THE PAINTINGS

This is the story of the Rao family, one of Jaipur’s most powerful business dynasties.

The Rao's were among the city’s most influential tycoons, their name synonymous with wealth and success.

Mr. Rao, the head of the family, loved his family dearly. He was a man who would go to any lengths to protect them.

And then, one fateful day, a daughter was born into the Rao family. A moment of joy, a celebration of new life.

Happiness had returned to the Rao family after a long time.

The birth of their daughter was a moment of joy, a reason to celebrate. Laughter filled the grand halls of their mansion, and for the first time in years, it seemed as though the shadows of the past had faded.

Their daughter carried a strange energy—an aura that no one could quite explain.

From the moment she was born, things began to change. Fortune smiled upon the Rao family, their business thrived, and life seemed almost too perfect. It was as if an unseen force surrounded her, shaping destiny in ways beyond understanding.

Mr. Rao named his daughter Anisha—a name that meant continuous, eternal, never-ending.

And in many ways, she was just that—a presence that felt beyond time, beyond explanation.

Anisha was breathtakingly beautiful. Her delicate features held an unspoken charm, but it was her eyes that captivated everyone who saw her. A deep, mesmerizing blue—so rare, so unusual in their family. They weren’t just eyes; they carried a grace.

As time passed, Anisha grew older. But with each passing year, so did Mr. Rao’s worries.

There was something about her—something he couldn’t quite understand. She was unlike other children, too perceptive, too aware. Her piercing blue eyes held an intensity that sometimes sent shivers down his spine.

Anisha’s beauty was undeniable, but it wasn’t just her looks that made her different—it was her passion for painting.

From a young age, she was drawn to colors, to the canvas, as if it was more than just a hobby. She painted for hours, lost in her own world, creating images that felt too vivid, too lifelike… almost as if they were hiding a deeper meaning.

But what truly unsettled Mr. Rao was what she painted.

Anisha’s paintings were not just art—they were visions.

She didn’t paint from imagination; she painted what she felt. The energy of her surroundings, the whispers in the air, the unseen forces that no one else could sense—she captured them all on her canvas.

Sometimes, her brush would reveal places she had never been, moments she had never lived. And sometimes… she painted things before they even happened.

A street corner before an accident. A face before it went missing. A house before it burned down.

At first, Mr. Rao dismissed it as coincidence. But as time passed, the truth became impossible to ignore—Anisha wasn’t just painting. She was seeing.

Anisha’s paintings were never just paintings—they were glimpses of the future.

She never chose what to paint. Something guided her hands, something unseen—something even she couldn’t control.

That Evening.....

Anisha: “Papa… you’re here?”

Mr. Rao: “Why? Can’t I visit my daughter? Your mother told me you won first prize in the painting competition!”

For a moment, the room felt lighter. Anisha’s lips curled into a smallsmile. "Oh… yes, Papa. I won."

Mr. Rao smiled. "That’s nice! So, can I see what my daughter painted for the competition?"

Anisha hesitated for a moment before replying. "Sorry, Papa… the judges took my painting for the exhibition."

"Oh, okay, no issue," Mr. Rao said, though he was a little disappointed.

Anisha nodded, then paused for a moment, as if lost in thought.

"Papa… can I ask you something?" Her voice was quieter now, almost uncertain.

"Of course, beta. What is it?" Mr. Rao replied, sensing a change in her tone.

Anisha looked at him, her blue eyes searching his face, as if trying to find the right words.

Anisha looked up at her father with hopeful eyes.

"Papa… do you think we can hold an exhibition of my paintings someday?"

Mr. Rao hesitated, his thoughts clouded with concern.

"Just give me some time to think about it, beta," he replied gently. "For now, it’s late. Go get some sleep."

"Okay, Papa. Good night," Anisha said softly, curling up under her blanket.

Mr. Rao stood there for a moment longer, watching her as she drifted off.

As he turned to leave Anisha's room, his gaze fell upon one of her new painting - half hidden behind the easel.

He paused.

In the painting, a man stood with a gun pointed toward a woman.

Mr. Rao heart sank.

What does this mean now? Is this a warning of what is to come?

But without a word, he quietly stepped out of the room - leaving behind the unfinished prophecy that stared back at him from the canvas.

Anisha was completely unaware of the truth behind her paintings.

What seemed like mere coincidence to her… was something far more complex.

A blessing, perhaps. Or maybe… a curse.

Even Mr. Rao couldn’t decide.

Because this gift—if it was one—came with questions no one could answer.

Not Anisha.

Not even her father.

The next morning, Mr. Rao sat alone in his grand study room, sunlight streaming through the tall windows. A cup of untouched tea rested on the table beside him. He was deep in thought, his mind circling the same question—should he allow Anisha's paintings to be exhibited?

The idea felt risky. Too risky.

Just then, his phone rang, breaking the silence. He picked it up.

"Namaste, Guruji," he said with a respectful tone.

A calm yet firm voice replied on the other end. "Namaste."

"You called, Guruji? Is everything alright?" Mr. Rao asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Rao, I will be visiting your home today," Guruji said without hesitation. "There’s something we need to talk about."

Mr. Rao straightened in his chair. "But Guruji, you could’ve just summoned me—I would’ve come to you."

"No," Guruji replied firmly. "This time, I must meet your entire family."

There was a pause. Mr. Rao could feel a strange seriousness in his voice.

"Alright, Guruji… I’ll be waiting," he said quietly.

Guru Ji - Hmmm.

And with that, the call ended.

The day Guruji arrived, the air around the Rao mansion shifted. A strange silence fell over the halls as the family gathered to welcome him. Dressed in his traditional saffron robes, his presence carried an ancient calm—a stillness that made time feel slower.

As soon as Guruji laid eyes on Anisha, his expression froze. He joined his hands in blessing and said softly, “May you always be protected.” But in his heart, he knew.

She is the same divine painter—the celestial soul who once changed the fate of a royal kingdom.

Later that evening, Guruji asked to speak to Mr. Rao in private.

In the quiet study, with heavy velvet curtains drawn and only the soft light of a lamp flickering, Guruji began.

Guruji: “Rao, your daughter is not an ordinary child. She is the reincarnation of a royal palace painter named Amara… a divine soul gifted by the gods themselves.”

“She fell in love with a son of prince of the royal palace and her love was pure. But betrayal came—not from him, but from someone close. In her last breath, she cursed the man responsible the thing he didn't did.”

Mr. Rao’s voice trembled. “Who did she curse? And what was the curse?”

"Amara, like Anisha, could sense the future through her art. Her paintings was a predictions for royal prince & his kingdom."

One night, Amara painted the king—his body covered in wounds, his life slipping away. It was a vivid image, one that spoke of a tragic fate. She showed this painting to the king's son, Veer, and in a whisper, he assured her, "We will destroy it, so that no one will know about this fate. It must never reach anyone else."

The painting was eventually shown in the royal court. But to Amara's shock, instead of secrecy, she was condemned to death. The court, in its ruthless judgment, sentenced her to die.

But what Amara didn’t realize was that the painting hadn’t been shown by Veer. It had been presented by the king's minister.

As the executioner approached, she closed her eyes and spoke words that echoed through time.

“I curse this palace. I curse the blood that watched in silence. Until love is true… and sacrifice is pure… this pain will return. Again. And again.”

Guruji’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She cursed him to lose what he loved most. She cursed him to witness love but never keep it. And now, her soul has returned—because karma never forgets.”

Mr. Rao leaned back, shaken. “So history is repeating itself? Will my family face the same fate?”

Guruji looked him in the eye. “No, Rao. Fate is not repeating—it is completing. What was written must now be fulfilled.”

Few days later, Anisha’s art exhibition was the talk of the city. Held in Jaipur’s most prestigious hotel, the elite gathered, mesmerized by her powerful paintings.

Among the crowd was Mr. Mehra, a sharp-eyed, sophisticated man with a hidden past. He admired one particular painting—a haunting palace corridor painted in blood-red tones.

Anisha approached him with a polite smile. “Welcome, sir. I believe we’ve met before… You were one of the judges?”

Mr. Mehra smiled. “Yes, and I must say, your art—it’s extraordinary.”

He then called over his son. “Meet my son, Shivansh. He’s a passionate collector of unique paintings.”

The moment Anisha looked at Shivansh, something shifted. Her breath caught. That face—so familiar. That gaze—so deep.

Anisha - "You are the one who took my painting in the competition that day, right?"

Shivansh - Yes...

And from that day, they began to meet more often. At exhibitions, in libraries, and during art competitions. Their bond grew stronger, as if pulled together by a force far beyond them.

But what they didn’t know… was that Mr. Mehra was watching them. Closely.

Because Mr. Mehra remembered everything from his past life. He was the very man Anisha had cursed centuries ago. The cause of her pain, her death, and her reincarnation.

He spied on them, tracked every meeting, every conversation.

And yet, strangely, he encouraged Shivansh’s affection. When his son confessed he had feelings for Anisha, Mr. Mehra smiled knowingly.

“Go ahead, beta,” he said. “Sometimes, love is the only truth worth chasing.”

One day they met at library where Anisha found a peculiar book titled The Painter of Fate. Curious, she showed it to Shivansh, and they began reading together.

But as the pages turned, visions flashed before Shivansh’s eyes. Blood. A palace. A painting. A fall. A curse.

Suddenly, he slammed the book shut.

“We’ll continue this tomorrow,” he said sharply. “It’s getting late.”

That night, Shivansh returned home disturbed. Outside his father’s room, he overheard a conversation—his father speaking to a different Guruji.

Mr. Mehra: “The time we waited for has come. The souls are close again. This time, we must finish what began.”

Shivansh’s heart dropped. He knew now… the truth.

Unable to think clearly, Shivansh called Anisha.

“Will you marry me, Anisha?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” she gasped. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m serious,” he said urgently. “Yes or no. Will you?”

There was a pause. Then a soft, hesitant “Yes.” 

The Rao and Mehra families came together. Preparations were grand. The wedding was beautiful—lavish, traditional, sacred.

But the night after the wedding, Shivansh received the final truth.

His father confessed everything—about the past life, the curse, the consequences. And then, he told him what to do.

“You must take her to the Kuldevi temple,” Mr. Mehra said. “Only then will everything end.”

The next morning, Shivansh and Anisha drove to the temple.

Under the ancient peepal tree, with the bells ringing in the wind, Shivansh killed her.

As she lay dying in his arms, she whispered, “Why…? Why did you do this?”

Her memories returned in a flash—the palace, the betrayal, the curse.

Tears streamed down her face. “I cursed you… to lose what you loved. And now… I forgive you.”

Shivansh cried silently, held her close, and took his own life.

Mr. Rao and Mr. Mehra stood in disbelief when they arrived temple with Guru ji, their eyes fixed on the lifeless bodies of Shivansh and Anisha, lying in each other’s arms beneath the sacred tree.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by the soft yet powerful voice of Guruji, who had just arrived, his expression calm, yet filled with divine knowing.

He looked at both fathers and spoke gently, “This… is not just their end. It is also their beginning.”

Mr. Rao turned toward him with tear-stained eyes. “Beginning? How can this be a beginning, Guruji?”

Guruji stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Because the curse has finally been broken. What began centuries ago—in betrayal and sorrow—has now ended in love and sacrifice.”

And as the temple bells rang in the wind, it was no longer a sound of mourning.

It was the sound of a soul’s release.

Their souls are free now. They fulfilled the karma that bound them. And in another life… they will return. Not to suffer, but to complete the love story they began long ago.”

(Note - Some Stories Are Destined To Reborn.)

THE END.....