Friends, our country has been a birthplace and a land of action for great figures, rich with qualities like sages, poets, writers, and musicians, for centuries. The thousands of works created by these great figures are invaluable. Today's youth, in this digital age, seem to be lost somewhere, and we are moving farther away from our heritage and invaluable treasures. subkuz.com consistently strives to bring you these invaluable treasures, along with entertaining stories, news, and information from around the world. Here, before you, is one such priceless story, highly inspirational, written by the renowned writer Munshi Premchand.
The Actress
The curtain fell on the stage. Tara Devi had captivated the audience with her portrayal of Shakuntala. As she stood before King Dushyant, embodying Shakuntala's anguish, pain, and rejection, expressing these profound emotions in fiery words, the audience, disregarding decorum, rushed towards the stage like frenzied individuals, chanting Tara Devi's praises. Many climbed onto the stage and fell at Tara Devi's feet. The stage was covered with flowers, adorned with a shower of jewels. Had not Menaka's aerial chariot descended at that very moment to carry her away, perhaps ten or five lives might have been lost in the ensuing commotion. The manager, swiftly intervening, thanked the audience for their enthusiastic response and promised a similar spectacle the next day. This calmed the frenzied crowd. But one young man remained on the stage. He was tall, with a commanding presence, his form radiating a divine luminescence, his voice like polished jewels, his body b. He seemed like a prince.
When all the spectators had left, he asked the manager, "May I speak with Tara Devi for a moment?"
The manager replied dismissively, "We don't have such a rule here."
The young man inquired further, "Could you perhaps convey a message to her through a letter?"
The manager, once again, responded coldly, "No, I'm sorry. That is against our rules."
The young man, disappointed, descended from the stage and was about to leave when the manager said, "Wait, what is your card?"
The young man pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, wrote something on it, and handed it over. The manager glanced at the slip—'Prince Nirmalkant Chowdhury, O.B.E.' The manager's stern expression softened. Prince Nirmalkant—the city's most prominent nobleman, a shining jewel of literature, a skilled musician, a scholar of high caliber, earning an income of eight to ten lakhs annually, whose donations sustained numerous societal organizations—now stood before him as a humble supplicant. The manager was ashamed of his previous disdain. In a humble tone, he said, "I apologize for my rudeness. I shall immediately take your message to Tara Devi."
Prince Nirmalkant gestured for him to hold off, "No, please, let it be. I will come back at five o'clock tomorrow. It would be inappropriate to disturb Tara Devi now; it's her time to rest."
The manager responded, "I am sure she will gladly accommodate your visit. I'll be back in a minute."
However, the prince, having introduced himself, was compelled to curb his impatience. He thanked the manager for his courtesy and promised to return tomorrow, then departed.
Tara sat engrossed in thought, in front of a polished table in a clean and well-decorated room. The night's scene unfolded before her eyes. How infrequent such days are in life? How many people are eagerly awaiting her presence? They were often at each other's throats. How many had she rejected—yes, rejected. But in that throng, stood one divine figure, unmoved. How profound was the affection in his eyes, how resolute the determination! It seemed as though her gaze was being pierced by his eyes. Whether she would see this man again today, who could know? But if they met today, Tara wouldn't let him go without a conversation.
As she pondered this, she looked into the mirror. She appeared like a blossoming lotus, who could say if she had witnessed the spring of thirty autumns. That radiance, that gentleness, that grace, that charm could have made any young woman blush. Tara ignited the flame of love within her heart once more. Twenty years ago, she had experienced the sting of love. Since then, she had lived a life akin to widowhood. How many suitors had offered their hearts to her, yet she had never glanced at any of them. She sensed insincerity in their affections. Ah, now her resolve had crumbled. Today, she felt the sweetness of that same tenderness within her heart that she experienced twenty years ago. The gentle form of a man was imprinted in her eyes, his image etched on her heart. She would never forget this man. Had she seen this man's vehicle, she might have ignored him, but seeing him before her, bearing a gift of love, she couldn't remain steadfast.
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