Chapter 1: The Price of Sweets

In Rajnivas, if you want something done, just wave a plate of hot samosas at me. Even the pigeons on the jharokha know: Shalu can't resist a snack. People in the palace laugh, saying, "Bas, give Shalu a vada pav or a sweet, and she'll do your bidding!" Sometimes, when the servants gather near the tulsi pot, I hear them call me 'Jhatpat Princess'—quick to agree, quicker to surrender, especially if food is involved. I don’t blame them. Hunger and loneliness have been my shadow in these cold marble halls.

The Grand Tutor—upright and stiff like the flagpole—once handed me a piece of kaju katli. After that, I trailed him for years, hoping for another bite. I still remember that afternoon: he stood beneath the neem tree, his kurta crisp and white, a book under his arm. He broke the kaju katli in half and gave me the bigger piece. Ghee and sugar melted on my tongue, silver vark shining like moonlight. After that, whenever I saw him by the tulsi mandap, I'd tug his sleeve, eyes wide with hope. The maids teased, "Shalu bitiya, chasing after Guruji again?"

What I didn’t know was that behind my back, he called me shameless. In the kitchen, I once overheard him mutter to the old cook, "That girl has no sharam—always after me for a sweet. One day, she’ll touch my feet for a ladoo." His words stung, but not enough to stop me. Amma always said, "Beta, jo khilata hai, uska chehra kabhi mat bhoolna." Kindness, for me, was as simple as kaju katli today, gratitude forever. I would grin at the Grand Tutor, hoping someday he’d see past my empty stomach to the person inside.

But then, news came—Rajpur had lost at the border, and Raja Saheb’s most prized Third Princess was to be married for a political alliance. The palace filled with whispers; even the mango trees looked sadder. At night, Amma’s friends would sit quietly, bangles silent, stirring daal and gossiping about the king’s next move.

One morning, Rajmata herself came to my wing. Her starched sari rustled, but her eyes were tired. She pressed a box of fresh soan papdi into my hands, the cardamom scent mixing with her desperation. Even sweets can be currency here. I wiped crumbs from my mouth and waved my hand, "Rajmata ji, don’t worry. It’s just marriage. If Third Princess doesn’t want to go, I’ll go in her place."

I must have looked ridiculous—sticky fingers and all. But Rajmata smiled, a real, tired smile. Her bangles clinked as she blessed me, whispering, "Bhagwan tumhe khush rakhe, Shalu."