CHAPTER 3
A Gold Cage?
POORVI
The sound of my sitaar flows low in the air, each note curling softly like smoke, filling the quiet corners of my room.
My fingers move over the strings almost on their own, muscle memory guiding them as my mind drifts elsewhere.
There’s something comforting about this—the soft vibration under my fingertips, the music breathing life into a space that often feels too still, too silent.
This room is the only place in the palace that feels mine. Not because it’s beautiful—though it is, with its carved arches and pale blue walls—but because here, no one watches. No one judges.
I lean forward slightly, closing my eyes as the sound deepens, wrapping around me like a shawl. For a moment, it’s enough. For a moment, I can almost pretend I belong somewhere.
The door bursts open.
“Rajkumari!”
The string snaps under my fingers, the sharp sting biting my skin as I jerk back. My heart stumbles in my chest as I look up to see Janki standing in the doorway, breathless.
“What happened?” I ask, frowning, setting the sitar gently on the rug.
“Maharaj is calling you.”
I blink. The words don’t make sense at first. “Me?”
She nods, urgency shining in her eyes. “Yes, Rajkumari. Please hurry.”
I rise quickly, smoothing the creases in my pale pink lehenga. My palms feel clammy, and not because of the broken string. The Maharaj never calls for me. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been summoned to his office—and each one left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Janki steps forward, murmuring, “I’ll put your sitaar away, Rajkumari. Please go. Don’t keep him waiting.”
I nod stiffly and follow the younger maid who stands ready at the door.
My sandals click softly against the cool marble as we walk through the long corridor.
Sunlight filters in through the jharokhas, gilding the floors in warm gold.
The palace is quiet, almost serene—but inside me, something churns.
I glance at the maid beside me, her dupatta fluttering slightly as she keeps pace. “Why do you think I was called?”
She bows her head quickly. “I don’t know, Rajkumari.”
Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? Maharaj Digvijay doesn’t share his thoughts with anyone, least of all with me.
Digvijay Sisodiya. My half-brother. My king.
After our father died, he took the throne like it was always meant for him—and maybe it was.
Being the eldest son of the Rajmata, there was never any question.
I wasn’t invited to the coronation, naturally.
But still, I thought it would be unkind not to congratulate him.
So I spent an entire week painting him a gift. His portrait. It wasn’t perfect—not even close. My brushstrokes were clumsy, my colors too stark. But it was mine, a piece of me I thought he might value.
When I went to his chambers, I stood outside for hours, rehearsing what to say. But when the door opened, it wasn’t him—it was a guard, his face blank. “The Maharaj says you can hand it over to me.”
And that was it. He never even looked at it.
Never even looked at me. I told myself it didn’t matter.
That maybe he was busy. That maybe it was foolish to expect warmth where none existed.
But I’d poured every ounce of hope into that canvas, every desperate, aching wish for a little recognition.
For something that said: You matter. I see you.
He didn’t see me. He never has.
And maybe I don’t blame him. How could I?
His mother made sure I stayed ten miles away from her children.
Rajmata Sumitra, in her silks and diamonds, the perfect queen with a gaze like ice.
If I were in her place, I might have hated me, too.
If my husband had betrayed me, had fathered a child outside his vows…
But none of this was my fault.
I wasn’t asking for love. I stopped asking for that long ago. All I ever wanted was kindness. A little space to exist without being treated like a stain on their marble floors.
We reach the heavy teak doors of his study. They loom before me like the gates of some ancient fortress. The maid starts to follow, but I stop her with a quiet, “You stay here. I’ll go in alone.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Rajkumari—”
“It’s never good when I’m called here,” I say softly. “I don’t want anyone to witness that.”
Before she can argue, I push the door open.
The room is vast, lined with bookshelves and heavy drapes that filter the sunlight into muted gold. The scent of sandalwood and ink lingers in the air. Behind the massive desk sits Maharaj, bent over some papers, his pen scratching against parchment. When he hears the door, he looks up.
“Good. You’re here.”
His voice is clipped, businesslike. No greeting. No warmth. Just words that weigh too much.
He rises, straightening the cuffs of his crisp white achkan before slipping on his coat. Everything about him is precise, controlled. Even his movements feel rehearsed.
“I sent your marriage proposal to Kunwar Vihaan Singh Shekawat,” he says, as casually as if he’s announcing the weather.
For a moment, I can’t breathe. The words hang in the air, sharp and cold, slicing through whatever fragile calm I carried here.
Marriage.
To Kunwar Vihaan Singh Shekawat.
Oh no. No, no, no. This was the last thing I expected. The last thing I wanted.
“Who…” My voice falters. “Who would want to marry me?”
His gaze hardens. “He said he wants to meet you.”
My stomach drops like a stone hurled into a deep well. The room tilts. I grip the edge of the nearest chair, trying to steady myself.
Why? How is that possible? Does he not know who I am? What I am?
Does he not know I’m the illegitimate child everyone whispers about behind closed doors?
“I need you to marry him,” Digvijay says, his tone firm, final.
“Bhai-sa—”
“Enough.” His voice cracks like a whip. “I am your Maharaj, not your bhai-sa.”
The words slam into me, hard and merciless. I go still, my breath lodged somewhere deep in my throat.
He stares at me, waiting for compliance, for silence. But something inside me stirs—weak, trembling, but alive.
“I… I don’t want to marry right now,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. “Rajkumari Koyal is older than me. She—”
“I didn’t ask for your advice,” he snaps, his voice booming through the room, shaking the fragile walls I’ve built inside myself. “God, what is wrong with the women in this palace?”
I flinch, every muscle taut with fear.
“In fact,” he continues, his face darkening, “you’re not even a part of this family. Just because your mother decided to whore around with my—”
“Maharaj!” The word tears out of me like a scream, raw and jagged. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I cannot—will not—hear a word against my mother. No matter who says it. No matter the throne they sit on.
“She was my mother,” I whisper, my voice shaking but firm. “Please don’t speak about her like that. It wasn’t her fault. It was my father’s. He knew he was married. I’m not defending her, but… how could she defy a king? They loved each other. It should have been him who stopped it.”
His eyes darken, his jaw tightening like a steel trap. “Did you just raise your voice at me?”
I force myself not to shrink, though my hands tremble at my sides. “Please,” I say softly, “don’t talk about my mother like that.”
His laugh is cold, humorless. “I’m not asking for your permission. I have already told him yes. The marriage will take place next week.” He walks closer. “You better convince him.” He glares, his finger pointing at me.
Next week.
The words crash over me like a tidal wave, dragging me under. Next week. Seven days from now, my life will no longer be mine. Not that it ever truly was.
My world tilts, cracks forming in every dream I’d ever dared to hold.
Marriage is supposed to be sacred. A choice. A bond born of love, or at least respect. And now… now I’m nothing but a bargaining chip in Digvijay’s game of power.
“Be thankful,” he says coldly, walking back and sinking in his chair, his pen scratching across paper again as if I’m already dismissed. “You got to grow up in this palace because of my father’s generosity. He liked your mother too much for his own good.”
The words sting like acid.
“You will meet him tomorrow,” he adds without looking up. “You will behave. Do not embarrass me.”
His nostrils flare, his jaw set in a line so sharp it could cut.
I stare at him, my voice lost somewhere in the wreckage inside me. My feet feel heavy, but somehow, they move. Somehow, I turn and walk toward the door, each step hollow.
Tears prick my eyes, hot and relentless, spilling before I can stop them. They blur the gilded frames on the walls, the silken drapes, the marble floors—all the finery of a world that has never felt like mine.
Am I just an object to them? A piece to be moved across a board for their benefit?
All I’ve ever wanted was love. To be enough for someone. To be seen. Truly seen.
And for a fleeting moment, I thought maybe that would come when I married—that at least my husband would look at me and know I exist. That I matter.
But even that dream, he’s taken from me.
The tears stream freely now as I step out into the corridor, the heavy doors closing behind me with a sound that feels final.
Inside my chest, something breaks. And I wonder if it will ever mend.