An oxidized kite-shaped frame, decked in Kundan, stands tall like a forgotten royal decree—timeless, intricate, and impossible to ignore. Three delicate jhumkas dangle below, swaying like Isfahan’s domes when poetry and politics clashed under moonlit conspiracies. Each pearl whispers of palace intrigues, where the real power rested not in thrones, but in well-timed smirks and side-eyes. Shabraz—for those who know that in every era, the night belongs to the ones who play their cards (and captions) right.
