Chapter 7: Doli to Kaveripur

The doli rocked for sixteen days. I spent every mile trying to pick a name for myself, whispering possibilities against the swish of silk. But I barely knew my letters. By the time we reached Kaveripur, I was still nameless.

The ayahs encouraged, "Pick something grand, bitiya. You’re a queen now." But nothing fit. As dusk fell, I peeked through the curtain—at the city gate stood a tall, burly man. Torches flickered, his shadow huge. My heart thumped: was this the Kaveripur King?

He rode up, dust swirling, then lifted my veil with his sword. The blade glinted near my face; his eyes—sharp, searching—were more frightening than the steel. He looked wild, lion-like, hair uncombed, beard thick. My legs trembled. All my dreams of rose barfi and silk vanished. I clutched my dupatta, wishing Amma were here.

The Rajpur guards and maids shrank as we entered. The horses whinnied nervously. "What’s your name?" he barked. My voice shook, "I... I don’t have a name." He snorted, glaring at his men. "Rajpur Raja’s damn mother tricked us—sent a nameless, yellow-skinned girl."

He dragged me from the doli, pulled me through the palace. My feet barely touched the ground, fear thick in my throat. Thrown before a man on a throne, I landed hard, dust in my mouth. "King, this yellow-skinned girl isn’t a real princess."

Before I could react, the man on the throne gripped my neck—cold, merciless. "If it’s not her, kill her and have them send another." His voice was low, hoarse, dead as the Yamuna in summer. I hiccupped, crying, "I’m a princess! I just don’t have a name!"

Then I saw his face clearly—my heart skipped. It was him. The boy from the palace gardens, who once shared ladoos with me. "Arjun."