Chapter 1: The Choice

Appa’s voice echoed through the ancestral hall: “Ananya, it’s time. Will it be Arjun Singh or Kabir Mehra?”

The air was thick, like the moments before the monsoon rain, as Appa fixed me with that unique mix of authority and affection only a South Indian patriarch can muster. The oil paintings glared down, their eyes as stern as Appa’s during Sunday pooja, making it feel as if generations past were waiting for my answer. Just as I opened my mouth, words scrolled across my vision—like WhatsApp forwards popping up in Amma’s family group, but sharper, more insistent.

“Little princess, don’t pick Kabir. He’s too ambitious—if you make him your husband, you’ll only ruin him. He won’t be able to serve in government, nor can he openly have heart-to-heart conversations with talented women.”

The words shimmered, catching the glare of the overhead tube light on the polished marble, almost mocking my indecision. I stole a glance at Appa’s stern face, wondering if he too could see these floating judgements, or if I was just losing my mind after years of everyone’s opinions echoing in my head.

“Don’t pick Arjun either. If the young army officer becomes your husband, isn’t that like clipping an eagle’s wings?”

My fingers twisted the edge of my dupatta, my heartbeat loud as temple drums. My eyes flickered to Arjun Singh, who stood ramrod straight, hands at his sides in a soldier’s pose, his gaze steady and unblinking. The polish of his boots, the crispness of his uniform—he was all discipline and silent strength, just like the sepia-toned men in my grandfather’s regiment photos. Could I really be the one to cage a spirit like his?

“Honestly, I’m getting annoyed with the little princess. She’s just a burden. Might as well send her off for a marriage alliance to some distant state.”

That line landed like the sharp gossip of aunties at a family function, stinging and heavy. My heart squeezed tight, and for a moment, I pictured myself exiled to some far-off place, far from the calls of the masjid, the temple bells, Appa’s evening filter coffee, and the musical clatter of Amma’s bangles in the verandah.

I stood frozen, unable to point at anyone.

Another message scrolled past:

“Don’t make the choice for Arjun, okay? He trained so hard at the border just to serve the little princess. Are those who don’t want him chosen trying to ruin him instead?”

My gaze sharpened, falling on Arjun Singh, who knelt respectfully on the white cotton rug, as was custom during family decisions. All his strength and focus seemed directed at me, a silent challenge.

My father repeated his question, voice softer but no less insistent.

A tense silence filled the room, broken only by the whirring ceiling fan and the distant sing-song call of the vegetable vendor. The two men remained where they were, while the floating words bickered and contradicted each other, just like every aunty from our colony WhatsApp group had decided to weigh in, their opinions swirling in the air.

“If Kabir becomes husband, he’s finished. He can’t realize his ambitions, can’t confide in his confidante—he’ll end up depressed.”

Those words felt heavy, as if a pile of wet laundry had been dumped on my chest. Kabir’s eyes never left the floor, and I wondered if he, too, heard the endless chorus of what the world wanted for him.

“What a pity. If Kabir doesn’t become husband, he and Meera could be soulmates and live in harmony. How happy they’d be.”

I remembered the times we played cricket in the garden, Meera’s laughter making Kabir smile in a way he never did for anyone else. My throat tightened, but I refused to let anyone see.

“Isn’t Arjun fine as a lion on the battlefield? Why drag him into this mess? Once the royal family seizes power, he’ll have to behave.”

The word 'behave' made me think of Amma’s warnings—never let a man feel trapped, or he’ll find freedom in rebellion. Would Arjun ever forgive me if I tied him down to the politics of family life?

“Arjun isn’t willing? Not true. He even washed the princess’s childhood handkerchiefs until they were white. Look at our young officer—his sense of service is first-rate, and he really puts his heart into it.”

That memory flashed—Arjun, awkward and earnest, scrubbing my red handkerchief while my cousins giggled in the corridor. Even then, he’d been so sincere.

“No matter if it’s black or white, you just say it’s yellow, huh?”

A snide comment—just like the arguments after Sunday lunch, when everyone’s too full and too free with their opinions.

“Arjun’s supporters, quiet down for a bit. To her, Arjun is just a stranger.”

Those words stung, echoing my own confusion. Did I really know Arjun, or was he just another face in the endless parade of eligible bachelors?

“When will she realize that Kabir doesn’t want to be her husband, nor does he like her? Her affection for Kabir will only annoy him.”

That line pierced my heart like a needle.

The person I admired was Kabir, but my feelings only made him uncomfortable.

The debate in the air continued. I looked at the two men—both dignified, both waiting. The distant strains of a Bollywood song floated in from the servants’ quarters, as if the world outside was indifferent to the storm inside me.

Appa had picked them from the best families, wanting a diamond for his daughter. I had never questioned it.

Growing old with Kabir was something I’d always taken for granted since childhood.

But the floating words made me hesitate.

“Ananya, have you decided?”

Appa’s eyes were stern and gentle all at once. Whatever I chose, he would support me.

My fingers twisted my dupatta tighter. I took a breath, let my heart lead, and slowly pointed in Kabir’s direction.