Chapter 2: The Kapoor Legacy

I was born into the illustrious Kapoor family of Lucknow, the fourth child, named Ananya. My father is the current Cabinet Secretary, highly respected by the Prime Minister. My mother, née Sharma, is the principal wife, who bore six children—two sons and four daughters.

In our ancestral haveli, the Kapoor family’s name is spoken with a certain reverence, almost as if it is a synonym for destiny. Our family tree, hand-painted in indigo and gold, stretches from the ground floor all the way up the winding staircase, every branch crammed with government badges, Padma awards, and framed wedding invitations from Delhi’s most powerful. The painted peacocks at the roots seemed to watch us, judging each generation’s worth.

The Kapoor family’s ancestral teachings proclaim: "The education of daughters is stricter than the law." Kapoor daughters begin their study of the Six Arts* at the age of three. Beyond the Six Arts, they also learn the sitar, chess, calligraphy, painting, and even the arts of the home, all three years earlier than the daughters of other influential families.

We woke every morning before the temple bell, our feet cold on the marble, reciting shlokas as Nanny tied our plaits and the scent of sandalwood wafted from the prayer room. The temple bell echoed through the cold marble, as the first rays of sunlight crept through the jharokhas. Even the cook would joke: "Kapoor betiyan ko toh raat ko bhi parhna padta hai, bhagwan bachaye!" Yet, the pride was unmistakable.

Father values legitimate sons above all; both elder brothers were personally tutored by him from their earliest years. Among the legitimate daughters, only the eldest sister, Meera, receives his full favour.

Sometimes, watching Father with my brothers—his voice suddenly softer, his hand on their shoulders—I would feel a strange emptiness, like being left outside in the cold Lucknow fog. For us girls, it was always discipline first, affection later, and only if you earned it.

On Raksha Bandhan, the family of the Prince of Rajpur sent a pair of pure gold bangles as a gift. Father openly instructed Mother to further intensify the eldest sister’s education. In idle conversation, he remarked, "Yesterday, Prince Rajiv received a pair of double-peacock pendants before the President."

The gold bangles, heavy and cool, arrived nestled in red velvet. I remember the look in Father's eyes as he examined them—calculating, never sentimental. In our world, every gift is a message, every gesture a move in a larger game.

Unaware of these matters, I watched my parents exchange knowing smiles, not understanding the significance of that pair of gold bangles. I only remembered that Prince Rajiv was the only prince whom the President took with him on his southern tour.

I was too young to know of politics, alliances, or how many layers of meaning could hide in a single bangle. To me, Prince Rajiv was simply the tall boy who once nodded at us during Holi, his kurta splashed with pink and green.

Leaving the drawing room, I saw Second Sister, Ritu, leaning alone against the corridor. She waved her sandalwood fan lightly, and when she saw me, her almond eyes shifted, her expression subtly changing.

The air was thick with the scent of marigolds, and the faint rattle of the pressure cooker came from the kitchen. Second Sister always had a way of blending into the background, yet her presence was never unnoticed.

"Arre, chauthi, you took so long! My legs are going numb here," she said, flicking her fan against her palm and adjusting her anklet, impatience written in every gesture. She took my hand with gentle affection. "I just heard from Nanny that the peacock design on those bangles is exactly like the ones in the family temple. Our eldest sister is truly blessed."

Her voice was soft, almost teasing, but her fingers gripped mine a little too tightly. Ritu’s affection always came with a hint of something else—curiosity, calculation, or perhaps a warning.

Seeing my puzzled look, Second Sister half-covered her lips with her fan, her words trailing off. She glanced around, lowered her voice and nudged me playfully, hinting at a secret. "Enough, why am I telling you all this? The sun is making me dizzy. Fourth Sister, will you come pick jasmine with me? Later, I’ll have the kitchen steam some jasmine rice cakes for you."

She winked, her anklets chiming as she led me away. I loved these stolen moments with her in the garden, our dupattas fluttering as we gathered flowers and plotted mischief, a world away from the careful conversations of the drawing room.

She has always been like this—her words veiled, sharpness hidden, yet always knowing when to stop. No one can truly guess what lies in her heart.

Even Mother sometimes sighed, "Ritu, you will be the cleverest of us all, but cleverness is a double-edged sword, beta."