Chapter 6: Princess of the City

Spring came. The Gomti thawed, and business was brisk. On the third of March, word spread—the princess was going boating. Meera insisted we watch. We found a good spot on the bridge, laying out my dupatta. Hawkers weaved through, calling, “Kulfi! Thandi kulfi!” The river glistened, the crowd buzzing.

The princess’s procession was grand—three decorated boats, each three stories high, banners of white silk fluttering. The middle boat was hers, filled with palace maids and guards, but mostly young, handsome men. Meera squealed, “Didi, dekho! Sab hero lagte hain!” The crowd craned their necks, women shielding their eyes with dupattas, children waving sugarcane sticks.

As the boat drew near, a gust lifted the silk. Meera cried, “Bhaiya, that’s my eldest brother!” I hushed her, heart pounding. Even in a crowd, some faces are unforgettable. The princess, draped in white silk, legs faintly visible, bindi painted, sat with the men as her court. The eldest Sharma brother sat beneath her, his chest exposed, brows furrowed, long lashes trembling. The princess tried to touch his lips, but he turned away. Our eyes met for a heartbeat—his gaze filled with shame and anger.

For a man of principle, this was worse than death. The man I saw now was nothing like the one from that night. For him to endure such humiliation, he must have something even more important than his own life to accomplish. I sent a silent prayer to Durga Ma, to anyone who might listen: keep him safe.