Chapter 1: Sarees and Sarcasm

The day the regiment marched back into the capital, I slipped out of my khaki and wrapped myself in a familiar silk saree, letting my hair tumble down in waves. The soft swish of the pallu as I draped it around my shoulders grounded me, the cool silk and faint scent of jasmine oil making me feel at home after weeks of dust and grit. Through the latticed windows, city sounds drifted in—hawkers shouting, autos honking, and the steady chime of a temple bell somewhere far off. I ran my fingers along the border of my saree, finally steady for the first time in ages.

My nemesis spotted me and sneered, “Arre, Her Highness has a taste for dressing as a woman, after all!” His tone was half-mocking, half-baffled, as if he’d caught me in some scandal. His eyes flicked from my kajal and bindi to the jasmine in my hair, lingering a second too long. The others fell silent, pretending not to watch but missing nothing. I straightened my back, refusing to let embarrassment show.

I fixed him with a blank stare. “What taste? I am a woman.” My voice was as cool as chaas in May. A few people muffled laughter behind their hands. I adjusted my bangles, holding his gaze. Years in the palace had taught me this—assert yourself with pride, never flinch.

He gaped at me, finger pointing in disbelief. “You—you—aren’t you a prince?” His hand hovered, shaking like he’d seen a chudail. Someone in the crowd muttered, "Pagal ho gaya kya?" My cousin hid a giggle behind her dupatta, her eyes sparkling with mischief. The ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, lips twitching.

Rolling my eyes, I snapped, “Are you mad or what? I’m a princess.” The words sliced through the hush like the whistle of the pressure cooker at home. I could hear Ma’s voice in my head: 'Beta, sometimes you have to spell out the obvious for these fools.' I lifted my chin a notch—just as she’d taught me.

Still unconvinced, my nemesis scurried about, pestering every servant and guard, nearly tripping over a stray dog in his quest. News spread through the palace faster than a WhatsApp forward—everyone was talking, emoji reactions and all.

The answers were unanimous. The older guards chuckled, shaking their heads. The cook, wiping his hands on his apron, said, "Bachpan se jaante hain hum, Rajkumari hai woh." Even the gardener, bent over the roses, grinned, "Arrey, sabko pata hai."

“We’ve always known she’s the eldest princess.”

“Major, you really didn’t know?”

Someone called out from the kitchens, "Major saab, aap toh bade ajeeb hain. Ab tak samajh nahi aaya?"

The next morning, my nemesis showed up at the palace gates at dawn, shirtless, red welts on his back, carrying a neem branch like some penitent villain. He stammered, "Galti ho gayi, Rajkumari sahib. Maaf kar dijiye." The aunties on the balcony exchanged glances—"Accha hua, thoda akal toh aayi!"—before turning to the morning pooja.