gujarat is history in the way it was built, by both great and small, over time, of ambition, loss, and glory. This time re-reading, my thoughts were reflected in “silence that watched centuries pass” and the silence after a storm. India’s history is ancient and it is ancient in America too, but the focus in on 1776, as if that was when history on this continent was born. In the heart of Missouri, there is a mound (earthen pyramids that the ancients built) where it was proven than humans and mammoths co-existed. St Louis is built over many of those mounds but some survive to the east of the city and one base of a pyramid that is no longer, is the same dimensions as the base of Giza. Skeletons of giants were uncovered inside those mounds, but the Smithsonian swept them up, and that evidence is silenced (it doesn’t correspond with the theory of evolution). The Ozark where I live, is the oldest land mass in the U.S. It was once a pre-historic island, surrounded by a shallow sea. It is still and island. I imagine tetradactyl flying over-head and giants hunting mammoths in this ancient land, where we disservice ourselves in believing we are new, or that freedom never existed here before we won freedom from colonization. Most history is the silent witness of passing time.
Your words are so highly reflective that each time I read them, I see something new, and also, reflections of myself. It’s the same quality of reflectiveness that is the Scriptures. It’s a wonderful gift to be able to write words that span cultures but remain true to your own. Don’t get a big head! lol Our gifts thrive in humility. From my reading and from friendships, I know India as a culturally rich, humble country. I’m so excited, an Indian restaurant just opened in my little town, the food is wonderful and hot-spicey like the food of New Mexico, which I horribly miss lol us poor fold need our endorphins and us native New Mexicans are very addicted to them.
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Pam, your comments are often journeys in themselves, and I always enjoy travelling through them.
I think you are absolutely right that history is often a silent witness to passing time. Whether it is a stepwell in Gujarat, an ancient mound in Missouri, or a forgotten trail through the Ozarks, the landscape remembers far more than we do. Human beings tend to divide history into convenient chapters, but the earth rarely cooperates. It quietly preserves stories that stretch far beyond the dates we choose to celebrate or commemorate.
The Ozarks sound fascinating. I have visited the United States several times, including South Carolina, Texas, and New York, but I never had the opportunity to visit the Ozarks. Ironically, my curiosity about the region began with the Netflix series Ozark. From there, I started reading more about its geography, history, and culture. So it is rather delightful to now know someone who actually lives there and can speak of it not as a setting but as home.
And yes, America has a remarkably rich ancient history that is often overshadowed by the stories of colonisation, conflicts with Native Americans, and the Civil War. Those events are important, of course, but they are only a small chapter in a much longer human story. Your thoughts reminded me of a story I wrote a few years ago that touches upon this very idea of humanity’s deep and shared past. If you ever find the time, you may enjoy reading it: https://storynookonline.com/2023/01/27/the-greatest-gift-to-mankind/
As for humility, I completely agree. Serving others is the motto of my life. I am a Christian, and Christ’s humility and service to others remain the example I try to follow, however imperfectly. Whatever gifts we are given, whether writing, teaching, healing, or building, they are best used in service rather than self-celebration. So thank you for the gentle reminder. It is a reminder worth hearing often.
And finally, I must confess that I love Mexican food too! The moment you mentioned New Mexico and spicy food, I immediately became hungry. Perhaps good stories and good food have something in common: both allow us to travel great distances without leaving our chairs.
Thank you, as always, for reading so thoughtfully and for sharing a little of your corner of the world with me. It makes the distance between Gujarat and the Ozarks seem much smaller than it appears on a map.
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Human memory is short and only perception. The victor writes the historical narrative and the vanquished are forgotten by most but live in sub-narratives. Jesus is all about us sub-folk :0) the Bible is our common narrative.
The Ozark is misunderstood as a mountain range, but it is a highland, with an ancient volcanic core, plants found in the SW (my birthplace is Santa Fe) grow there and the old town of St. Genevieve has its roots in French trappers but for a time, was governed by Spain, and that small city is so much like my beloved Santa Fe (the oldest continuously inhabited city in the U.S.) I grew up on a ranch (homestead by my pioneering grandparents on both sided) that sat atop Glorietta Mesa, a mesa that was 300 miles long at 7,000 ft in elevation. The mesa was much higher, but I have the same highland feeling here. I have lived near Native American reservations most of my life and had many dear friends who lived in them. The Ozark is like a white people’s reservation, lots of materially poor people who are spiritually rich. Both groups live lives close to the earth. I have deep ancestorial roots in Missouri and all of my family names are here. My great grandmother was a Drury and that family branch was here with the French. It’s like a return to the old homeland lol I feel and see the culture my great grandparents kept, in the desert here. I never dreamed I’d live here, nor do something so adventurous in my 60’s lol we never know where God will lead us.
Now, I’ll go read your story.
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Pam, I smiled when I read, “we never know where God will lead us.” In many ways, that single sentence could be the summary of countless lives, including those we write about in history and fiction.
I also appreciate your observation about narratives and sub-narratives. History often remembers kings, conquerors, and dates, but the deeper human story is usually carried by ordinary people, families, communities, and traditions. That is one reason I enjoy writing historical fiction. It allows us to step away from the official record for a moment and imagine the lives of those who lived in the shadows of great events. As you beautifully put it, Christ’s ministry was so often directed toward the overlooked, the forgotten, and the people living outside the centres of power.
Your description of the Ozarks was fascinating. The more you write about it, the more it feels like a place where geography and memory are woven together. I can see why it feels like a return to an ancestral homeland for you. There is something profoundly moving about discovering that the stories, values, and traditions passed down through generations are still alive in the very landscape where they began.
I was especially struck by your phrase, “materially poor people who are spiritually rich.” Every culture has places like that. They rarely make headlines, yet they often preserve the deepest sense of community, resilience, faith, and connection to the land. In many parts of rural India, I have encountered something very similar.
Thank you for sharing a little more of your world with us. One of the unexpected joys of StoryNook has been discovering how stories set in places like Gujarat can lead to conversations about Missouri, New Mexico, family histories, faith, and the many ways people remain connected to the land beneath their feet. I hope you enjoy The Greatest Gift to Mankind, and I look forward to hearing your thoughts whenever you have had a chance to read it.
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Grounded is good :0) our world today needs grounding. Simple folk are the worlds grounding. This is the most interesting, thoughtful place I’ve ever found on WP. You bless me. Buenos noches, mi amigo.
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I am so glad that you think so. A great evening to you too.
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Well, without farmers, there wouldn’t be the luxury of thinking about anything else…some things I think and tell, other things are just to know. ;0)
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Great read
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Thank you so much. So glad that you liked it.
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Thank you, Trishikh for bringing history to life so brilliantly.🙏😊 You are creating a legacy for generations to come. The lady who was showing me around took me to the top of the structure, which is now covered with iron grill. She told me that the queen jumped from there and died. I’m not certain of the authenticity of the story but it etched a mark on my mind.
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Dear Sumita, thank you for appreciating this short story of mine. I always treasure your appreciation, they provide me much encouragement in keeping on writing these stories.
These stories from the past are so interesting, and are not in the mainstream anywhere, so it’s important to propagate them in any way possible for the future generations to remember them.
I am happy that I can do it through my short stories.
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What a beautifully touching story.
It’s so wonderfully written with such brightness of heart and depth of soul.
Thank you for sharing ✨
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Thank you so much. Nothing makes my day better than when someone enjoys one of my stories.
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You’re very welcome ✨
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This is a real place! WOW. It’s beautiful and I love the story you wrote.
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Yes, Jean, this is a very real place and a real story. So glad that you liked it.
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I enjoyed reading “Queen Beneath the Water” Thanks for the like on the article I wrote for GamerZ Paradise. Have a good weekend.
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Thank you Alex. It’s my pleasure to read and like your articles as well. Wishing you a great weekend too.
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You’re welcome.
The weekend went well looking forward to new beginnings and progress for the new week ahead.
Wishing you the best.
Alex
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Again a powerful narration. A visual re-depiction of history. Whenever I read your stories I hold my breath. The moment, the tension, the retelling, the atmospheric denouement and the weight of prevailing silence after the reading is over – all overwhelming the senses.
I am sorry for being late to your posts. And I congratulate you and wish you all the best for your fifth publication.
I always wondered why the stepwells were built the way they were. They somehow look inconvenient and dangerous. Perhaps there is a science to it. Deeper it goes cooler the water is. Architectural grandeur or some kind of practical knowhow ? But surely a historic creation – a bowl to hold memories of supreme sacrifice, unrequited love, gritty determination and an epic resolve.
Well done again, Trishikh.
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Thank you so much, Geeta. Your words always feel like you’ve travelled through the story rather than simply read it, and that is one of the greatest compliments a writer can receive. The fact that you can still feel the silence after the story ends tells me that Rudabai’s journey stayed with you, and that makes me immensely happy.
And please don’t ever apologise for being late. Stories wait patiently for their readers, just as old monuments wait patiently for their visitors. I truly appreciate that you return to them when time permits. Thank you also for your kind wishes on my fifth publication. It has been a long and deeply fulfilling journey.
Your observation about stepwells is fascinating. They were indeed masterpieces of both engineering and architecture. As one descended deeper, the temperature dropped noticeably, making them natural cooling spaces during Gujarat’s scorching summers. Their stepped design also allowed people to reach the water regardless of how much the water level rose or fell through the seasons. Over time, they evolved into community spaces where travellers rested, women gathered, merchants paused, and prayers were offered. So they were as practical as they were beautiful. I find it remarkable that our ancestors could blend utility with such breathtaking artistry.
I particularly loved your phrase, “a bowl to hold memories.” That is exactly what Adalaj became. It held water for the body and memories for the soul. Thank you, once again, for reading so deeply and for always leaving such thoughtful reflections. They enrich the stories long after I have finished writing them.
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Beautifully written. ✨ History feels alive through your words. Looking forward to reading Empires Left in Stone. Wishing you great success with the book! 📖
— Rajeshwari💕
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Dear Rajeshwari, thank you so much for your beautiful words of appreciation. I feel much encouraged by such interactions, they are a real source of sustenance to my writing spree.
I have nearly finished “Empires Left in Stone”. Will release it very soon. I am sure that you would enjoy it thoroughly.
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Beautiful story
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Thank you so much Swati. I am so happy that you liked my story.
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