Chapter 1: Whispers in the Marble

I am the illegitimate daughter of the Rajpur Malhotra family. In our house, even the walls know which daughters belong and which don’t—their whispers follow me from the kitchen to the prayer room.

No one knows that every night, I am taken through a secret passage to the Maharaja’s room in the royal palace.

The marble floors in the palace are always cold at midnight, chilling my bare feet as I walk. The distant clang of the neighbor’s tiffin mixes with the smell of incense and fried besan, and the flicker of oil lamps casts long, haunted shadows along the corridors. I’ve learnt to keep my head down, my anklets muffled by a thin scarf so the guards do not hear. The silence in those hours is heavy, broken only by the faraway sound of a temple bell or the call of a nightwatchman on his rounds.

Eventually, I grew tired and asked for a title.

My heart pounded when I finally asked, knowing well that a girl like me, born in shadow, should never ask for anything openly. My hands trembled as I spoke, unconsciously twisting the end of my dupatta, shame and longing battling in my chest. Yet I did, unable to keep the longing from my voice.

Raghav Singh paused, holding my hand. "Maharani is expecting. Abhi sabr karo, Asha. Let the palace settle, then we’ll see."

He said this while stroking my hair as if it would soothe away years of waiting. His words fell like the slow drip of monsoon rain—never quite enough to quench, only enough to torment.

I closed my eyes. Everyone says Mausi is the most favoured woman in the six wings of the palace, and it is indeed true.

Sometimes I’d see her, face aglow with pride, whispering instructions to her maids. The air in her quarters always held the scent of mogra and sandalwood. Even the peacocks in her courtyard seemed to preen extra for her attention. I wondered if I’d ever belong anywhere like she did.

Later, when I returned to the family home, Mausi folded her hands, knuckles white, as she spoke—her eyes darting to the window, checking for nosy aunties. She held a handkerchief and asked me, "I have chosen a marriage for you: to become the second wife of Colonel Pratap. Will you marry?"

Her voice was calm but her eyes darted towards the window, watching for eavesdroppers. I noticed her hand trembled as she folded her handkerchief, the way women do when giving away a secret part of themselves.

After a moment of silence, I nodded. "I will marry."

I didn’t look up, but I felt Mausi’s relief in the way she quietly exhaled. My fate was sealed not with celebration but with the soft rustle of starched sarees and the distant clang of the neighbour’s tiffin.