Chapter 3: Old Monk and New Beginnings

Madhushala Tower was a place my brother and Kabir had taken me before—where they’d discuss tutors while I sampled treats.

Tonight, I was alone.

The waiter slid a plate of masala peanuts in front of me. I ignored it, staring at the mosaic tiles, feeling the burn of Old Monk on my tongue. The air was thick with the scent of rose petals and spilled whiskey, laughter bouncing off stained glass windows.

They say a single drunken night can wash away a thousand sorrows.

I hugged the bottle and cried, not even knowing how to drown my sorrows properly. I kept repeating to myself that Kabir didn’t care for me, that I wouldn’t choose him.

Just get drunk once, and I could let him go.

I forced myself to take another sip, frowning tightly as the cheap rum burned down my throat.

“If the princess can’t drink, she shouldn’t force herself. Forcing a match will never end well.”

“She won’t pick Kabir again, right? Look at our young officer—he ran ten laps around the training ground after leaving the house, grinning the whole time. He must think the princess likes him.”

“Not necessarily. With the princess’s temperament, she might force her love on Kabir. Whether it’s a sweet mango or a sour one, once she picks it, it’s hers.”

Why do they talk about me like this? Maybe this was my own mind playing tricks—too many years of hearing everyone else’s opinions, now echoing in my head.

“I’m not choosing Kabir.”

I couldn’t help but choke out the words.

The barrage paused, then became even more chaotic, like every aunty from the colony WhatsApp group fighting to be heard.

“She can see the commentary?”

“She must be drunk, talking nonsense.”

“The driver only ensures safety. They won’t meddle in their madam’s affairs. Is the princess going to spend the night outside the house?”

“Arjun was dragged here by his friends for a meal. How can we get Arjun to see the princess? Hurry, hurry!”

Arjun—what does he have to do with me? Why do they want him to see me?

Annoyed, I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the floating words.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

I ignored it.

The knocking paused, then resumed, louder.

I threw a wine glass at the door. “What’s all the noise?”

The glass shattered. The door opened.

Arjun Singh, tall and solid, blocked the doorway. He turned, dismissed his friends, and entered, squatting beside me. “Ananya, are you drunk?”

I turned away. “No, just had two sips.”

“I’ll escort you back home.”

He raised his hand, hesitated, then withdrew it and offered me a plain white handkerchief from his pocket.

I didn’t take it. Through the blur of tears, I studied him. He’d been out in the sun, not as fair as Kabir, but solid, smelling of sun-dried clothes and wild grass—fresh, honest.

I pinched a damp lock of his hair. He froze, eyes wide, not daring to move.

I pressed closer, looking into his eyes, not missing a single change in his expression. “Do you want to be my husband?”

Arjun’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He nodded, without hesitation. “I do.”

I smiled, eyes curved. “Then you can escort me back home.”