Chapter 2: Chains of Memory, Flames of Revenge

That day, I shattered every last bit of my pride, unfastening my sherwani layer by layer.

The silver buttons clattered to the marble. The chill of the palace air bit at my skin with every fold I cast aside—sherwani, angarkha, undershirt—each one stripping away a piece of my dignity.

With each layer, I felt the weight of my royal blood diminish.

I let Amit press me across his lap, inside and out, playing with me as he wished.

The silence was broken only by the hiss of the brazier and the cat’s soft purring. My mind swirled with memories—childhood games, secret glances, all twisted now into weapons.

When I could not bear it, I bit his arm and wept. When my body moved, I called his name.

But Amit always remained indifferent, as if no beauty in the world could stir him.

Not because he lacked that part, but because he simply didn’t care for me.

Even as a eunuch, he had no desire for me.

Amit did not love me—he only wished to humiliate me.

This was his revenge for the wounds I once gave him.

The white cat crouched at his feet, staring up at me, meowing as if to ask what game we played now.

Amit toyed with me as if I were that cat.

He humiliated me to the bone.

I bit his arm till blood welled.

Amit pinched my cheek, touched my teeth, and laughed. "Such sharp teeth."

His laughter was soft, almost like an elder teasing a stubborn child, but the sting of mockery was there. Blood dripped onto the rug—a scandal, once, but now just another secret between us.

With my face wet with tears, I trembled on his lap.

Amit’s eyes darkened. He let me go, but his words were sharp. "Can’t take it? You’re more delicate than a rasgulla."

His taunt stung. I’d been called many things—never delicate, never sweet. His tone was the same used by the women’s quarters’ gossiping aunties.

Comparing me to a cat.

I shut my mouth and bit his finger.

Amit didn’t pull away, letting me bite until blood beaded. With his free hand, he stroked my hair lazily.

"Always biting people. One day I’ll knock out those sharp teeth of yours."

The threat was casual, but it made my heart thump hard. The shadows grew long around us. I bit down harder, but he only smiled, as if amused by a child’s tantrum.

---

That whole winter, I stayed in the Eastern Wing. Only after my mother recovered did I return to Surya Mahal.

The corridors, lined with faded murals and creaking doors, felt colder than ever. My feet ached with every step on the marble. Outside, neem trees scratched at the palace walls, their bare branches like the hands of ghosts.

The palace maids blocked me from the hall.

Rajmata had awakened, but refused all visitors.

She would not see me either.

Three days later, my mother requested leave to guard the late Maharaja’s samadhi.

She never saw me before leaving. I chased her carriage, running through the palace walls, desperate to stop her.

My voice grew hoarse, burning in my throat. Maids and guards stared as I stumbled, my hair loose, robes in disarray—Rajpur’s prince reduced to a beggar at his mother’s door.

I fell, rose, and ran again, but was stopped at the main gate.

Amit’s arm circled my waist. "Stop chasing. Once she’s beyond the gates, where will you go?"

His grip was unyielding. I struggled, vision blurred with tears and fury, the world reduced to the pounding of my heart.

The road ahead was empty.

I shoved Amit away, eyes red as I screamed, "Get out. Get out! All of you, get out!"

"Go! Leave me nothing."

Let me rot alone in this palace.

The marble beneath my feet was cold as death. My voice echoed in the empty halls. For a moment, I wished the palace would swallow me whole.

Amit frowned, covered my mouth, and pinned me to the wall. "What are you screaming for?"

"Nikamma. Can’t live without your mother?"

His words were sharper than a blade. In Rajputana, to be called nikamma is worse than a slap. My pride burned, but grief was stronger.

I glared at him, hatred filling my eyes.

Amit was unafraid. He softened his voice, coaxing, "I won’t leave. I’ll be your mother, how about that?"

I couldn’t push him away. I looked at him and wept.

Amit stared at me for a long moment, then said, "No more tears."

But I cried anyway.

Why should he care?

He doesn’t want me either.

Just like my mother.

My tears wouldn’t stop, as if the Yamuna itself flowed from my eyes. Even the grandest palace couldn’t hold back that flood of loneliness.

---

Amit was not always a eunuch.

He was born Kabir, son of the Justice Minister, Mr. Sharma.

At eight, he wrote a poem that made the Maharaja call him "no ordinary child" and made him the Crown Prince’s companion.

His fame spread like the scent of mogra after the rains—every corridor buzzed with tales of the prodigy Sharma boy. My mother would sigh, "That child will bring storms one day."

When I was five, Kabir stole my jalebi; at six, he took me to steal bird eggs; at seven, he tricked me into calling him "bhaiya" for a sugar figurine; at nine, he coaxed me to fish out the costliest carp to roast.

Those were days of mischief and laughter, my hands sticky with syrup, my knees scraped from chasing Kabir through the mango orchards. We hid behind the kitchen, the smell of frying besan and ghee thick in the air, giggling over stolen jalebis.

My mother would storm in, anklets ringing, yanking my ear: "Stay away from that little devil from the Sharma family!"

Kabir would only grin and wave from a safe distance.

He taught me to climb walls and crawl through dog holes.

I can still feel the roughness of the palace stones, Kabir’s voice urging me higher. Those adventures left scars, both seen and hidden.

When I was thirteen, the Crown Prince rebelled and was executed. The Sharma family was accused of treason—three branches wiped out. Only Kabir survived, by entering the palace as a eunuch and becoming Amit.

The one who saved Kabir was not me, but Arjun.

Arjun knelt for half a day in the rain before the Maharaja’s hall to beg for Amit’s life. His frail body worsened, leaving him with a chronic illness.

The legend of Arjun’s sacrifice spread through the zenana and durbar. Elders whispered, "Such loyalty—may the gods reward him." I watched the rain soak Arjun, powerless and ashamed.

Amit said he’d rather have died than let Arjun kneel and suffer.

Amit cared for Arjun.

But that day...

That day, I too knelt in Surya Mahal all day and night, knocking my head until it bled, begging my mother to let me plead for Amit’s life.

Blood mingled with rain on my forehead. Servants whispered, but none dared intervene. My mother’s heart stayed unmoved, her face cold as a marble idol.

But in the end, I was powerless.

Amit entered Arjun’s Chandan Mahal and became a stranger to me.

I thought Amit blamed me for not saving him. I tried to explain in the palace corridors, seeking ways to transfer him to Surya Mahal.

But Amit refused.

He said he wished to stay with Arjun.

"Fourth Highness is loved by all. Second Highness has nothing. I must stay with him."

Of all my privileges, Amit alone was not mine.

He gave what should have been mine to Arjun.

Later, the rivalry between Arjun and I grew bitter.

My attendant, Raju, drowned.

Raju had served me for years, covering for my childhood mischief with Kabir, massaging my stomach when I overate.

But Raju was killed by Amit.

Raju could swim—he climbed out of the pond three times, but each time Amit kicked him back in. The last time, he never returned.

I hated Amit.

Hated him so much I lost sleep.

I used my father’s authority to transfer Amit to Surya Mahal, had him whipped, grabbed his collar, demanded why he killed.

Amit only laughed, quietly. "Because he blocked Second Highness’s way."

His eyes glittered in the torchlight, unfazed by blood or welts. His calm only fanned my rage.

I slapped him.

"Truly a loyal dog raised by Arjun."

"They say you’re Arjun’s bed servant. I didn’t believe it, but now I see I overestimated you."

I stepped on his ruined body. "Even without that, can you still play?"

"Tell me, how do you serve Arjun?"

Amit let me step on him, enduring the pain, and laughed. "Is Your Highness jealous?"

His question burned. My hand tightened on a chess piece nearby, and I bit the inside of my cheek, unable to look away from him and Arjun together.

I kicked him away, spitting cruel words to shield my heart.

I, a prince—should I kneel and beg a heartless servant for affection?

"Jealous? All I feel is disgust."

"If even Royal Brother could bear it, could a rootless thing like you possibly enjoy it? Aren’t you ashamed?"

I forced a sneer, eyes bloodshot, full of malice as I stomped down, tormenting Amit with all my might.

I wanted him to hurt, to hate, to suffer as I did.

"I gave you a chance to be human, but you refused. Then be a good dog for me."

Amit stayed in Surya Mahal for a year and a half. I poured all my anger and humiliation onto him.

He never spoke a word, only lowered his eyes and endured.

Until he was transferred out, to the Maharaja’s own quarters, to serve my father.

Later, Amit rose higher—became my father’s favourite, chief steward of the Eastern Wing, and the man who signed royal decrees.

After my father’s death, Amit supported Arjun, abandoning me utterly.