Chapter 7: The Sickroom and Old Wounds

Unexpectedly, the maid had not lied.

The Raja’s bungalow buzzed with tension, servants flitting back and forth like anxious sparrows. The scent of sandalwood incense was heavy, almost suffocating.

Arjun was gravely ill. Several doctors surrounded his room. As I entered the inner chamber, I heard the Rani’s gentle voice comforting him from behind a screen.

Her words dripped with false sweetness, masking a steel will. The best hakims and vaidyas in the city hovered nearby.

"Arjun, beta, be good, all right?"

On the other side, Rajveer’s deep voice: "If he still won’t take it, force it down."

The Rani protested, "How can you treat a child like that?"

As she finished, the maid led me through the screen, and the room fell silent. The Rani, sitting by the bed in splendid attire, glanced at me from head to toe with a cool, dismissive look.

"Truly difficult to invite a Devi."

Her sarcasm stung, but I kept my gaze low, clutching the pallu of my saree.

Rajveer leaned on the chair, looking weary, and gently said to the Rani, "You’ve been exhausted for days. Go and rest."

"Caring for the child is my duty. I’m not tired," the Rani replied softly.

Rajveer lowered his eyes, waving his hand. Though still gentle, his tone brooked no argument: "Go."

The Rani’s face stiffened slightly. She adjusted her gold jhumka and rose gracefully. As she passed me, she paused, her gaze sharp as a blade.

The weight of her disdain was heavy. Her perfume lingered as she swept out, her silk petticoat rustling like the warning of a snake.

Most of the people in the room withdrew. The medicine bowl by the bed steamed gently. Rajveer watched me from across the screen, his long eyes narrowing.

He wanted me to coax Arjun into taking his medicine.

The silence was thick; even the ticking of the wall clock felt accusatory. Rajveer’s gaze never left me.

But when I approached, Arjun just buried his head in the quilt, silent.

His small body trembled with fever, his fists clenched around the edge of the blanket. My heart ached with helplessness.

Rajveer impatiently cracked his knuckles. "Just coax him the way you do that boy you’re raising outside. Is it that hard to coax your own son?"

His words were sharp, almost cruel. I swallowed my pride and forced myself to speak gently.

Despite his words, I could not bring myself to coax Arjun. Perhaps because his father was once my master, and he too saw me as a servant.

So my words were dry as I held the medicine bowl: "Young master, good medicine is bitter."

The old formula, said a hundred times to Aarav, sounded hollow here. My heart felt like a stone in my chest.

Suddenly, the quilt was thrown aside. Arjun glared at me angrily, his face flushed. After a long standoff, he reluctantly leaned over. "Feed me."

The demand was imperious. His voice trembled, but his pride would not let him admit to weakness.

Before the medicine touched his lips, he complained it was hot and wanted me to blow on it.

I obliged, fanning the spoon with my breath, recalling how I used to do the same for him long ago.

After a sip, he said it was bitter and wanted honey.

He dawdled so much that a small bowl of medicine took half a day to finish. Aarav was better—even the worst medicine, he drank without a word.

My patience wore thin, but I bit my tongue and endured. The old habits of servitude returned in full force.

Seeing this little prince finally quiet, I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I could go home at dawn. But Arjun wanted me to sing a lullaby to lull him to sleep.

He clung to the hem of my saree, his eyes pleading and angry at the same time.

I said I couldn’t. He retorted, "You used to sing to me."

Rajveer looked over thoughtfully, making me nervous.

The weight of his gaze was unbearable. I glanced away, focusing on the flicker of the lamp.

Back then, when Arjun was three, he fell into the pond and got sick. I was locked in the side outhouse by Rajveer’s order, not allowed out, but I worried and snuck over the wall, injuring my leg.

I limped through the garden at midnight, my heart in my throat. I risked everything for a glimpse of my sick child.

Through the window, the Rani let the maids care for Arjun perfunctorily, making a show before leaving. The maid dozed off outside while boiling medicine, and Arjun, delirious with fever, nearly rolled into the chulha.

The scent of burning wood and spilled medicine still haunted my dreams. I shivered, remembering that night.

I was startled and sneaked in. Arjun slept fitfully, so I softly sang to comfort him. That was the only time I could hold him.

Unexpectedly, Arjun remembered. I lowered my eyes and lied, "Young master must be mistaken. I was not allowed in the main house."

My voice was barely a whisper, the old shame rising once more.

Seeing me refuse, Arjun angrily shoved me. "If you don’t want to, then get out. Who cares."

Caught off guard, I fell with the bowl to the ground, my palm pressing into broken porcelain, blood oozing out.

The pain was sharp, but the humiliation sharper. I clenched my jaw, refusing to cry.