The Whisper of Jasmine

In the time when empires were carved by sword and ink, when messengers crossed deserts with scrolls sealed in wax, and the moonlight was the sole witness to many secrets, there lived a girl named Charumati in the kingdom of Vaishali.

Charumati was the daughter of a respected royal physician, her life wrapped in silks, scriptures, and the scent of jasmine that always lingered in her hair. She was admired not only for her beauty but also for her wisdom and gentle spirit. In those days, women of noble blood were educated in Sanskrit, music, and dance. Charumati excelled in poetry, often composing verses that spoke of longing and devotion.

Her life changed on the day she first saw Devadatta — a young warrior-scholar from a distant province, who had come to Vaishali to study under the great sages. He was not of royal blood, but his bearing, the depth of his eyes, and his command over ancient verses won the attention of the court and the heart of Charumati.

But theirs was not a world where love bloomed openly. In ancient India, love was expressed not through touch or bold declarations, but through gestures, symbols, and secret poetry. In Charumati’s world, glances carried weight, and silence was often more eloquent than speech.

Their first connection was forged over a shared poem.

During a festival of spring, when the court poets recited verses in the royal gardens, Devadatta recited a shloka (verse) about a koel bird that waited all winter for a single jasmine bloom. His voice trembled as his eyes met Charumati's — she knew at once that she was the jasmine in his verse.

She responded, days later, with a note left within a hollow of a champa tree near the temple, a common meeting place for scholars. The note contained only two lines:

"You came like rain on parched earth,

Yet I am bound like the lotus to the still pond."

It was the beginning of their secret exchange.

They never spoke in public. In those times, especially for a woman of noble birth, even being seen talking alone with a man could tarnish her family’s name. So, they used poetry as their language. They left verses hidden inside books in the palace library, scratched small messages beneath temple lamps, and once, Charumati even wove a message into a garland offered at the shrine.

Every verse was a heartbeat, every word a whisper between their souls. Devadatta once wrote:

"If I were the wind,

I’d lift the veil from your face,

Only to kiss the shadow of your smile."

Their love was not just emotional; it was spiritual. They shared dreams through metaphors, loyalty through sacred vows spoken silently under moonlight.

One evening, as monsoon clouds loomed over the Ganga, Devadatta sent a letter unlike any before. It was sealed with sandalwood paste, and within it was a promise — not of elopement, not of rebellion, but of eternal waiting.

"If this life does not allow us union,

Let the next begin with your name on my lips."

But fate, as it often does in ancient stories, was unkind. Charumati’s father, unaware of her silent romance, arranged her marriage to a nobleman from another kingdom. She did not protest — not out of fear, but out of duty. To her, love did not mean possession, but devotion. To love someone in silence and still bless their path, was, to her, the purest form of expression.

On the day of her departure, Charumati went to the temple where they had first exchanged verses. She left behind her final message beneath the idol of Saraswati:

"The jasmine blooms, though plucked from its stem.

In another season, in another garden, it shall bloom again."

Devadatta never saw her again, but her verses remained with him until his last breath. He never married. He became a sage, travelling and teaching the sacred arts, carrying with him a collection of handwritten poems bound in silk — a testimony of their love.

Their story was never etched in stone or sung in ballads, but those who came across the poems in later years would feel the breath of a love too sacred for the world’s noise.