Chapter 1: Gilded Cages

The world calls me fortunate. But as I step onto the marble veranda, the chill beneath my feet reminds me—luck can be colder than loneliness.

They say so with a mixture of envy and awe in their voices. Some wear forced smiles as I glide past in my embroidered jootis at the annual Diwali mela—the tinkling of my payals barely audible over the shouts of hawkers and the sticky sweetness of jalebi clinging to my fingers. Others sigh as my car pulls up before the main gate at La Martiniere. Even the aunties at kitty parties nod approvingly when my name is mentioned, as if my luck is something to be admired, a benediction from the gods themselves.

My father is a top-ranking IAS officer; my mother comes from a renowned and old-money family. My two elder brothers are both in high-level government posts, and my three elder sisters have all married into influential families. Since childhood, I have worn the finest silk lehengas and Banarasi saris, and dined on delicacies served on silver thalis. Even the toys I played with absentmindedly could support an ordinary family for half a lifetime. Once, I cried for a broken doll, and the next day, a silver-plated one arrived from Jaipur. But no one noticed the bruise on my knee.

The weight of all that privilege—imported Swiss chocolates in the fridge, a silver payal for every birthday, my pencil box lined with velvet—often felt like a suit of armour. There was never room for a chipped cup or even a stray strand of hair in the wrong place.

Yet outsiders only see the glamour, as if my life is embroidered with gold and silk. How could they know? The higher the status, the greater the dangers. Behind these carved teak doors and velvet curtains, schemes lurk in every shadow; between crystal goblets and silver spoons, sometimes murderous intent glimmers. One misstep, and it is a plunge into the bakra mandi.

They see the silver and gold, not the constant tension in every whispered conversation or the watchful eyes of the household help. They see the Diwali lights, not the trembling hands as we perform aarti, careful not to let the flame flicker even once.