Chapter 3: Shadows in the Courtyard

At last, the Raja stormed off in rage, his face ashen, every word deliberate:

"If anything happens to the Maharani, not a single servant will see tomorrow’s sunrise. Remember that."

Inside and out, every palace servant knelt together. Under the blazing sun, Chutki and several others had already breathed their last.

The courtyard, usually filled with jasmine garlands and the laughter of morning, now reeked of fear. The old chowkidar sprinkled Ganga jal on the steps, as if to wash away the palace’s sins. The guards were experienced; each blow caused internal injuries. Each person only spat a little blood, so it wasn’t a gruesome scene and could be cleaned up easily.

Soon, the bodies were rolled up in old bedsheets, benches stacked three high, and a young attendant came in with a bucket to wash the marble floor.

The sound of water splashing and scrubbing echoed, as if trying to erase the memory of what had happened. The courtyard was quickly restored to its pristine state.

When I returned to the bedchamber, the Maharani was no longer crying. She lay on the divan, snorting in anger.

Her posture was defiant, but her eyes were red-rimmed. She stared at the ceiling fan, which spun listlessly in the heavy afternoon heat.

"Ritika, I want to leave this body. All this so-called love and affection is fake—even the stories about dismissing the other queens are fake, and I didn’t even get to be Maharani. He never loved me."

She said the words as if reciting a prayer, her bitterness thick in the air. "If I could do it over, I’d stay far away from the palace, become a wealthy, carefree lady."

She spoke of another life, untouched by royal politics. "What? It costs that many points to switch to a merchant’s daughter?"

Her lips curled in frustration, her voice almost petulant. "Then switch with Meera. She’s meek and loyal. If her status changed, she’d only be grateful to me. I’ll have her give me a fortune, maybe even make me a princess."

She tapped her foot impatiently on the divan, as if waiting for a cosmic reply. "Would she dare rebel?"

She let out a dry laugh. "The world is so big—surely I can find a pure love."

"Hai Ram, what a lousy scumbag."

The words hung in the air, almost a curse. I can’t even describe how I feel right now.

Confusion, fear, pain, hatred, despair.

My mind was a whirlwind of emotions. The bloodstains from Chutki had just been cleaned. Besides her, there were nine others.

Their faces flashed before my eyes—loyalty etched into every line of suffering. Each one had loyally and cautiously served her.

I remembered Suman’s crooked fingers, the way she still tried to braid hair despite the pain—her devotion written in every twisted joint. Kishore, the attendant who tasted her food, swallowed poison for her; his throat was burned so badly he couldn’t even beg for mercy, only stared with tear-filled eyes.

I couldn’t even process the strange things she was saying.

Her words about points, about switching bodies, swirled in my head like the dust devils on the palace terrace. All I could think was: Are we servants truly not considered people?

I gripped my dupatta tightly, feeling like my very soul was being squeezed out of existence.