Chapter 5: The Switch

When I opened my eyes again, I sat up abruptly, clutching my neck.

My heart pounded in my chest, and for a split second, I thought I was back in the servants' quarters, listening for the cook's whistle. After gasping for breath, I realised all my old ailments were gone, even the suffocation from being strangled had vanished.

My hands were fair and slender, free of calluses and burns from the gas stove.

I stared at them in disbelief, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. A cool breeze from the jharokha brushed my cheek, carrying the scent of mogra—nothing like the staleness of the servants’ quarters. My shoulders and neck were nimble and light, no longer aching or dizzy, no more creaking with every movement.

My knees—after years of kneeling on marble floors—no longer hurt.

I nearly cried from the sheer relief. I lifted the soft silk quilt and ran to the dressing table. The brass mirror reflected the face of Maharani Priya.

For a moment, I didn't recognize myself, the unfamiliar beauty both thrilling and terrifying. "My lady, did you have a nightmare? I’ll have Kishore fetch a calming syrup from the royal vaidya."

Chutki, who should have been dead, appeared, helping me back onto the couch, her face anxious.

I really had switched with Maharani Priya.

The shock hit me again, like a slap. And I’d returned to five years ago, when Priya had just entered the palace.

At first, the realisation terrified me.

The marble floor felt cool beneath my feet, but my mind whirled. Such a bizarre, supernatural thing had actually happened to me.

The Maharani was beautiful, but lacked depth or cunning.

She was flamboyant, loved to laugh, and never hid her likes or dislikes—she lost her temper regardless of time or place.

She’d say to Rani Lakshmi, who’d been childless for years, that she was too old, and even if she got pregnant, shouldn’t give birth.

She called Anjali a green tea* and made her kneel or slapped her at every meeting.

In the corridors, whispers of "green tea" would flit about, while Anjali dabbed her tears with her pallu and plotted quietly.

*green tea: slang for a woman who pretends to be innocent but is manipulative.

Even when facing the powerful prime minister’s daughter, she never backed down, boldly declaring she was the Raja’s true love and the others were just tools.

If anyone tried to advise her, she didn’t care.

She would wave them off with a flick of her hennaed fingers, the clink of her bangles ringing with arrogance. "Arre, what’s there in life or death? If you have guts, come fight me. No one dares lay a finger on me."

And indeed, no one could touch her.

I lived every day as if walking on eggshells, treating the palace as a fortress, spending all my savings to buy information.

First, I had to guard against Rani Lakshmi’s schemes. She came from a noble family, with many sisters in her courtyard, trained in intrigue from childhood.

Her sarees were always crisp, her eyes sharp as a hawk’s. I had to suppress Anjali, who outwardly submitted but secretly hated the Maharani. If she gained favour and resources, she’d strike without mercy.

There was also Naina, Sunita…

The palace was a chessboard, and I was always a move behind. But I was just a little palace maid. No matter how hard I worked, racking my brains, before power and wealth I was like an ant trying to shake a banyan tree.

I watched helplessly as they schemed and plotted again and again.

After each episode, a few more servants would be lost from Surya Mahal, either crippled or dead.

They were loyal, like soldiers on a battlefield, standing up one after another, charging ahead for the Maharani without hesitation.

At those times, the Maharani would pat my shoulder, a little proudly.

Her touch felt both comforting and dismissive. "Don’t worry, no one remembers extras. I remember. Every little servant who died for me, I remember them all."

Thinking of this, a rebellious, treasonous thought rose in my mind, word by word:

Why can’t I be the Maharani?

She, Priya, is not worthy.

Now, I am her.

I gazed at my reflection, a strange determination rising in my chest, sharper than the pain of lost years.