Chapter 6: The Flower Hairpin Function

That evening, Papa brought back a prescription for strengthening the body and advised, “This medicine is very bitter. If you don’t want to drink it, then don’t.”

He handed me a small packet, the label handwritten by an old Hakim. The house help stood ready with a steel tumbler of water.

I shook my head. “I want to keep drinking it.”

If it would help, I was ready to endure anything. I remembered Rohan’s voice, his whispered promise, and clung to that memory.

The little maid boiled the medicine and handed it to me.

The kitchen was filled with the pungent aroma, and I saw the maid wrinkle her nose. She placed the katori carefully in my hands, as if afraid it would spill.

Under Papa’s watchful gaze, I drank it all in one go. The bitterness lingered in my mouth.

I felt the urge to spit it out, but swallowed hard, determined not to show weakness.

I forced out a tear and swallowed again.

The tear slipped down, and Papa pretended not to notice, but I saw his eyes soften.

“Papa, I finished it.”

My voice quavered with pride, and he smiled, though his lips trembled a little.

But he turned away, not daring to look at me.

He fiddled with the edge of his kurta, eyes fixed on the window. The last rays of sunset made his silhouette look lonelier than usual.

I had always been afraid of bitter things since childhood, so Papa often made me exercise with him, and would avoid giving me medicine if he could. He used to bribe me with extra jalebis if I finished my bitter kadha as a child.

He’d chase me around the garden with a skipping rope or coax me to play badminton, trying to build my strength with laughter, not medicines.

His voice was a little choked. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

It was his way of saying he loved me—without fuss or words. Just a gentle retreat, leaving me to my thoughts.

I watched his retreating back and instructed the little maid to remind me to take the medicine with every meal.

I wasn’t going to give up—not this time.

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On the day of the flower hairpin function, I deliberately wore a rani-pink silk kurti—the colour Rohan liked—feeling joyful as I anticipated seeing him.

My hands trembled as I put on my silver anklets, memories of his lingering gaze fuelling my excitement. The family driver whistled as he polished the Ambassador, and even the cook offered me an extra piece of mithai for good luck.

My sister at my side noticed and asked curiously, “Didi, why are you smiling so foolishly?”

She poked my arm, grinning, and I nudged her in return. "Wait and watch, Ananya."

I pressed my lips together. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Sometimes, secrets taste sweeter when kept to oneself.

When we arrived at the palace gardens, the marigolds and gulmohar were in full bloom.

Fragrant petals dusted the path, and a koel sang from somewhere overhead. The palace guards bowed, and the gathered ladies’ laughter floated on the breeze.

The young ladies from various families were gathered and chatting.

Their chatter was a mix of Hindi and English—snatches of gossip, compliments on jewellery, the rustling of silks and chiffons.

My sister nervously clung to my sleeve. “Didi.”

Her grip was tight; I squeezed her hand reassuringly, promising with my eyes to stay close.

I took her hand. “What are you afraid of? No one’s going to eat you.”

She managed a nervous smile. Nearby, the sweetmeats table beckoned, and I nudged her to try the barfi.

Looking around, I still didn’t see Rohan and felt a tinge of disappointment.

Each passing minute made my heart sink a little lower.

Today’s flower hairpin function was more relaxed, unlike the usual rigid etiquette.

There was less of the formal bowing and more of the happy chaos that comes with a truly Indian gathering. Somewhere, a child burst a balloon. The old gardener chased after a stray dog, cursing under his breath.

I heard that the Maharani herself had arranged this selection function for Crown Prince Rohan.

She was known for her sharp eye and even sharper tongue. No detail escaped her.

Suddenly, a mocking laugh interrupted my thoughts.

It was a high, tinkling sound, sharp as a glass churi breaking.

“Whose silly girl is this, trying to copy some film heroine’s pout?”

The words made heads turn. A couple of girls snickered, covering their mouths with the edge of their dupattas.

I turned toward the sound. Next to the speaker stood another young lady, also wearing a rani-pink kurti.

She carried herself like she owned the garden. Her jewellery was heavier, her smile practiced.

She turned to look at me.

Her gaze met mine, holding it for a beat longer than necessary.

The smile froze on my lips.

Heat crept up my cheeks as I realised what was happening.

It was the future crown princess—Ritika.

In my previous life, neither she nor I had attended this function.

This time, destiny had shuffled the cards differently.

But now, not only was she present, she was also wearing the colour Rohan liked—just like me.

It felt like a deliberate move, a challenge I hadn’t expected.

My hand unconsciously reached for my bangles, fingers tracing the cool metal as I fought to keep my composure.

Ritika smiled and nodded at me.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was something calculating in the way she tilted her head.

But my mind was racing—had she also been reborn?

For a second, fear gripped me. Could she also remember everything?

More and more people noticed that Ritika and I were wearing kurtis of the same colour.

The whispers grew, a wave of speculation sweeping through the crowd. Even the old governess muttered to the lady next to her.

Sarcastic remarks reached my ears.

“Miss Ritika looks so much better in that colour—elegant and dignified. Unlike Miss Priya, who insists on being different.”

The sting of comparison was sharper than any slap. I bit the inside of my cheek, struggling to keep my expression neutral.

“Isn’t that so? But this Miss Priya is just a fool, dressed like some dancer seeking attention.”

That word—dancer—hung in the air, meant to wound. The memory of last year’s Holi celebrations flashed before my eyes, when I’d danced without a care, free for once. Now, it felt like a crime.

I had never suited rani-pink, and now I looked even more like a performer for others’ amusement.

The colour clashed with my skin, making me stand out for all the wrong reasons.

It was utterly humiliating.

My breath caught. My vision blurred. My pride lay in tatters.

My sister deliberately spilled a cup of chai on my skirt.

She muttered a quick apology, but I saw the mischief—and the loyalty—in her eyes. She’d always been quick on her feet.

“Didi, your dress is wet. Let’s go change.”

She grabbed my hand and tugged me towards the side room. The palace maid followed, her arms full of spare outfits.

With a pale face, I followed the little palace maid to a side room and changed into something more suitable for me.

The new kurti was a soft, calming blue—the colour Mummy used to say made my eyes sparkle. The maid smoothed my hair, humming a lullaby from her village.

In the brass mirror, I saw myself tidied up again.

For a moment, I let myself believe things could change, that the world might still have space for me.

Rohan had once said he liked my eyes the most—the corners slightly upturned, clear and lively.

I blinked, recalling the way he’d looked at me once—like I was the centre of his universe.

If destiny has changed its script, I’ll just have to steal a new page.