CHAPTER 36
Stilled in Paint
DEVRAJ
The hall smells faintly of turpentine and polished wood, and the light filtering in through the high windows glows golden, like a blessing from the heavens.
The room has always felt sacred to me—not a temple, but something akin to it.
Portrait day. A tradition I grew up watching, never questioning.
Every generation of my family has their likeness committed to canvas—stilled forever in oil and pigment, hung alongside the others in the gallery that smells of dust and memory.
As a boy, I used to run down that gallery with careless feet, eyes darting over the serious faces of men and women who shared my blood.
They always looked so distant, so cold, staring down as if I would never measure up.
I remember wondering why they never smiled.
Why they seemed carved in stone, not flesh and blood.
Today, standing here, I think of those childhood questions.
And today, for the first time, I have an answer.
Meher fidgets on the cushioned chair placed in the center of the hall, her back far too stiff, her eyes darting anywhere but at me.
She looks… small. Out of place. A wild bird caged in silk.
Her fingers worry the embroidered border of her dupatta, tugging and twisting as though the threads will give her courage.
I almost step in to still her hands, but I stop myself.
She wouldn’t thank me for pointing it out.
The painter is fussing with his palette, muttering to himself, and I smooth down the front of my sherwani before I let my hand rest gently on her shoulder, the way he instructed. Tradition demands that I stand while she sits, a composition of power and poise. Husband and wife. King and queen.
But she shifts beneath my hand, restless, craning her neck to look up at me with those dark, questioning eyes. “Raja-sa…” she whispers, her lips curving into the beginnings of a pout. “Do we really have to sit like this? Can’t we just… I don’t know… take a picture? Like normal people do?”
A laugh escapes me before I can help it, soft and unguarded.
Trust Meher to bring up modernity in the middle of centuries-old rituals.
Her ability to strip away formality in a single breath is one of the things I admire most about her, though I’d never admit that aloud.
But I also can't expect her to understand these rituals considering she hasn't been a royal forever.
“A picture?” I echo, raising a brow. “And what would that do in the long run? A photo fades, pixels blur, technology becomes obsolete. But paint…” I glance at the easel where the artist is mixing colors, “…paint lasts.”
She huffs, her nose wrinkling in that way that makes my chest feel unexpectedly light. “But pictures are quicker. We wouldn’t have to sit frozen like statues for hours.”
I tilt my head, studying her profile as she complains. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way her lashes flutter when she tries not to look directly at me; it all amuses me endlessly. She thinks she’s resisting, but she doesn’t see how her defiance only draws me in further.
“Rani-sa,” I murmur low enough that only she can hear, “you think standing here with my hand on your shoulder is a burden? For me, it is nothing but… privilege.”
Her cheeks flush, a soft pink blooming over her skin. She immediately turns her gaze away, pretending to examine the painter’s brushes, as if the smudged bristles are suddenly fascinating. My lips twitch into a smile. She has no idea how beautiful she looks when she’s flustered—unguarded, real.
The artist clears his throat, reminding us of his presence. “If you could both remain still, please. Maharaj, a little more upright. Maharani, chin slightly higher.”
Meher obeys reluctantly, raising her chin with all the enthusiasm of someone being marched to the gallows. I suppress another laugh, but my shoulders shake faintly with the effort.
Without moving her lips, she mutters, “I feel ridiculous.”
“You look regal,” I counter smoothly. “Exactly as you are meant to.”
Her eyes flick toward me, quick and disbelieving. “Regal? I feel like a mannequin.”
“Then a very lovely mannequin,” I tease, leaning just enough that my words graze her ear. “One I would happily keep in my palace forever.”
She stiffens, her breath hitching just slightly, then turns her head a fraction—earning a sharp ahem from the artist. I can’t help but chuckle. She makes it too easy.
Minutes stretch long and slow. The artist’s brush moves against canvas, scratching faintly, capturing details we cannot see.
My palm grows warm where it rests on her shoulder, and I become acutely aware of the rise and fall of her breath.
She sits straighter now, though every so often her hands clench in her lap as if she longs to flee.
And I… I find myself studying her more than I should.
The curve of her neck. The loose tendril of hair that refuses to stay pinned.
The quiet strength in the way she endures discomfort without complaint.
She doesn't want to do this, yet she is here for my sake. I am grateful for that. Shebelongs here, even if she doesn’t yet believe it.
“Raja-sa…” she whispers suddenly, almost too low to catch.
“Hmm?”
Her lips curl, and she whispers, “If this portrait turns out terrible, I’m blaming you.”
I bite back a laugh, forcing my expression to remain calm for the painter’s sake. “If it turns out terrible, Rani-sa, then we shall have another made. As many as you like. Until you are satisfied.”
“Or until you run out of walls to hang them on.”
Her sarcasm only makes my smile widen. This—this is what I like most. Not the stiff politeness. Not the hesitant deference. But this unfiltered Meher, unafraid to poke at me, unafraid to break through the layers of tradition with one wry comment.
We fall into silence again, but it feels different this time. Softer. Easier. She shifts slightly, leaning back just enough that her shoulder presses more firmly into my hand. The contact is small, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but to me it feels deliberate. Grounding.
The artist pauses to change brushes, rinsing one in a jar of cloudy water. Meher seizes the moment to whisper again, her tone laced with genuine curiosity. “Do you… actually like this tradition?”
I think about it. Truly think. The portraits I grew up walking past in the gallery were cold, distant things.
Faces of ancestors I never knew, expressions frozen in dignity and detachment.
“As a boy, I thought it was silly,” I admit.
“All those serious faces staring down from the walls. I used to wonder why no one ever smiled.”
She tilts her head, eyes wide with interest. “And now?”
“Now…” I pause, feeling the weight of the moment settle around us. “…now I think perhaps they misunderstood what it meant to be remembered. If this painting captures even a fraction of this—” my fingers tighten slightly on her shoulder, “—then it will not be silly. It will be precious.”
Her lips part, and I see the words hovering there, unspoken. Instead, her gaze softens, and something warm flickers in her expression. For a moment, the silence between us hums, charged, as though the air itself leans closer to listen.
The painter’s voice slices through it with brisk authority. “Maharani, eyes forward, please. Maharaj, steady your hand.”
She snaps her attention forward, flustered. I straighten, carefully masking my amusement.
Time drifts again, marked only by the scratch of bristles on canvas and the occasional scrape of palette knife.
I can almost feel her impatience vibrating through the air.
She’s trying to be composed, but I know her too well already.
Her foot taps softly against the floor once, twice.
Then, when she thinks I’m not watching, she lets out the faintest sigh.
I lean down, close enough that my words are a secret. “Bored already, Rani-sa?”
She cuts me a side-eye, her lips twitching. “You mean you’re not?”
“No,” I answer simply, truthfully. “Because you are here.”
The pink on her cheeks deepens instantly, and she looks forward again, stubborn as ever. Victory curls through me, warm and satisfying.
At last, the artist steps back with a satisfied hum. “We have enough for today. I will continue the details on my own. You may move now.”
Meher springs upright like a coil released, muttering under her breath, “Finally.”
I laugh openly, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness. “You make it sound like torture.”
“Because it was,” she retorts, gathering her dupatta. Her eyes flash with mock indignation. “Next time, Raja-sa, we’re taking a selfie. Tradition or not.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “We shall see, Rani-sa.”
She strides toward the door, the sway of her steps equal parts elegant and defiant. I linger a moment longer, drawn to the unfinished canvas. The outline is rough, colors incomplete, but already I can see it—the beginning of something permanent.
For the first time, the gallery of ancestors does not feel cold or distant. Because soon, she will be there too. With me.
Always.