Chapter 2: The Cry That Changed Everything

What? I finally made it out—I refuse to be buried like old betel leaves! My soul recoiled, clutching to life. Even as a newborn, panic washed over me. For a split second, I saw a diya flickering against the wind.

In terror, I forced my mouth open and let out a feeble, kitten-like wail.

My old father, hearing my cry, jolted with joy, tears spilling onto my face.

“Jaldi, doctor ko bulao! The princess is crying—she’s alive!”

He yanked open the swaddling, his rough stubble scratching my cheek as he pressed his face to mine. The scratchiness made my nose twitch; his hands shook as he cradled me. Behind him, a servant dropped a silver tray, startling a peacock into shrieking from the jharokha.

“Beta, don’t leave Papa, haan? I swear, from today, no more blood on my hands. Only good deeds for you.”

Too prickly.

I flailed my tiny fists, squinting at the world.

He laughed shakily, his breath scented faintly of paan and cardamom, muttering, “Bas, beta, bas… don’t cry, my Pari.”

Doctors who’d resigned themselves to mourning snapped to attention, checking my pulse one by one.

“There’s a pulse!”

“Strange, it was so faint before—now it’s getting stronger!”

The tension melted away, like the first cool monsoon gust after a scorching day.

The sharp chief attendant dropped to his knees: “Maharaja’s fortune saved the princess!”

Maharaja Rajveer, radiant, waved: “Sabko bakshish milna chahiye!”

Silks, sweets, and gold coins showered the servants. His voice thundered with joy.

I was gently wrapped in soft cloth, smacked my lips, and fell into a deep, restful sleep.

In the background, a Rajasthani lori drifted from the ayah’s lips, lulling me.

Yamraj said, in my last life I’d stacked up enough good karma for a royal rebirth.

So here I was, daughter of the infamous tyrant in a group-pampering novel.

Papa Maharaja, injured on horseback in his youth, had three thousand beauties but no children at thirty-eight.

He’d prayed at every mandir and dargah for an heir.

Maharani Jaya, desperate for favour, tried every secret medicine and ritual. The corridors reeked of ashwagandha, and whispers followed every visit from a hakim or pujari.

But such a child was never healthy, and at seven months, a scheme forced a premature birth.

The child—a stillbirth.

When Papa saw his long-awaited child die, he snapped—waging wars, breaking alliances.

In the original novel, he’d adopt the female lead, hand the kingdom to the male lead, and end up torn apart by five horses.