Chapter 2: The Maharani’s Decree

When news of Maharani Sunita’s pregnancy arrived, the entire Rajpur Malhotra family was in an uproar.

The courtyard buzzed like the local sabzi market in the morning. Aunts and cousins poured in, their slippers left haphazard at the door, excited chatter echoing against the old walls. Even the peepal tree in the corner seemed to lean in for gossip.

Dadi ji personally received the royal decree, her hands trembling with excitement. "This is such good news. I wonder if Her Highness is well?"

She dabbed her forehead with the pallu of her saree, a smile refusing to leave her face. The air was thick with the scent of incense and marigold garlands, as if the gods themselves had sent a blessing.

The attendant who brought the decree smiled as he helped her up. "With His Highness by her side, Her Highness is doing very well."

He spoke with that peculiar mix of humility and pride that only comes from being close to power. The gold thread on his kurta glinted as he bowed, and I could see the other women in the room sizing him up, hoping for more gossip.

"The Maharani is pregnant, and His Highness is overjoyed. He also heard Her Highness mention that there are many young ladies in the family, so he has sent many gifts for the Maharani, allowing the girls to share in them."

He paused just enough for everyone to catch their breath, his eyes sweeping the room like a teacher scanning for mischief in a classroom. For a heartbeat, his gaze lingered on me, then slid away.

As he spoke, he seemed to glance at me, the look so brief it almost went unnoticed.

I shrank further into my spot, pressing my back against the cool plaster. Even a fleeting look from the palace attendant could stir a flurry of whispers in a house like ours.

I stood in the corner, listless. I hadn’t slept all night, and as soon as I returned, I was summoned to the living room to await the decree, barely able to stand.

My eyes burned from sleeplessness, and my legs ached, but habit kept me upright. A servant placed a glass of nimbu paani on the side table, but I didn’t have the strength to reach for it.

Fortunately, no one noticed.

Perhaps that was a mercy. In families like ours, the less attention you attract, the safer you are. Especially if you’re not born under the right star or the right roof.

When everyone left, I followed the crowd back to the main hall.

My feet dragged over the handwoven dhurrie as I trailed behind, the murmurs of women already shifting to who would get what from the gifts. I caught snippets about who was using what fairness cream and whose daughter was learning Bharatnatyam.

Dadi ji was still excited, laughter bubbling up from time to time.

Her laughter sounded like the temple bells—full and bright, chasing away the gloom that sometimes settled on our home. She called for chai, and the entire house seemed to gather around her as if basking in the warmth of her approval.

Indeed, the Rajpur Malhotra family had declined in influence, and only this daughter, now the Maharani, could support the family. Unfortunately, though she had been favoured for years, she remained childless. Now that she was finally pregnant, Dadi ji was naturally overjoyed.

In every whispered conversation, the same thread appeared: our fortunes rested on the Maharani’s womb. Even the help in the kitchen exchanged knowing glances as they kneaded dough or peeled potatoes.

The legal wife also came forward to flatter her. "Now that Her Highness is pregnant, if she gives birth to a prince, the girls will have a Maharani for a mausi and a prince for a cousin. Their marriages will be on a different level."

As she spoke, she patted my legitimate elder sister, whose gaze was fixed on the gifts.

The legal wife’s words dripped with calculation, as if she was announcing exam results and positioning her daughter at the top. My sister didn’t even blink, eyes hungry for the sparkle of the boxes.

Following her eyes, I saw a set of gold-inlaid gemstone hair ornaments, set with fine pearls, dazzling and radiant.

The light from the chandelier caught the pearls just so, scattering little rainbows onto the marble floor. It looked like something straight out of a Raja Ravi Varma painting—a treasure meant for a princess, not for a shadow like me.

This was tribute from the South. I had seen it before at Raghav Singh’s place.

At that time, the room was dim, and only the luminous pearl on the crown shone faintly.

Seeing me dazed, he smiled and kissed me. "Silly girl, you look as if you’ve never seen such treasures. I’ll give it to you later."

His lips had tasted of whisky, and his laughter was rough, but something gentle hid beneath it. That promise—light as a feather—had landed somewhere deep inside me.

Now, in order to appease me, he bestowed the item.

But this good thing might not end up in my hands.

As expected, the legal wife smiled as she had the hair ornaments sent to my legitimate sister’s room, teasing, "The things your own mausi sends are naturally yours as the legitimate daughter. Why are you so eager?"

Her voice was sharp, but her eyes flicked to me with satisfaction. The servants trailed after her, arms loaded with velvet boxes and tins of sweets. My sister’s laughter rang out, high and victorious. An aunty whispered behind her hand, cousins pretended not to look jealous, and someone fussed over Dadi ji’s tea, adding to the simmering class tension in the air.

In the end, I took a few pearl hairpins and two boxes of Lakmé rouge back to my room.

Priya, the only maid who knew the truth, hugged the box and complained on my behalf. "Madam is really... His Highness clearly wanted you to share in this, but all the good things ended up in the eldest girl’s room."

Priya’s lips curled in a pout as she slammed the box on my dresser. She glanced at my face, seeking anger, but I was too tired even to feel it. In that moment, she seemed more hurt than I was, her loyalty both a comfort and a burden.

I rubbed my brow in silence, preparing to go back to sleep. Before lying down, I traced the pearls with my finger, remembering Raghav’s promise, then set them aside with a sigh.

I never expected to get that set of hair ornaments.

I watched the morning sunlight sneak in through the curtains, trying to warm the cold corners of my heart. Even the pearls on my hairpin seemed to mock me with their dull sheen.

Raghav Singh is the Maharaja. Would he not have thought of these things?

But I didn’t want to dwell on it. Since he couldn’t give it to me openly, bestowing it to the family fulfilled his intentions.

It was only to comfort his own heart.

I understood then—palace love was always offered with one hand and taken away with the other. My heart ached, but I pressed it down, as we all do.