Chapter 4: Riverbank Miracle and the Maharaja’s Wrath

Moonlight draped the palace walls like a thin chadar. Somewhere, a lone tabla beat drifted from the servant quarters.

Curled in a cold tiffin box, I shivered, the metallic scent of old sabzi filling my nose. I imagined my dramatic return—exposing the fake princess, reclaiming my place.

I didn’t know when sleep took me. When I woke, pale light crept over the riverbank. The azaan floated above the water, mingling with sparrow calls.

A woman plucked me from the box, eyes flashing cruel. “Little one, don’t blame me. Only your death can save the cousin girl.”

Help! My tiny fists clenched. I tried to move, but my body felt weighted, my cries muffled.

Kamini raised her hand to toss me in the river. At that instant—

Two black-feathered arrows whistled through the air, skewering her wrists.

The riverbank fell silent. Only the rush of water and the distant azaan filled the air—a miracle, heavy with fate.

“Arrey!” Kamini’s scream shattered the quiet. The riverbank echoed, a wild dog howling beyond the palace walls.

I tumbled, then landed in a familiar, sandalwood-scented embrace.

Maharaja Rajveer was shaking, eyes ringed with exhaustion.

“My Pari… beta, look at Papa… Just a little more…”

The royal doctor checked my pulse, finally exhaling. “The princess is fine, just chilled. Rest easy, Your Highness.”

The old doctor’s hands trembled as he blessed my forehead, sandal paste cool on my skin.

Papa stripped off his angavastram, wrapping me close, handing me to the new ayah—her cotton sari still carrying the scent of rosewater and burnt ghee from morning aarti.

Starving, I drank greedily.

The ayah patted my back, cooing, “Jiyo rani bitiya, nazar utar doon?”

Papa’s face turned cold. Ignoring Kamini’s pleading, he ordered the secret guards:

“I’ve sworn—no more killing. But bring her for questioning. I want every name behind this.”

The guards snapped to attention, red turbans bright in the new sun.

“Those with sons—they’ll become servants, exiled to the Deccan. Three generations barred from office!”

The threat dropped like a family curse. Even the crows on the palace domes hushed.

Whispers raged in the bazaar. Some called Papa heartless; others said he was finally protecting his own.

Kamini broke, sobbing out the Jaya family’s plot. “I only did what I was told! Save me, maai!”

Who’d think a mother would watch her own child be swapped?

When Kamini claimed the Maharani knew nothing, most believed her.

Madam Jaya put on a fainting act. When she revived, she clung to Papa’s sleeve, weeping, “My child! My child is gone!”

Papa gently pulled free, cold eyes glinting. “Don’t worry. The guards were watching.”

He comforted her, but added the Jaya family to the exile list.

Next day, city gossip exploded: “Jaya family banished! Even their mango orchard gone.”

Dadi Sa, hearing how close I came to death, smashed a marble table in rage.

“Sab haramkhor hain! Rajveer, meditation has made you soft?”

I almost giggled, seeing Dadi thump her stick and glare at the courtiers—my real grandmother for sure.

She brushed my hair, finally at peace. “My precious granddaughter is blessed. She’ll surpass you yet.”

Papa nodded, pride swelling: “When Pari grows, she’ll come to court with me.”

Royal children aren’t registered before age one, so Papa nicknamed me Pari. The servants took to calling me Pari rani as they brushed my hair and tickled my toes.

Papa was busy with secretariat and panchayat, but whenever he could, he’d come running—terrified I’d vanish.

I grew up in Hawa Mahal, attended by ayahs and maids, the air filled with gossip, the rustle of silk sarees, and the jingle of glass bangles.

Maharani Jaya rarely appeared. Her feelings—resentment, guilt, no love—were obvious.

Some parents love elsewhere; it’s normal. Her affection was for her exiled brother and grandfather.

As time passed, my world grew clear. Papa’s beard was long, his face sunken—signs of childlessness, the maids would cluck, “Bechara, itna raj, par koi waris nahi…”

I babbled, kicked away Papa’s face, and refused his kisses.

“Aiyo, royal child is greeting us!” the maids giggled as Papa pouted, “Ziddi hai, bacchi bhi.”

He fastened a gold-inlaid anklet on my foot. The cold metal jingled, sweet as honey, echoing through the courtyard.