Chapter 3: Shared Suffering, Shared Longing

I am an unfavoured little noble lady. A year ago, because I wore the same colour as the Maharani, she punished me for three hours for disrespect.

The memory was as vivid as if it happened yesterday: the green silk saree clinging to my skin in the sticky heat, sweat trickling down my back as I knelt on the hard marble. Every glance from the courtiers was a silent accusation—how dare she?

Just then, Arjun came to deliver iced melons and fruit. With a few words, he coaxed the Maharani into laughter and helped me out of punishment.

I still remember his voice, so soft yet so sure, cracking a joke about mangoes being unripe or sharing a childhood memory of slipping on a watermelon rind. Even the Maharani, with all her pride, couldn’t help but laugh. The tension broke like a monsoon cloud.

I sought him out, wanting to reward him. But unexpectedly, I stumbled upon him being punished by the old attendant.

The sight stopped me in my tracks: the old attendant, all sour face and vinegar tongue, pouring hot chai over Arjun’s bowed head. The scalding steam rose, yet Arjun knelt unflinching, jaw set, shoulders square.

In the sweltering summer, the youth was doused with hot chai, yet knelt upright like a banyan sapling. He lacked the usual servility of attendants. Instead, he seemed full of unyielding spirit.

No matter how the scolding rained down, Arjun’s eyes stayed clear—steady, defiant. There was something in him that would not bow, no matter how hard the world tried to break him.

Later, I happened upon him being punished by the old attendant several more times. He—a little attendant anyone could bully. Me—a consort as good as banished to the cold wing of the palace. After a few such encounters, I felt we were both in the same boat. I pitied him a little more.

I remembered those evenings in my lonely quarters, the distant laughter from the Maharani’s wing, the taste of loneliness sharper than any pickle. In Arjun, I saw a fellow sufferer, and my heart ached for him.

So I sent someone to ask quietly if he was willing to serve in my quarters. “Though it’s not as promising as serving His Highness, the work is easier.” Though my rank wasn’t high, my family still had some money. “If you follow me, I won’t treat you badly.” I spoke sincerely.

I remember wringing my hands nervously as I sent my message, fearing he would laugh behind my back. I promised him mithai and gifts during festivals, new clothes for Diwali, even a little freedom now and then.

Arjun was stunned. In those nearly perfect, rain-washed eyes, a genuine smile bloomed. “Thank you for your favour, Lady, but this servant is fortunate to serve before His Highness and cannot leave easily.” He declined with proper courtesy.

That day, the sunlight was just right. His long, narrow eyes lifted slightly, but he did not cross the line by meeting my gaze. His eyes fell on the neem tree behind me—respectful, restrained. He had an air no ordinary attendant possessed. My heart skipped a beat—Attendant Arjun is truly good-looking.

I lingered in that moment, watching a single neem leaf spin to the ground. My chest fluttered, a teenage crush rekindled by the mere sight of him.