B&B
ANAMIKA
I wake slowly, tangled somewhere between sleep and reality, aware first of how quiet everything is.
Not the familiar quiet of the staff quarters or Mumbai chawls, where silence was always interrupted by someone drawing water, a bucket scraping against stone, children laughing outside, or doors opening and closing along the narrow corridor.
This is different.
Soft.
Still.
The mattress beneath me sinks gently as I shift, so impossibly comfortable that for one confused moment I simply lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering why my back doesn't hurt.
It takes a few seconds before memory catches up. The wedding. The registrar's office. The palace. The room.
My husband.
The word still doesn't belong to me. It feels borrowed somehow, as though I've picked up someone else's life by mistake and forgotten to return it.
I sit up slowly. The other side of the bed is empty. Sara's pillow lies abandoned beside mine, the blanket half folded where she'd kicked it away during the night.
I reach out instinctively. The sheets are cool.
She's been gone for a while. A tiny thread of worry immediately winds itself around my chest. Yesterday comes back in scattered pieces while I rub the last traces of sleep from my eyes.
Sara had refused to sleep anywhere except pressed against my side, clinging to my arm with the determination only she could manage.
She'd been brave all day. Too brave.
By bedtime, she simply wanted her mother.
I couldn't blame her. I'd quietly suggested that maybe . . . just for one night . . . I could take her back to our old room in the staff quarters.
Let everything settle. Let this enormous change happen a little more gently.
The words had barely left my mouth before Yuvaan looked at me as though I'd suggested something completely unreasonable. "No."
Just one word.
Calm.
Certain.
Neither of us would be returning to those quarters. Not while he had any say in it.
There hadn't been a discussion after that. He'd simply picked up an extra pillow, stretched out on the sofa without the slightest complaint, and left the bed for Sara and me. As though sleeping on a couch in his own bedroom on his wedding night was the most ordinary decision in the world.
The memory leaves a quiet ache somewhere inside me.
Part guilt.
Part gratitude.
Something warmer tucked carefully beneath both. I choose not to look too closely at that feeling.
Not yet.
The floor is cold beneath my feet. The bathroom mirror reflects a face still marked by sleep. I splash cold water over it, brush my hair until it stops looking entirely unmanageable, and pull on a simple cotton kurti. By the time I'm tying the drawstring, my thoughts have already shifted to Sara.
Which usually means trouble.
My daughter possesses an extraordinary talent for finding adventure in places specifically designed to prevent it. Within our first week in Mumbai she'd somehow knocked over a decorative vase taller than herself while trying to rescue a butterfly she'd become convinced was trapped.
I still have nightmares about that shop owner's expression. Leaving her unsupervised inside a palace feels significantly more dangerous.
God only knows what she could convince the royal kitchen staff to let her experiment with. Probably fire. Definitely flour. Almost certainly both. I'm halfway through tying my hair into a loose braid when the bedroom door opens before I can reach it.
I jump. A small gasp escapes me before I can stop it. Then relief arrives just as quickly. Yuvaan stands in the doorway balancing a breakfast tray carefully in both hands. Wrapped around one of his legs like an extremely determined koala . . . is Sara.
The sight is so unexpectedly domestic that I simply stand there blinking.
He's dressed simply today. A plain white t-shirt, his tattoos visible, a soaring bird, a rising sun and a quote I chose for him: ‘Memento vivere’ meaning Remember to live.
He had got them when he was eighteen out of rebellion I feel but I had always been so fascinated by them.
I wonder if he ever looked at the quote and thought of me even for a second.
I feel the heat rise up my neck because why the hell am I ogling him like that? I look up, his hair refuses to stay neatly in place, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look years younger than the composed Maharaja everyone else sees.
For a fleeting second . . . He doesn't look like a king. He just looks like . . . Yuvaan.
And my heart, the traitorous thing that it is, quietly melts.
"Oh no!" Sara's horrified little voice cuts straight through my thoughts. "Mumma!" She looks genuinely devastated. "Why are you awake?"
I blink. "What?"
She lets go of Yuvaan immediately and runs toward me. "We wanted to surprise you!"
She throws herself against me with enough force that I instinctively crouch down to catch her.
Her little arms wrap tightly around my waist. I hug her back without thinking.
Breathing in the familiar scent of baby shampoo and sunshine that somehow always seems to follow her.
She pulls away just enough to cup my cheeks between both tiny hands.
Apparently this is the only acceptable way to hold serious conversations. Behind her . . . Yuvaan laughs.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
A real laugh.
The sound fills the room so naturally that I realise, with a strange little ache, how much I'd forgotten what it sounded like.
"Mumma," Sara announces importantly, "do you know what happened?"
"What happened?"
"Mister was trying to sneak out without waking you." She lowers her voice dramatically. "But I caught him." I slowly lift my eyes toward Yuvaan.
His ears have turned unmistakably pink. He's suddenly become very interested in absolutely everything except looking at me. The curtains. The ceiling. The wardrobe. Anywhere but here.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Very hard. "So . . . " I manage, trying not to smile. "You've already discovered what happens when five-year-olds learn secrets."
He finally glances at me. "They tell everyone."
"Exactly." I nod with complete sympathy. "I've suffered through that for years."
Sara beams proudly. Completely unaware that she's just exposed his carefully planned surprise. "He helped me brush my teeth," she continues enthusiastically. "And then . . . " Her eyes grow even brighter. "We went to the kitchen." I look from her to Yuvaan. "And we made breakfast for you."
The words settle softly somewhere inside me.
For a moment . . . I simply look at him.
Really look. He must have woken up early.
Somehow convinced Sara to brush her teeth without an argument, which deserves recognition on its own.
Taken her downstairs. Cooked. Or at least attempted to.
All before I opened my eyes. Just so he could surprise me?
I don't think anyone has ever done something so quietly thoughtful for me.
I rise slowly. "Yuvaan . . . " The words thank you are already forming. He shakes his head almost immediately. Setting the tray gently on the bed before I can finish.
"Don't." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Don't thank me." As though gratitude would somehow make the gesture smaller.
Then, without giving me time to argue, he turns toward Sara. "Princess."
She looks up immediately. "Shouldn't breakfast be eaten in bed today?"
Her eyes become impossibly round. "Really?"
"Really."
A delighted squeal escapes her. Within seconds she climbs onto the bed, bouncing excitedly against the pillows. "Mumma!" She pats the mattress beside her. "Hurry! We're having breakfast in bed!"
I stand there for one suspended second. Something catches painfully in my throat. Breakfast in bed. Such a small thing. So ordinary for some families. So impossible for ours. For five years every morning had begun with calculations. Rent. Milk. Bus fare. Groceries.
There had never been room for luxuries. Not even tiny ones. Especially not tiny ones. I swallow carefully before the emotion reaches my face. Then smile as brightly as I can manage. "I haven't had breakfast in bed for a very long time either."
I climb onto the mattress beside her. She immediately reaches for the toast.
"No patience," I laugh, watching her. "Not even one second."
I glance toward Yuvaan. "No self-control when food is involved."
He smiles. Softly.
"So . . . " His eyes linger on mine. " . . . exactly like her mother." The smile he gives me steals every coherent thought from my head.
For one dangerous heartbeat . . . I forget how to look away. When I finally do, it's because I force myself to. I busy my hands with the breakfast tray instead.
The eggs are slightly overcooked. The toast isn't evenly browned. One slice is almost burnt around the edges.
I pick up the teacup. One sip. And it's exactly the way I used to drink it. Not almost. Exactly.
Less sugar.
Extra ginger.
Just enough cardamom.
My fingers tighten slightly around the cup. He remembered. After all these years . . . He remembered something as small as how I liked my morning tea. No one has made tea specifically for me in so long that the thought almost overwhelms me.
I lower my eyes before either of them notices. Breakfast continues around me in cheerful chaos. Sara provides a detailed commentary on every bite she eats. Apparently the toast tastes "very crunchy." The eggs are "a little funny." The juice is "perfect."
Yuvaan listens to every opinion with complete seriousness, nodding as though she's conducting an official food inspection.
I find myself laughing more than eating. And somewhere between Sara's endless chatter, Yuvaan's quiet smiles and this imperfect little breakfast spread across the bed . . . Something inside me softens.
I sit between them, watching the two people who somehow occupy every corner of my heart without either of them fully knowing it. My daughter laughs until she nearly spills her juice. Yuvaan reaches over automatically to steady the glass before it tips.
The movement is so effortless. So natural. As though they've known each other much longer than a week. I watch them together.
Then I look down at the cup warming my hands. A question rises quietly inside me. One that has followed me ever since he looked up in that study and whispered Daisy.
Can I really survive this? Can I stand this close to the man I've loved for half my life .
. . .Watch him fill ordinary mornings with impossible kindness, watch him care for Sara as though she has always belonged in his world .
. . And still keep enough distance to protect myself if everything falls apart?
I don't know.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I need to.
But sitting here this morning—wrapped in the warmth of sunlight, laughter, burnt toast, perfectly remembered tea, and the sound of Sara arguing that breakfast somehow tastes better in bed—I realise something. For today . . . I don't want to know the answer at all.