CHAPTER 12
Marble Walls, Fragile Bonds
MEHER
I let out a soft sigh as I adjust the dupatta over my head, partly because it feels strange to walk these polished corridors without covering it, partly because I’m still not used to the eyes that follow me everywhere. Guards, maids, and even the portraits on the walls seem to track my every move.
Rajkumari Sitara links her arm through mine with a girlish eagerness that almost startles me.
Yesterday evening, she had sent her maid to my room with a neatly folded message, telling me she wished to show me around the palace.
I could have refused, but really, what excuse did I have?
It’s Sunday, so school is off. I don’t know the layout of this palace well enough to wander by myself without ending up in some forbidden wing.
And most of all, if her enthusiasm is genuine, then perhaps I have a chance at a friend here. I could use one.
“Maharani, you really look beautiful,” she says suddenly, her voice as bright as the anklets chiming on her feet.
I startle at the compliment, then smile. “Thank you… and so do you, Rajkumari.”
Her lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite meet her eyes.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong, if calling her Rajkumari was too formal, or perhaps too distant.
But she doesn’t explain, and we’re not close enough for me to pry.
So I let it slide, storing that small flicker of unease somewhere in the back of my mind.
“But I would like it if you don’t call me Maharani,” I add after a pause, chuckling softly. “I don’t think I’m made for that title.” Her mouth opens as though she’s about to argue, but I rush in, “Please… just call me Meher.”
She tilts her head, her eyes curious, as if weighing my request. “Will ‘Bhabhi-sa’ work?”
I blink. Technically, that isn’t wrong. I am her bhabhi now. A part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of it, how quickly a stranger becomes family because of a vow I never asked for. Instead, I nod. “That works.”
“Then, can you call me Sitara? Rajkumari seems too much sometimes.” She chuckles. I nod at her with a smile.
“Good.” Her lips twitch with mischief. “Then let’s begin this adventure.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “Adventure is the right word,” I murmur. Daring, risky… and just a little terrifying.
We start walking, her arm still linked with mine, and I notice how effortlessly she owns the palace space.
She knows which turn will lead to the courtyards, which corridor houses the old paintings of their ancestors, and which hall still smells faintly of rose water because the maids clean it twice daily.
“Of course, we can’t see everything today,” she tells me with a playful wink. “But we can explore the places Bhai-sa usually goes. Who knows, you might accidentally bump into him.”
Her laughter is soft, mischievous, and her eyes gleam with a spark I can’t quite read. I don’t join her laughter, but I smile. There’s an ache inside me at the mention of him, one I’m still figuring out.
We pass through the gardens first, the air heavy with the scent of clematis vines curling up marble pillars.
Sitara explains which fountain is centuries old, which bench is her favorite to sit on during winter mornings, and which mango tree her mother planted when she was younger.
She fills the silence with easy chatter, and I find myself grateful for it.
When we reach the main courtyard, I glance around in awe. The sandstone arches throw long shadows across the tiled floor, and the place hums with the quiet rhythm of palace life—guards marching, maids hurrying, pigeons fluttering from one carved balcony to another.
“And here,” Sitara says proudly, guiding me toward a smaller, more ornate path, “is the way to the royal temple.”
The words make me pause. A temple. My chest tightens, though I can’t say why. Perhaps because temples have always been spaces of peace for me, places where I felt closer to something larger than myself. But here, within these palace walls, it feels different—like even God must sit under protocol.
We climb the marble steps, the bells above chiming faintly in the breeze. But before I can enter, I stop short. Rajmata is already inside.
Her posture is regal as she stands before the deity, lips moving in prayer, her sari pleats perfectly, and her jewels glinting under the golden light of oil lamps. The air shifts when she notices us, her sharp eyes narrowing first at me, then at Sitara.
“Rajkumari,” she greets, her tone cool but not unkind. Then her gaze slides to me, and the warmth drains entirely. “And you.”
I bow my head respectfully. “Namaste, Rajmata.”
But she raises her hand slightly, her voice crisp, cold enough to sting. “This temple is not for outsiders. You may stop at the steps.”
The words land heavy, sharper than I expected. Something in my chest twists, but I force myself to keep my face neutral.
Sitara jumps in quickly, “Rajmata, she’s not an outsider. She’s—”
“She is no Maharani in my eyes,” Rajmata cuts in smoothly, her voice carrying enough authority to silence the temple bells themselves. “A promise may bind the King, but not the heavens. Do not defile this place with pretenses.”
The insult is deliberate, her gaze steady as if daring me to respond.
Sitara grips my arm tighter, her voice soft, pleading. “Rajmata, please… she means no harm.”
Rajmata’s eyes don’t leave me. “Harm is not always in action. Sometimes it is in presence.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck, my palms clenching at my sides. For a second, I consider staying silent, swallowing it down like I’ve always done with stray barbs thrown my way. But something inside me resists. Not today. Not here.
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze directly.
My voice is steady, low, but it doesn’t waver.
“With all due respect, Rajmata… I didn’t ask for this place, or this title.
I didn’t even know of the vow that bound me here.
But if I am insulted as though I forced myself into this family, then I will not remain silent.
This marriage was Maharaj’s vow, his words, his decision—not mine.
If you have anger, direct it at him, not me.
I will not tolerate being treated as if I begged for this. ”
The silence after my words is deafening. Even Sitara seems frozen, her grip slackening on my arm.
I bow once, briefly, then turn on my heel and walk away before anyone can say another word.
Behind me, Sitara whispers my name, but she doesn’t follow. Neither does the maid who had been trailing behind us since morning. Of course she doesn’t. Why would she risk her position after I’ve just spoken against the Rajmata herself? Loyalty bends easily when wages are at stake.
As I step down the temple stairs, my heart is pounding, each beat echoing in my ears. My hands tremble slightly, but not from regret—from the adrenaline of finally speaking out.
If anyone dares complain to Maharaj about this, I know what I will say: I won’t tolerate comments that reduce me to a beggar of this throne. Because I am not. I didn’t plead for this marriage, didn’t weave traps for it. It was his vow, his need, and I refuse to let anyone paint me otherwise.
For the first time since entering this palace, I feel strangely steady. Hurt, yes. Alone, certainly. But steady.
And maybe, that’s enough for today.