Chapter 2: A Coffin of Glass and Grudges

When Meera slit her wrist, there wasn’t a trace of hesitation. The air that day was thick with the scent of mogra, and she sat on the edge of her bed, sari pleated just so, eyes steady as ever. The doctor said the wound was so deep, only someone determined to die could have done it—especially Meera, who had always been afraid of pain.

Usually, if she so much as scraped her skin, she would wrap it up in tears, just to trick me into giving her kaju katli. I remember her coming to me, sniffling dramatically, pointing at a tiny scratch on her finger. “Aiyo, Priya, I think I’ll faint. Only you can save me, yaar.” She’d coax an extra sweet or two, grinning through her pretend tears. I’d grumble, but her giggles would melt my anger every single time.

I looked at Meera in the marble coffin. Other than her face being a bit pale, everything else looked as if she were still alive. The sindoor in her hair parting was still fresh, her pallu carefully draped to cover her feet. The faint trace of her favourite jasmine perfume lingered—a last rebellion against death.

Her beloved husband stood beside the coffin, a girl in a pink lehenga at his side, holding the hand of a young boy who bore seventy percent of Meera’s features. The girl’s jewellery jingled nervously, her eyes darting between me and the others. The boy stood stiff, clutching his father’s kurta, lips pressed tight as though swallowing his grief.

I looked the girl up and down, finally understanding why Meera no longer lingered in this world. There was a sharpness to her beauty, a confidence that felt out of place. She wore her sorrow like an accessory—beautiful, but easy to set aside. For a second, I pitied Meera, having to face such a rival in her own home.

That girl approached me and offered a graceful namaste. She folded her hands, fingers trembling, and bent low enough to brush her forehead to the marble—too perfect, too rehearsed. "Pranam, Maharani."

I regarded her coldly, not telling her to rise, simply staring at her slightly bent knees. The silence in the hall stretched, chandeliers dimming in anticipation. A maid behind me quickly stepped forward, nudging the back of her knees. With a crisp thud, my brows finally relaxed a little.

The girl’s knees met the marble with a soft thud—her face stiff with the effort to maintain composure. The air was heavy with unspoken rules and old hurts.

“Chachi ji.”

Two voices rang out. Arjun wanted to step forward to help her up, but seeing my attitude, he dared not move. Raghav’s jaw was clenched, eyes fixed on the coffin, lost to the world.

But Sneha said nothing, bowing deeply. “Long live the Maharani, may you live for thousands and thousands of years. This humble woman has overstepped her place, I beg your forgiveness.” The words dripped with practiced humility, each syllable measured and careful. I narrowed my eyes; Sneha was indeed clever.

She knew I was furious, and no one could persuade me—especially not the Raghav father and son. They would only make me angrier. Admitting fault, on the other hand, might catch me off guard.

Meera could not outplay her. Where Meera’s innocence had been her shield, Sneha’s shrewdness was her armour. I took two steps forward, my embroidered juttis treading on her delicate dress. Someone quickly brought a chair behind me.

I lifted Sneha’s wrist. On it was a bright green glass bangle. The bangle itself was not especially precious, but I recognised it as the prize Arjun—Meera’s seven-year-old child—had won at school. In front of all the other children, he had said he wanted to win this bangle for his mother.

I had instructed the teacher to award the bangle to Arjun. Never did I expect to see it on Sneha’s wrist. A heat spread through me, anger rising like a tide. How dare she wear what belonged to Meera? Even the maids behind me exchanged worried glances, sensing the storm in the air.

I grabbed the bangle and yanked it off her hand. “My hand slipped. Please don’t blame me, Miss.” The green glass shattered in my fist, bits tinkling to the floor. A maid gasped and muttered, “Arrey Ram, not the school prize!”—the tension thick among the staff. Two angry red marks immediately appeared on Sneha’s fair skin.

“I dare not.” Sneha bit her lip tightly, looking as pitiful as her name. Meera could never resist this act. She cast her eyes downward, a silent tear threatening to spill. The rest of the room shifted uncomfortably, but I felt nothing but satisfaction. Every time she was angry at me, as long as I made this face, no matter how furious she was, she would end up smiling, and in that moment, I could coax anything I wanted out of her.

But what is Sneha compared to her? I reached out and touched her earlobe, from which hung a pair of large south sea pearls. They were a wedding gift I had given Meera. The pearls caught the light, glowing softly against Sneha’s dark hair. I took them off without the slightest mercy. Blood trickled from Sneha’s ears. Arjun could no longer restrain himself and knelt beside her.

“The pearls were given by me to Chachi ji, and Mummy agreed too. Please, Maharani Aunty, don’t blame Chachi ji.” His small hands shook as he clung to Sneha’s saree. The other servants gasped, some whispering prayers under their breath. I played with the bloodstained pearls, my expression indifferent.

“What if I insist on blaming her?” My voice was cold as steel, echoing off the high ceilings. Without Meera, Arjun was nothing but a lump of rotten flesh in my eyes.

I rarely spoke to him so coldly. He stepped forward, trying to tug at my saree as he once did to act cute. His eyes pleaded with me, lips trembling, but I glared at him. The guard behind me immediately raised his sword, about to chop off Arjun’s arm. The sword’s shadow fell across Arjun’s face. For a second, he looked just like Meera—eyes wide, pleading, refusing to move.

“What lowly thing dares entangle the Maharani?” The blade flashed, its edge gleaming. I ignored Arjun, whose face had turned pale with fright, and waved for them to carry away Meera’s marble coffin. Raghav seemed to awaken suddenly, drawing his sword to block the way.

“I will not allow anyone to take Meera away!” His voice thundered through the chamber, startling even the birds outside. Raghav was, after all, a government officer and closely connected to Devendra Singh. The guards dared not act against him.

No matter. I will do it myself. I stabbed at Raghav without hesitation. The moment my sword touched him, something heavy struck my neck, and darkness swallowed me. As my cheek hit the cold marble, I heard Meera’s voice—soft, scolding, alive—whispering my name.