Chapter 5: The Trap of Womanhood

On the day of my coming-of-age ceremony—the "Ritu Shuddhi", when a girl turns fifteen—my mother gave me a grand gift.

The entire zenana was decorated with marigold garlands, the scent of sandalwood thick in the air. Drummers played, and trays of mithai were passed around. I wore a red sari, my hair oiled and braided with mogra.

She personally sent me to my royal brother’s bed.

Her hands were cold as she guided me, whispering, "Aaj se tu badi ho gayi, Shreya. Make your own luck."

I could blame no one.

Who would I complain to? My voice was still locked inside.

If anyone was to blame, it was that I was too beautiful—more delicate and lovely than my mother had been in her youth, stirring pity.

Servants in the palace would whisper behind their hands, "Rajkumari has her mother’s charm, and then some. Even the gods must stop to stare."

Those were my mother’s own words. She also said the Crown Prince had feelings for me.

She ran her hand through my hair, inspecting my features, and declared, "Even the Crown Prince can’t look away from you."

Because the way he looked at me was not how a brother looks at a sister.

I remembered his lingering gaze, the way he hesitated before touching my hand. I felt my cheeks burn with shame.

It was the gaze of a man towards a woman.

My heart beat fast whenever he was near; I looked away, afraid of what I might see in his eyes.

Mother wanted me to repeat her old trick—to seduce the Crown Prince and make him err.

She pressed a vial of rose-scented oil into my hand. Her fingers dug into my arm, her voice low and urgent, eyes glittering like a gambler’s before the final throw. "Just like I did. If he falls, our fortune is made."

She wanted to be Maharani, and wanted the Prince of Fortune to become Crown Prince.

She schemed day and night, whispering with the old court astrologer, planning our rise.

What Mother didn’t know was that, deep down, I was relieved.

I dreaded the Maharaj’s eyes, his cold hands. At least with Kabir, there was a memory of kindness.

His Highness had hinted more than once.

He would catch my eye at feasts, his gaze unreadable, lingering just a moment too long.

I was grown, while Mother was ageing.

Her youth was fading, her beauty a memory. I felt a strange mixture of pity and fear.

His Highness even asked if I wished to replace my mother.

The question left me cold. I shook my head, unable to reply.

I was disgusted.

My stomach twisted at the thought—my own brother. But I knew I was trapped.

I knew I could avoid it for a while, but not forever.

There was no escape in this gilded cage. So I waited for night to fall.

So, half resisting, half yielding, I followed Mother’s wishes and climbed into the Crown Prince’s bed.

My hands trembled as I entered, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it would wake the whole palace.

I thought, this time His Highness wouldn’t fight his son for me, right?

Would the Maharaj let his own son have what he wanted? Or would he come for me himself?

Being with the Crown Prince was better than being with Mother’s man.

A cold comfort, but better than the alternative.