BACK HOME?
ANAMIKA
"Sara." I crouch in front of her, tugging at the collar of her little cotton top even though I've already straightened it twice. The fabric refuses to stay still beneath my fingers, or maybe it's my hands that won't.
The room they've given us in the staff quarters is barely large enough for the two of us.
Damp patches creep along one corner of the wall, the plaster smells permanently wet, and the faint scent of cheap detergent lingers in the air from freshly washed uniforms hanging outside.
Through the thin ceiling, I can hear the palace waking into another busy morning—doors opening and closing somewhere above us, distant footsteps echoing across marble floors, voices carrying faintly through corridors I'll never belong to again.
"Listen to me carefully," I say, keeping my voice gentle. "You don't leave these quarters. Not even to the courtyard. If you need anything, you wait for me. Understand?"
Sara looks up from where she's balancing on her tiny feet and gives me the most dramatic eye-roll imaginable. Honestly, she deserves an award for it. "Mumma." She folds her arms. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
The question catches me off guard.
No, precious.
I think you're far too clever for your own good.
I think you notice things I wish you were still too young to understand.
I think you're the smartest person in this entire palace—including your mother—and saying that aloud feels dangerous somehow, like the universe might hear me getting too proud and decide it's time to humble us again.
Instead, I reach over and deliberately mess up her neatly tied hair. She squeals immediately, batting my hand away. "Mumma!"
"There." I grin despite myself. "Much better."
She glares at me for exactly three seconds before her lips twitch. "I wasn't stupid before either."
"No." I cup her cheeks, smiling properly now. "You're not. You're the smartest girl I know."
Her entire face lights up. It's such a small thing, a few words, but she straightens instantly, shoulders pulling back, chest puffing out with unmistakable pride.
"Really?"
"Really."
"And prettier than you?"
I pretend to think about it. "Hmm . . . that's debatable."
"Mumma!"
She launches herself at me before I can finish laughing. Her arms wrap around my neck with complete certainty, holding on as tightly as only children know how. Sara never hugs halfway. She throws her entire heart into it every single time.
I hold her for one extra second before kissing the top of her head. "Now go finish your colouring."
She salutes dramatically—as though we've just concluded a very important business meeting—and marches over to the thin mattress pushed against the wall. Within moments she's sitting cross-legged, crayons scattered all around her like tiny pieces of a kingdom only she understands.
Red.
Blue.
Green.
Yellow.
She hums softly to herself as she begins filling another page.
I stay in the doorway longer than I should. Just watching. Just breathing. Just letting myself have this one quiet moment before I have to become someone else for the rest of the day.
The corridor outside is narrow enough that two people would have to turn sideways to cross each other.
A single flickering tube light throws pale patches across the cracked walls. The entire passage smells faintly of old paint, damp concrete, and years of people passing through without ever really belonging here.
My footsteps slow.
Funny.
Seven years ago I walked away from this estate believing I'd never return except as a guest. I can still remember the weight of my duffel bag digging into my shoulder as I slipped out through the back gate.
I was nineteen.
Certain. Certain that life was waiting for me somewhere beyond these walls. Certain that hard work would be enough. Certain that dreams only needed time.
I had plans. It always revolved around books though, sometimes I wished to have my own publishing house, sometimes it was a bookstore and on rare occasions I thought I could become an author.
I'd imagined Maa standing there, smiling after I had made it.
My daughter did it.
I wanted that sentence more than I wanted success itself. I'd spent my entire childhood watching her scrub someone else's floors until her knees refused to cooperate. Watching winter split the skin on her hands because good soap was an unnecessary luxury. Watching her apologise for being tired.
I promised myself that cycle would end with me. And somewhere beneath all those dreams—buried so deep I barely admitted it to myself—there had always been another reason.
I wanted to become someone who could stand beside him without people lowering their voices. Someone who didn't look like the housekeeper's daughter pretending she belonged inside a palace. Someone he would never have to explain.
Instead . . . Life happened.
Mumbai took everything I thought I knew about certainty and quietly proved me wrong. Now, seven years later, I'm standing in the very same estate, tying the strings of a coarse grey apron behind my back.
Not as a visitor. Not as someone who made it.
As kitchen staff.
Sara is colouring quietly in a room barely bigger than a storage cupboard. And she is the best thing that has ever happened to me. There isn't a single part of me that doubts that.
But sometimes—only for the briefest moment—grief slips in beside gratitude.
She didn't choose any of this. She didn't ask to be born into the ruins of dreams that collapsed long before she could understand what dreams even were.
She arrived . . . and simply became the reason I kept going. Some days loving her feels like the only uncomplicated thing left in my life. Some days it doesn’t.
I tighten the apron strings. One deep breath. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. Do your work. Go back to Sara. Repeat. There is absolutely no reason for the Maharaja of Devgarh to notice another kitchen maid.
Even if we happen to cross paths somewhere in these endless corridors . . . he won't recognise me.
How could he?
I've changed.
Motherhood softened my body in places that never quite returned to what they were before. The dark hair he used to tease me about is gone, replaced by a dull brown shade I paid too much money for in a tiny Mumbai salon because I wanted to disappear.
Forgettable.
That was the goal.
Forgettable women are left alone.
The girl who laughed too loudly . . . Ran too fast . . . Argued too much . . . The girl who dragged him into trouble every other week . . . I buried her somewhere between hospital corridors and rejection emails.
Sometimes, when I look into the mirror first thing in the morning . . . Even I can't find her anymore.
And yet . . . God, this is the part I'm almost ashamed of.
The part I wouldn't confess even to my own self—a tiny, foolish part of me still hopes.
Not that he'll remember everything. Not even that he'll speak to me.
Just . . . That if our eyes meet . . . He'll know. He'll somehow look beyond the weight, the dyed hair, the exhaustion etched beneath my eyes . . . and recognise the girl who once belonged here in ways she never really should have.
Because I miss her too.
The kitchen pulls me out of my thoughts before they can wander any further. Chaos greets me immediately. Copper pots hang from every available hook.
Three burners roar at once.
Someone is grinding fresh coriander nearby, filling the room with its sharp green scent while cumin crackles in hot oil somewhere behind me. Coffee brews in one corner. Orders fly across the room faster than anyone can answer them.
It should feel overwhelming.
Instead . . . It feels like relief.
Work keeps your hands occupied. Occupied hands leave very little room for memories. And today, memories are the last thing I need.
I settle beside the chopping counter and lose myself in onions, tomatoes, potatoes—anything that needs cutting.
Beside me, an older woman shifts over to make space. Flour dusts one sleeve of her blouse, and deep lines frame kind, tired eyes that have probably seen far more life than they'll ever speak about.
"New girl?" she asks warmly.
I nod. "You'll get used to the noise."
Before I can answer, Radha leans closer with a knowing smile. "It takes everyone a few days."
I smile back. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Something softens in Radha's expression. I've noticed that about her these past few days. She likes helping people. Not because she expects anything. Just because kindness seems to come naturally to her. It's a rare thing. We fall into easy conversation while our hands continue working.
She asks about Sara. Whether she's adjusting. Whether the quarters are comfortable enough. Whether she's eating properly.
Simple questions.
Ordinary questions.
Yet each one lands somewhere unexpectedly tender inside me. No one has asked about Sara without judgment in so long that I almost don't know how to answer.
I focus very hard on slicing onions.
If my eyes sting . . . Well. Onions do that. I'm halfway through another pile of vegetables when both kitchen doors swing open with a loud bang.
Conversation stops.
The head maid walks in. The permanent crease between her brows makes it look as though she's forgotten how to smile years ago. She carries a silver tray with practiced ease. A single porcelain cup rests on top, dark coffee sending thin ribbons of steam into the air.
Her eyes sweep across the kitchen. They stop on me. "You." My knife stills. "The new girl."
"Yes, ma'am."
She steps forward and holds out the tray. "Take this to the study."
My fingers close around the handles automatically. "Hukum doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The word knocks the breath clean out of me.
Hukum.
For one suspended second, every sound inside the kitchen disappears.
I forget how to inhale. The head maid mistakes my silence for unfamiliarity. "Go through the back corridor," she says briskly. "Take the second staircase. Third door after the library."
I nod obediently. As though I'm memorising directions. As though I haven't walked that exact route hundreds of times before.
I could find that study blindfolded. Every corridor. Every staircase. Every floorboard that creaks if you step on the wrong side. Every hidden passage we used to sneak through. My feet still remember them all.
And every single one of those memories . . . Leads back to one boy. I lift the tray carefully. The porcelain cup rattles faintly against its saucer. I tighten my grip until the sound disappears.
Keep your face blank.
Keep walking.
You're just another maid carrying coffee.
Not the girl who once knew exactly how he took it. Not the girl who sat in that very study while he spoke about dreams, fears, impossible responsibilities . . . Not the girl who trusted him with parts of herself she'd never given another soul.
I lower my eyes. Take my first step.
Then another.
And with every corridor that stretches ahead of me . . . The tray somehow grows heavier, though I know perfectly well it hasn't gained a single gram.