Epilogue Two Daughters
By the time Vikram and Vinaya's tenth son was old enough to climb onto the council table and declare himself king, Krishnagiri Palace had given up pretending to be quiet.
There were boys everywhere.
In corridors.
In courtyards.
Under tables.
On horses.
In trees.
Occasionally where they were actually supposed to be.
Vikram adored them shamelessly.
He attended lessons when his duties allowed.
Knew which son lied badly.
Which one cried when injured and then denied it.
Which one hid books beneath his blankets after lights-out.
Which one stole sweets from Lakshmidevi.
Which one blamed Balram.
Balram considered this unforgivable.
Vinaya considered it poetic justice.
Their sons grew up knowing exactly what their father thought of them.
That had become one of Vikram's deepest vows.
No child of his would have to wonder.
Not again.
Never again.
And yet, every year on Ganga's birthday, Vikram went to the garden.
Sometimes alone.
Sometimes with Vinaya.
Later, their sons came too.
They knew about their elder sister.
Not as a tragedy whispered around closed doors.
As family.
There was a portrait of Ganga in the private family gallery, painted from the few sketches and descriptions Vinaya had preserved.
A little girl with dark eyes.
A blue wooden elephant beside her.
Underneath, simply:
Vikram still touched the inscription whenever he passed.
Years softened grief.
They never erased it.
It was after their tenth son that Vinaya became ill one morning.
Not seriously.
Just enough to make Vikram suspicious.
She refused breakfast.
Then refused tea.
Then glared at him when he asked whether she needed a physician.
"You are hovering."
"I am observing."
"You are hovering while pretending to observe."
"I am Crown Prince."
"You are too old to use that excuse."
He looked offended.
Vinaya almost smiled.
Almost.
Then nausea rose suddenly.
She covered her mouth and hurried away.
Vikram stared after her.
His expression changed.
"No."
From across the room, Parvati looked up.
"What?"
Vikram turned toward her.
"No."
Parvati's eyes widened.
Then she began to grin.
Vinaya reappeared.
"What are you both looking at?"
Neither answered.
Vinaya narrowed her eyes.
"Oh, absolutely not."
Parvati started laughing.
By afternoon, the physician had confirmed it.
Vinaya was pregnant.
Again.
After ten sons.
Vikram sat beside her in complete silence.
Vinaya watched him.
"Well?"
He looked dazed.
"We are very old."
She stared at him.
"Speak for yourself."
That snapped him out of it.
He laughed.
Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead against her hand.
For all his humor, she felt the tremor in him.
Fear.
Not of the child.
Of loss.
Even after all these years, some ghosts never entirely left.
Vinaya touched his hair.
"We know how to do this now."
Vikram looked up.
"That has never made it less frightening."
"No."
She smiled softly.
"But fear has not stopped you for years."
He kissed her hand.
"No."
The pregnancy passed more quietly than the earlier ones.
No grand expectations.
No court speculation.
At least not officially.
Unofficially, the entire palace began wagering whether the royal family would somehow produce an eleventh son.
Balram was convinced.
Ranveer refused to participate.
Lakshmidevi threatened everyone.
Vinaya pretended not to know.
Vikram actually didn't want to know.
"Boy or girl," he said one night, hand resting against the curve of her stomach, "I will be happy."
Vinaya looked at him.
"I know."
He hesitated.
"But?"
She smiled.
"You are allowed to want a daughter."
His expression tightened.
"That feels disloyal."
"To whom?"
He didn't answer.
Vinaya understood.
Ganga.
She touched his face.
"Wanting another daughter does not replace her."
"I know."
"Do you?"
He looked down.
"Sometimes."
That was enough.
Labor came in the early hours of morning.
The palace reacted with considerably less panic than it had years earlier.
Except for Vikram.
Vikram panicked exactly the same.
"You've done this ten times," Vinaya said through gritted teeth.
"Eleven if we count Ganga."
Her face softened briefly.
Then another contraction hit.
She nearly broke his fingers.
Vikram decided silence was wise.
Hours later, a baby's cry filled the room.
He closed his eyes.
Alive.
Still the first miracle.
Always.
The physician smiled.
"Your Majesties."
Vinaya looked up.
Vikram gripped her hand.
The physician's smile widened.
"A daughter."
Vikram stopped breathing.
Vinaya did too.
For several seconds, neither moved.
"A what?" Vikram whispered.
The physician laughed.
"A princess."
Vinaya began to cry.
Vikram simply stared.
When the baby was placed in Vinaya's arms, she looked impossibly small after ten sons.
Tiny.
Warm.
Furious.
Perfect.
Vinaya touched her cheek.
"Anasuya."
Vikram looked at her.
"You chose already?"
"I was hoping."
His face crumpled.
Vinaya held the baby out.
Vikram hesitated.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then he took her.
Princess Anasuya fit against his chest as though she had always belonged there.
Vikram looked down at her.
A daughter.
Another daughter.
His eyes filled.
He kissed her forehead.
And began to weep.
That night, after the palace finally quieted, Vikram sat beside Vinaya with Anasuya asleep in his arms.
Moonlight spilled through the windows.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Vinaya knew better than to interrupt.
Eventually, he whispered, "I thought this would never happen."
Vinaya looked at him.
"A daughter?"
He nodded.
His eyes remained on Anasuya.
"For years, I thought the gods were punishing me."
Vinaya went still.
"The years when we could not conceive."
He swallowed.
"Then the sons."
His smile was sad.
"I loved every one of them."
"I know."
"But some part of me wondered if I would never be trusted with another little girl."
Vinaya's eyes filled.
"Because of what you said about Ganga."
He nodded.
"I wished harm on my own child."
His voice broke.
"Then she died."
"Vikram."
"I know I did not cause her death."
He looked at her.
"I know that."
Vinaya waited.
"But guilt is rarely reasonable."
"No."
He looked down at Anasuya.
"When another child did not come, I thought punishment."
His thumb brushed the baby's tiny hand.
"When son after son came, I thought perhaps the gods were telling me something."
Vinaya sat straighter.
"No."
Vikram looked at her.
She reached across and touched Anasuya's blanket.
"Ganga was not your punishment."
His eyes filled.
"And Anasuya is not your reward."
He swallowed.
Vinaya continued.
"They are not messages from the gods about whether you are good enough."
Her voice softened.
"They are our daughters."
Vikram looked down.
One daughter buried.
One daughter breathing against his heart.
Vinaya touched his hand.
"Ganga did not die to teach you a lesson."
A tear rolled down his cheek.
"And Anasuya was not born because you finally earned forgiveness."
Vikram closed his eyes.
For years, he had understood that intellectually.
Tonight, perhaps for the first time, he believed it.
Vinaya smiled faintly.
"You have spent too much of your life looking for punishment."
His eyes opened.
"And too little simply accepting love when it is given to you."
Vikram laughed softly through his tears.
"That sounds suspiciously like criticism."
"It is."
He smiled.
Then looked down at the sleeping baby.
"I had a daughter once."
Vinaya's expression changed.
She reached for him.
"No."
Vikram looked at her.
"You have two daughters."
His face broke completely.
Vinaya squeezed his hand.
"One is here."
She touched Anasuya's tiny foot.
"And one is not."
Her eyes filled.
"But both are yours."
Vikram looked toward the window.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls was Ganga's garden.
The stone elephant.
The white flowers.
The name carved into stone.
Ganga.
Then he looked back at Anasuya.
"Yes."
His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"I have two daughters."
He bent and kissed Anasuya's forehead.
Then he leaned toward Vinaya.
Their foreheads touched.
Outside, Krishnagiri slept beneath the moon.
Ten princes dreamed in rooms scattered through the palace.
A newborn princess slept safely against her father's chest.
And in a quiet garden, another daughter remained loved by everyone who knew her name.
Not punishment.
Not reward.
Not a ghost.
Family.
Vinaya rested her head against Vikram's shoulder.
He kissed her hair.
"I love you."
Years ago, those words would have frightened her.
She would have wondered whether he meant Priya.
Whether he meant guilt.
Whether he meant regret.
Now she simply smiled.
"I know."
Vikram looked down at Anasuya.
Then toward the darkness beyond the window.
And for the first time in many years, he did not ask whether he deserved the life he had.
He simply held it.