HERE WE GO
YUVAAN
If anyone had asked me as a child what my wedding would look like, I probably would've described something straight out of a history book.
The palace draped in flowers. Hundreds of guests. Television cameras. Priests chanting beneath a grand mandap built in the centre courtyard. The kind of spectacle generations of this family had always been known for.
Instead, I'm standing inside a government registrar's office with peeling baby blue walls, a ceiling fan that clicks every few seconds as it turns, and an old wooden desk that's witnessed decades of strangers promising forever.
And I wouldn't change a single thing. This room is too small for royal grandeur. Too ordinary for headlines. Too cramped for unnecessary people. Exactly the way I wanted it.
No politicians pretending to be family. No business associates I barely know. No endless ceremonies performed for photographs instead of memories.
Just the people who matter. Just us. Maa starts crying the moment we walk inside.
I knew she would.
What I didn't expect was for her to cry even harder less than two minutes later because Sara marched straight up to her, looked at her earrings with complete fascination, and announced, without introducing herself first, "I like these. Can I wear them someday?"
For one second Maa simply stared. Then she laughed through her tears and bent down to pull Sara into the tightest hug. Watching them together does something quiet inside me.
For five years I've watched Maa silently accept every proposal I turned down.
She never argued. Never pressured me. Never made me feel guilty.
She only looked at me with that patient sadness mothers somehow carry without speaking.
Maybe that’s not out of pure love, it may be out of guilt for how I was treated like a mission in my childhood, how she and Papa ensured I never sat with a bent back, how I didn’t show unnecessary emotions, how I knew from age ten that I am supposed to take over the throne next and how I need to buckle up and refuse to have a normal, carefree childhood.
I don’t hold anything against her because I see she was just supporting her husband but .
. . it doesn’t mean I should have been treated that way.
I wonder if I never found Anamika . . . What would I have become?
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts, this isn’t something I need today. My eyes land on Kairav, who has spent the entire morning being completely insufferable.
He hasn't stopped grinning since breakfast. Every few minutes he leans toward me just enough to mutter something under his breath.
"I honestly thought you'd die single."
I ignore him. A few minutes later—"I should've taken bets. I would've made a fortune."
I tell him to shut up. Naturally, he doesn't. Younger brothers exist for exactly two reasons.
To test your patience . . . and ignore every instruction you ever give them.
Samrat arrived late last night. When I called to tell him I was getting married, I also told him not to make a fuss over it. "It's only a registry," I'd said.
"I'll be there." That had been his entire answer. No hesitation. No questions. Just . . . I'll be there.
Now he stands near the window with his arms folded comfortably across his chest, quietly taking everything in. Sara wanders over to him. Of course she does. She studies the expensive watch on his wrist with complete concentration before looking up at him.
"Are you also a king?"
Samrat doesn't miss a beat. "Yes, sweetheart."
Sara blinks. Then frowns deeply. Confused.
"But . . . " She looks from him to me. " . . . there can't be two kings."
I have to look away before I laugh. Poor Samrat spends the next two minutes trying to explain kingdoms, states, and constitutional monarchies to a five-year-old who's already decided the entire system makes absolutely no sense.
Honestly . . . She's not wrong.
Sara treats the entire ceremony as though someone organised it purely for her entertainment. She wanders from person to person asking deeply important questions.
Why are there so many papers?
Can she sign one too?
Why is everyone dressed nicely?
Can she also get married one day?
Who gets to choose?
Why does everyone keep smiling at her?
Within fifteen minutes she has completely dismantled whatever formal atmosphere the registrar's office had managed to maintain. No one seems to mind.
If anything . . . She reminds all of us what today is supposed to be.
Not a royal obligation.
Not a political announcement.
Just . . . A happy day.
When the registrar finally slides the marriage register across the desk, I stare at it for a moment longer than necessary. One signature. That's all it takes.
Funny.
I've refused this exact act for so many years. Not because I didn't believe in marriage. Because I refused to let it become another administrative decision.
The council never understood that. Every meeting eventually circled back to the same discussion.
A king needs a queen.
The succession must continue.
The people expect stability.
They spoke about marriage the same way they discussed annual budgets. Necessary. Practical. Efficient.
For years, I convinced myself that if I ever gave in .
. . If I ever signed my name on a marriage certificate .
. . It would feel exactly like surrender.
Like ticking the final unchecked box on someone else's list. Instead .
. . The pen feels surprisingly light in my hand.
There isn't a single moment where this feels like compromise.
Because this . . . This was never about marrying.
It was always about who. If I'm honest . . . I've imagined this day far more times than I ever admitted.
Not a royal wedding. Not the ceremony. Just . . . Her.
Standing beside me. Some version of us saying yes to each other somewhere. I only ever allowed myself that fantasy late at night, when the palace had gone quiet and there was no one around to catch the expression on my face.
It always felt selfish. She had chosen her dreams. She'd left to build a life that didn't need me.
Wanting her to come back . . . Wanting this . . . Felt unfair.
As though I'd already forfeited the right to hope for it the day I watched her train disappear. Yet here she is. Standing beside me. A simple red saree. Hair neatly tied back. And tucked behind one ear is a single daisy.
Sara insisted on putting it there herself this morning. Apparently no bride should get married without flowers. Anamika had laughed. Then surrendered. Just like she always used to whenever Sara decided something with complete confidence.
I look at her now and realise something about myself that isn't particularly flattering. I am not nearly as selfless as I'd convinced myself I was.
For years I told myself I'd moved on. That I was content. That missing her had become manageable. An old ache. Nothing more. Every bit of that carefully built story collapsed the second she walked into my study carrying a tray of coffee.
It took less than a minute. One look. One whispered "Daisy." That was all.
People would probably wonder why I never searched for her.
The truth is . . . I could have. I had her initial contact details for years. I had more resources than most people could imagine. Finding someone wasn't beyond my reach. Finding her certainly wasn't.
But when it came to Anamika . . . Love was never the reason I stayed away.
Respect was.
Years ago, before she left, I'd once made the mistake of offering her a life where she'd never have to worry about money again. Where I'd take care of everything.
I'd thought I was helping.
She'd been furious. Not because she doubted me. Because she wanted to build something that belonged to her. She wanted a life she'd earned herself. It took me an entire week to make her forgive me.
Eventually I succeeded by taking her to the quarterly fair and buying her every ridiculous snack she pointed at. She'd declared me only "partially forgiven."
I remember thinking I'd never met anyone braver. I still haven't. She has always chosen the harder road if it meant keeping her self-respect intact.
How could I claim to love her . . . and then take away the very independence she'd fought for?
So I waited. I respected the choice she'd made. I convinced myself that loving her also meant trusting her to live the life she wanted, even if I wasn't part of it. I don't regret that.
Not for a second.
But . . . Watching her now . . . Something twists painfully beneath my ribs.
Because the woman standing across the room isn't carrying herself like someone whose dreams came true. Over the past week I've watched her more closely than she'll ever realise.
Not in a way that invades her space.
Just . . . the way someone watches approaching rain. She's quieter now. The laughter still comes . . . but a fraction later than it used to. As though she has to remember how before allowing herself to do it.
Her smile reaches her lips first. Her eyes take longer. Sometimes not at all.
She moves through every room with the unconscious caution of someone expecting life to pull the ground out from under her again. That wasn't who she was.
And I hate whoever taught her to become that person. She'll never ask me for help.
I know her too well. She left this palace because she wanted to prove she could stand on her own feet.
Coming back here already cost her more than she'll ever admit aloud.
Now she'll work herself to exhaustion before accepting a single favour.
Smile through every difficult day. Tell everyone she's fine.
Pretend she's managing. She'll keep refusing until people eventually stop asking.
Not this time. I refuse to let history repeat itself. Across the room, Sara pulls Anamika carefully to adjust the daisy tucked behind her ear. Apparently it's sitting "crooked." Anamika crouches down obediently while Sara fixes it with complete concentration.
Kairav says something I can't hear. Anamika laughs. A real laugh.
For one fleeting, beautiful moment . . . The years disappear.
She's sixteen again. Running barefoot through palace gardens. Stuffing flowers into everyone's hands. Making impossible plans beneath the neem tree. The shadow leaves her face so completely that my heart physically aches at the sight of it.
That's what I want.
Not today. Not for photographs. Not because we're married now.
Every day.
I want her to laugh without thinking first. I don't know what happened in Mumbai. I don't know who hurt her. I don't know what she's carrying behind that careful smile she keeps offering the world. But I know one thing with absolute certainty.
Whatever it is . . . She doesn't have to carry it alone anymore. Not while I'm here.
Sara suddenly appears beside me and tugs impatiently on the sleeve of my sherwani. "Mister."
I look down. "Hm?"
"When do we eat cake?"
I smile before crouching until we're eye level. "Soon, Princess."
She seems satisfied with that answer. For now.
Around us, Maa laughs at something Samrat says. Kairav has somehow convinced the registrar to take one more family photograph.
Across the room . . . Anamika looks up. Our eyes meet over Sara's head. Neither of us says anything.
We don't need to.
Whatever waits for us beyond today . . . Whatever truths she's still hiding. Whatever pain the last seven years placed on her shoulders . . . I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to face any of it wondering if she's alone.
Because this time when she finally reaches for someone . . . I'll already be standing close enough to hold her.