Chapter 6: Growing Up Crown Princess

Spring faded into another golden year. The garden blazed with marigold and champa, peacocks called from the rooftops, and the smell of mango blossoms wafted through jali windows.

Before I turned three, I lived in the main palace. When I grew older, Papa built a Crown Princess Hall—pink sandstone pillars, a silver swing, Ramayana murals. My anklets rang against polished floors.

Papa, once clueless, now untied my hair and washed my feet with ease. The ayahs giggled, “Raja Sahib toh ab expert ho gaye!”

He oversaw my meals, tasted my kheer, tied my hair—sometimes crooked, but always with love. He’d press a kiss to my forehead, or tuck a black thread behind my ear for nazar.

But he still lost his temper. When I dipped my hand in ink and crawled over his files, he roared: “Little monkey, stop!”

I waved my blackened paw. “It’s fun! Pari wants to play!”

The head guard, black-clad, entered just as I played on Papa’s thinning hair. He shot me a look—"Beta, don’t make him bald!"

“Greetings, Your Highness. Long life to the princess.”

I stared at him—kohl eyes, a beauty spot, voice like a dhrupad singer.

Papa snorted, “If you hadn’t come back, I’d think you died outside.”

But his words were affectionate.

The man smiled. “Thank you for Your Highness’s concern. I lost my memory—delayed me.”

I asked, “Papa, who is this?”

Papa’s eyes brightened. He handed me over. “Your Chacha Pehlaj—no, call him Yafu.”

Pehlaj was stunned. I snuggled in, handed him squished barfi. “Yafu, eat sweet.”

He chuckled, “Wah, rani bitiya feeding me?”

He took it, savoring each bite, ayahs giggling, “Dekho, Pari rani—sab ka dil jeet liya.”

Yafu reported palace corruption to Papa. I played nearby, the air thick with old paper, sandal polish, and the distant crackle of fireworks from the city festival.

As Pehlaj stood to leave, I hesitated—knowing if Yafu left, he might never return. The bad shagun on his face was clear—the death tribulation would strike tonight.

Tonight, the palace shadows felt heavier. I gripped my anklet, wishing I could protect him—just this once.