Chapter 3: Celestial Court Dramas

I don’t know if my so-called friendly farewell provoked him!

Rumour travels faster than a Maruti on an empty highway, and maybe my words cut deeper than I meant. But regret never paid the rent.

A hundred years after I became a deva, the demon clan united!

Whispers flew even to the clouds—something big was brewing in the netherworld. Demons who once fought like stray dogs now moved together with purpose.

The new demon king was Rohan!

It was all anyone could talk about. Even the celestial musicians paused their ragas. I just rolled my eyes and thought, ‘Of course, who else?’

See? Told you he was extraordinary!

If I’d bet with Narad Muni, I’d be rolling in laddoos by now.

A year in the mortal world is also a year in the heavens—no fairy-tale time tricks here!

Forget all those stories where a day here is a century there! In our story, time ran parallel, like two trains always threatening to collide.

On my hundredth year above, which was also when Rohan became king, I became the war goddess of the heavens and finally earned a seat in the upper celestial court!

My reputation was hard-won—every victory built on sweat, blood, and a little jugaad. I wore my war paint like sindoor—bold and impossible to ignore.

Before me, every deva in the upper court was a born-immortal!

Their auras glowed with entitlement. You could smell their arrogance before stepping into the sabha. No amount of sandalwood paste could hide it.

Those who ascended from the mortal world were just soldiers or generals, serving the born-immortals!

We were footnotes in their stories, extras in their dance dramas. Never allowed to forget our place, always reminded with a sharp word or a cold look.

So I didn’t fit in at all in the upper celestial court!

Every gathering was a test. I stood out like a paratha at a vegan brunch—unapologetic and unmissable.

To help me ‘integrate’, the Heavenly Raja arranged a marriage for me!

In his wisdom, he decided to fix things with a shaadi, as if every awkwardness could be solved with a good rishta. I half-expected my face on shaadi.com the next day.

He was so generous, he even offered his own son, not caring about the crown prince’s opinion!

Beta ka opinion? Who cares! This is the celestial court—here, fathers decide, sons sigh behind closed doors.

Looking at the crown prince’s expression, I thought he’d burst into tears!

If looks could kill, the upper court would be rubble. Aryan’s face was a blend of resignation and panic, like a groom at a surprise engagement.

So I privately asked him: “Do you not want to marry me?”

I found him in the palace bath, steam swirling around, his naga tail shimmering. I perched on the edge, eyes tactfully averted.

The crown prince, Aryan, was bathing—maybe the water was too comfy, his naga tail and horns were both out!

His tail shone like molten silver, coiled in lazy loops. The blue horns caught the light, sharp as monsoon ice. He looked less like a prince and more like a myth come alive.

His tail swayed, splashing droplets:

“War goddess, did you have to pick this moment to talk to me?”

Steam curled around his words, making them bashful and annoyed. He wouldn’t meet my eyes, choosing instead to stare at his own reflection.

Seeing his red ears, I understood!

He might be a prince, but even Aryan got shy sometimes. I tried not to laugh, but my lips twitched.

Even the noblest devas feel awkward without clothes!

I remembered all those stories of gods doing miracles, but the moment someone mentions love, they act like schoolboys caught sneaking sweets.

But this wasn’t my fault: “Why is it that every time I come, you’re always bathing?”

He looked like he wanted the marble to swallow him. It wasn’t my fault our timings always clashed.

Did he also find the upper court dirty?

Maybe he just liked hiding from responsibility in bubbles and steam. Everyone has their thing—mine was sarcasm, his was endless baths.

Aryan avoided answering, just aimed those icy blue horns at me!

When words failed, Aryan used his horns for threats. His eyes narrowed, a silent challenge hanging in the steam.

Not a word could be pried out!

I wasn’t about to argue with a naga prince in his own bath, so I retreated—sort of.

I forced a friendly smile: “Your Highness, if you dislike me so much, why don’t we call off the marriage? Don’t force yourself!”

If I’ve learned anything, it’s to give people an out. He looked startled, as if I’d tossed a live snake into his tub.

A huge splash of water hit me!

I wiped droplets from my face, hair sticking to my cheeks. Apparently, I’d struck a nerve.

Before I could even dry off, Aryan coldly said: “I’m not forcing myself.” Then he dressed and left!

He stormed out, tail leaving wet trails on marble, muttering about stubborn women and unreasonable fathers.

No, bhaiya! I’m the one who’s aggrieved here!

Why did I feel like the villain in this show? The universe loves its twisted sense of humour.

Does anyone remember I’m a sadhak of the heartless path?

I wanted to shout from the balcony—“Hello, I’m not supposed to have feelings! Don’t drag me into your daily soaps!”