The first riddle asked the value of the family’s gold. The real Kishan answered precisely, his mind sharp with numbers. Prem faltered, his knowledge vague. The second riddle demanded the name of the family’s ancestral village. Again, Kishan answered correctly, while Prem’s response was a poetic guess, laced with charm but no substance

In the sun-scorched deserts of Rajasthan, where the sands whispered secrets to the wind, Lachhi prepared for her new life. Her wedding to Kishan, a merchant’s son from a nearby village, was a union of families, not hearts. Lachhi, with her kohl-lined eyes and dreams as vast as the dunes, accepted her fate with grace, though her spirit yearned for a love that felt like poetry.

The wedding caravan set out at dawn, a riot of colors against the arid landscape. Lachhi, draped in a crimson lehenga, sat quietly in the palanquin, her heart a tangle of hope and uncertainty. As the caravan paused at a weathered haveli for the night, Lachhi wandered to a nearby lake, its surface shimmering under the moon. She dipped her fingers in the cool water, whispering a wish for a love that saw her soul.

Unbeknownst to her, a spirit lingered by the lake—a ghost who had watched mortals for centuries, captivated by their fleeting lives. Drawn to Lachhi’s quiet longing, he took the form of Kishan, her groom, his eyes now alight with a warmth that wasn’t there before. When Lachhi returned to the haveli, this new Kishan greeted her, his voice soft, his gaze piercing. “I saw you by the lake,” he said, “and I knew I’d never leave your side.”

Lachhi blinked, startled by the tenderness in his words. The real Kishan, practical and reserved, had never spoken like this. Yet, as the caravan continued its journey, this Kishan—call him Prem—wove himself into her world. He laughed with her under starlit skies, spun tales of distant lands, and adorned her wrists with glass bangles that caught the sunlight. Lachhi’s heart, once heavy, began to soar. She didn’t question the change; she only felt the joy of being seen.

In their new home, a sprawling haveli filled with the clatter of family, Prem’s devotion deepened. He helped Lachhi plant marigolds in the courtyard, his fingers brushing hers as they worked. He sang to her in the evenings, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. Lachhi, who had never known such love, fell deeply, irrevocably. But whispers grew among the family. Kishan’s father, Bhanwarlal, noticed his son’s newfound charm but also his neglect of the family’s accounts. “This isn’t my son,” he muttered, suspicion clouding his eyes.

One evening, Lachhi overheard Bhanwarlal confront Prem. “Who are you?” he demanded. Prem, unflinching, revealed his truth: “I am a spirit who loves your daughter-in-law. I took your son’s form to give her the life she deserves.” Lachhi, hidden behind a curtain, felt her world tilt. The man she loved wasn’t her husband but a ghost who had chosen her heart over eternity. Her mind screamed betrayal, yet her heart clung to the love they’d built.

The real Kishan, who had been away on a trading trip, returned the next day. Side by side, the two Kishans stood—identical in face but worlds apart in spirit. Bhanwarlal, desperate to protect the family’s honor, devised a test. “Only the true Kishan will know the weight of duty,” he declared. He presented three riddles: one of wealth, one of family, and one of love.

The first riddle asked the value of the family’s gold. The real Kishan answered precisely, his mind sharp with numbers. Prem faltered, his knowledge vague. The second riddle demanded the name of the family’s ancestral village. Again, Kishan answered correctly, while Prem’s response was a poetic guess, laced with charm but no substance.

The final riddle was for Lachhi: “What does your heart choose?” The room fell silent. Lachhi’s eyes darted between the two men. Kishan, steady and dutiful, represented the life she was meant to live. Prem, with his soulful gaze, offered the love she’d always craved. Her family urged her to choose the real Kishan, to uphold tradition. But Lachhi’s heart had tasted a love that felt like freedom.

“I choose the one who knows my soul,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. She stepped toward Prem, her fingers brushing his. “You saw me when no one else did.” The room erupted in gasps, but Lachhi stood unwavering. Prem’s eyes shimmered with gratitude, and in that moment, the spirit’s form seemed to glow, as if her choice had tethered him to the mortal world.

Bhanwarlal, torn between anger and awe, banished Prem, but Lachhi’s choice had shifted something eternal. The spirit, bound by her love, promised to return in any form she needed. As he vanished into the desert wind, Lachhi felt a strange peace. The real Kishan, humbled by her courage, vowed to try to understand her heart.

Years later, Lachhi would tell her children of a love that defied the world’s rules, a riddle no one could solve but her. And sometimes, when the desert winds sang, she swore she heard Prem’s voice, whispering her name, forever hers in the spaces between.