Chapter 2: The Invisible Holi

Since childhood, I have always been the least noticeable among my three brothers.

During Holi, when the palace burst into a riot of colour, nobody looked for me behind the marigold garlands. Rohan bhaiya would be drenched in the centre, Ishaan bhaiya collecting praise for his rangoli, and me—well, the scent of gulaal hung in the air, and my fingers stayed sticky with gujiya syrup as I hid behind the kitchen door, mostly unnoticed except by the cook’s daughter who slipped me extra sweets.

In cricket, I can’t compare to my eldest brother, Rohan; in studies, I fall short of my second brother, Ishaan.

Rohan bhaiya bats like Kapil Dev, smashing sixes that send the servants scrambling to fish balls from the fountain. Ishaan bhaiya recites poetry and solves math riddles faster than the old Pandit can set them. And me? If I ever scored a run, the gardeners would ring the bell out of shock. Once, the old mali actually did—he nearly fell off his stool in surprise.

So, no matter what, Father Maharaja always seems to forget about me.

Once, at the annual Dussera celebrations, the Maharaja forgot to call me for the family portrait. Only after Maa Sa quietly reminded him did he call me, and even then I was hidden behind the elephant statue in the photo. As I was ushered in, I caught the faint scent of my mother’s jasmine oil as she squeezed my shoulder—a silent reassurance in the bustle.

I’m perfectly content with this leisure, often staying in the palace with my mother, Maa Sa, Consort Kamala.

Most afternoons, when the palace quieted, I’d sprawl on the cool marble floors in Maa Sa’s quarters, watching her trim marigolds. The scent of agarbatti mixed with wet earth after she watered the plants. Maa Sa hummed old bhajans, and sometimes I’d nap with my head in her lap as she stroked my hair.

She came from a world of government ration cards and faded cotton sarees, the kind of girl who knew how to stretch a rupee till it squeaked—just a palace maid who served Dadi Sa, the Rajmata.

Maa Sa would tell me stories of fetching sandalwood paste for the Rajmata’s forehead or running errands during summer weddings. She’d smile and say, “Beta, sometimes the ones who are quiet see the most.”

Father Maharaja only visited her once, and that’s how I came to be.

People whisper during weddings and funerals, but never to her face. When the palace is quiet and thunder rumbles, she sometimes sighs, “Life is what it is, Arjun. One night can change everything.”

So, the other Ranis look down on her, thinking she has neither family status nor beauty, relying only on her lucky womb to bear a prince and get promoted.

During gatherings, the Ranis in silk sarees trade gossip about Maa Sa’s humble origins, with barbed compliments about her ‘good fortune’. I’ve seen her adjust her pallu and give me a small, knowing nod—a silent sign of her inner strength.

Even her title is plain: “Kamala”—which, in a roundabout way, means achieving something only because of others.

Whenever someone calls her just ‘Kamala’, I see a flicker in her eyes before she moves on. Sometimes, in private, she jokes, “Kamala phool toh sabhi ko pasand hai, par Kamala Rani? That’s another story.”

But my mother doesn’t mind at all. She has her own philosophy:

Her laughter fills the palace, echoing even in the dullest corners. “Arjun,” she says, “if God gives, don’t question. If He takes, don’t complain.” She finds joy in small things—fresh flowers, a good cup of chai, the peacock’s call at dawn.

Kamala means: man proposes, God disposes.

She repeats this like a family mantra. “Beta, sab kuch uparwala ka khel hai. We can only do our part, the rest is destiny.” Sometimes, I see her join her palms before the family mandir, eyes closed, surrendering all her worries to the gods.

As the daughter of a ninth-rank government babu, to serve the Rajmata and then give birth to a prince—

Even the old ayahs whisper about her father, a simple clerk known for honesty and meagre pay. For her to reach the palace at all was a miracle, let alone become a prince’s mother.

Isn’t that already a favour from above?

She counts her blessings every morning. I’ve seen her hand out leftover sweets to street children, saying, “Who am I to complain? Dekho, there are many with much less.”

Enough is enough—push your luck too far, and fate will cut you short. Take too much, and God will snatch it back.

She often warns me, “Remember, beta, even the peepal tree loses its leaves in autumn. Don’t try to gather everything, or you’ll be left with nothing.”

So she pays no mind to gossip, tending her marigolds and money plants with a cheerful heart.

The staff know her for her green fingers and bright garden. Every morning, she chats to her plants as if they’re her oldest friends.

She never fights for favour, never makes alliances with the other Ranis. She might seem muddle-headed, but her heart is calm and unshakeable.

I have never seen her raise her voice, even when other Ranis’ children snatch the best Diwali sweets. She gently refuses help, preferring her own way. Her silence is her shield.

Growing up with her, I too became laid-back and easygoing.

I picked up her habits—finding joy in rain on the windows, stretching with a book in the winter sun, watching clouds drift by from the terrace. Nothing seems worth rushing for—not even the throne.

Eldest Brother and Second Brother see me as no threat, so they’re friendly enough.

They ask me to settle their squabbles, treat me as harmless, sometimes using me as a messenger. It’s easy being the Switzerland of the palace.

After all, someone has to play the foil to make them look good.

Rohan bhaiya jokes that I’m the shadow to his sun, the echo after Ishaan’s clever words. I don’t mind—shadows have their place.

I’m happy with that—no matter who becomes Maharaja, I’ll still be a prince.

Maa Sa always says, “Arjun, the mango that ripens slowly is the sweetest.” Why fight for what’s already written in the stars?

So with no state affairs or burdens, all I have to do is enjoy life, eat biryani, and make merry—what could be better?

I dream of long naps, a steady supply of kachoris, and watching monsoon rain from my verandah. Let others have the headaches of ruling.