Chapter 4: The Second Wife

I was not released until the day of the wedding.

The house bustled with activity—chacha shouting for more flowers, neighbours peeking through half-open doors, and the sound of drums from the lane. Children from the mohalla ran alongside the palanquin, giggling and tossing marigold petals, while the bandwallahs played a filmi tune just off-key. I felt invisible amidst the flurry, hidden behind the red veil that would never be mine in full.

To call it a wedding is not quite right, since I was merely a second wife. Dressed in peach-pink, I was carried in a small palanquin, merged into the legitimate sister’s one hundred and eight dowry cars.

My lehenga felt heavy, as if stitched from expectations instead of silk. I heard the whispers—illegitimate, second wife, a shadow among the gold and crimson.

While the legitimate sister and the Second Prince entered the bridal suite, I waited outside the door.

The corridor was cold. An old servant handed me a glass of water, murmuring a blessing that sounded more like pity.

His dark eyes flashed with amazement, then he looked at the legitimate sister, his voice gentle as water.

"Our wedding night should not have outsiders present."

After speaking, he turned to me and coldly rebuked, "Get out."

I silently withdrew. I paused outside the door, listening to the laughter inside, before catching my own reflection in the brass lamp. My face looked unfamiliar—eyes rimmed with kohl, mouth set in a thin, stubborn line. I straightened my shoulders and walked away.

In this marriage, it was clear that the Maharani and the Second Prince had reached some agreement.

The air was thick with secrets, and I felt each one settle on my shoulders like a layer of dust.

The Second Prince wanted to become Yuvraj, and the Maharani wanted a supporter for her child.

And the legitimate sister was the link in this transaction.

The Second Prince was showing his sincerity to the Maharani.

Early the next morning, I went to visit the legitimate sister.

She looked radiant, as if soaked in honey.

Her laughter floated above the clatter of breakfast plates, and her skin seemed to glow as if she’d bathed in ghee.

Looking at me, she spoke condescendingly, as if bestowing a favour. "Later we must go to the palace to pay respects. You come as well."

"Even though you are a second wife, you are still a daughter of the Malhotra family. We can’t let others say I mistreat my sisters."

Her voice was syrupy, but her eyes were sharp, making sure the servants heard her benevolence. I managed a small, dutiful smile.

I nodded in agreement.

When she was not around, the Second Prince sneaked up to me, held my hand with ill intent, and winked. "Tonight I will come to your room. Remember to wait for me."

He reeked of ittar and cheap wine, his grip tight on my wrist. I pulled my hand away, the disgust plain in my eyes, though I said nothing. It was not the first time a man mistook silence for invitation.

I smiled and said nothing.

I’d learned early that sometimes, silence is sharper than any insult.

When we entered the palace, the Maharani was not there. The Second Prince took us directly to the Hall of Reflection.

The corridors echoed with the sound of our footsteps. Marble pillars rose like sentinels, and the scent of old sandalwood lingered in the air.

Raghav Singh was writing.

In his thirties, he did not look old. The way he wielded the calligraphy brush had the air of a great family.

The lines of his jaw were sharp, his profile severe against the golden light slanting through jali windows. He looked more myth than man.

In the solemn Hall of Reflection, he appeared dignified and cold.

"Your son brings his wife and second wife to greet Father."

The Second Prince knelt directly.

The marble was icy under his knees, but he bent low, voice full of practiced respect. I wondered if he would ever bow so low to anyone else.

Raghav Singh responded with an indifferent "Hmm" and did not look up.

He continued his slow, measured writing, as if the world outside could wait until he finished the last stroke.

Seeing the legitimate sister too scared to speak, the Second Prince nudged her with his elbow.

The legitimate sister cautiously spoke. "Your daughter Ananya greets Father."

Her voice quavered, the syllables careful and precise. Her hands fidgeted with her dupatta, betraying her nerves.

Raghav Singh’s brush paused. He looked up at her.

Putting down the brush, he came around with interest. "You are the legitimate daughter of the Malhotra family. Don’t you have several half-sisters?"

His gaze was probing, as if he already knew the answer. The silence stretched, heavy as monsoon clouds.

The legitimate sister’s breathing slowed. "Replying to Father, your daughter has three half-sisters. The third sister accompanied me as a second wife to the Second Prince’s haveli and came this time as well."

As she spoke, she turned back and quietly called me, "Quick, pay respects."

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the command was clear.

Raghav Singh was slightly stunned, his tone a bit strange. "Third sister? Wasn’t it the fourth girl?"

As he spoke, his gaze fell on me.

I felt his stare like a physical blow—years of secrets hanging in the air between us.

Urged by the legitimate sister, I looked at him deeply.

I saw his body instantly stiffen, his pupils trembling with fear. His hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white beneath his royal composure. I calmly bent down, enunciating each word: "This second wife, Asha Malhotra, greets Your Highness."

The hall was silent except for the faint sound of my bangles as I touched my forehead to the floor. I felt his breath catch, just for a second.

His incredulous voice sounded above me: "You say, you married my son?"

In that moment, I held his gaze, daring him to deny what we both knew. The air between us shimmered with unspoken words—a whole history packed into a single glance. In that moment, I knew—one secret marriage could topple a kingdom, or destroy a heart.