Chandra stuck her forefinger into her mouth to stop the bleeding, then spoke around it. “It’s your fault. Look at my finger.” She showed her the pomegranate red fingertips. “Dratted bird must have mistaken it for a fruit.”
“I only apply thehenna, Chandra. I don’t make it stain that red,” admonished Kalpana, dabbing at the mess on her palm. “You have that tendency no matter which batch or which strain of leaf I use.”
Chandra grimaced at her hand some more and then turned to look out the window. It was a beautiful day of sunlight and perfect temperatures, and she was cooped up inside, having to undergo mind-numbingly boring things. She wished she could take a discreet tour of the village. Summer had ended and monsoons were upon them. The fields would be bustling with workers planting paddy, turning the loamy brown soil into a brilliant carpet of green.
Or they could’ve met in the mango orchard owned by her friend Sameera’s brother like they usually did instead of the stifling confines of her quarters.
But she was to meet Guruji later in the afternoon, and she didn’t want to be too far away when the summons came. Kalpana had pounced on the opportunity to make Chandra more presentable.
Chandra didn’t understand the need behind it. There wasn’t anyone who cared about her following proper procedures due a princess. But it somehow became important for her maid, and Chandra didn’t feel there was any harm in letting her friend indulge in the pretense she was still a proper princess instead of the pariah she had become.
“Perhaps it’s because you have a devoted husband.” Sameera entered the room carrying a plate with an array of multihued glass bangles purchased from the market.
Sameera was of medium height with fair coloring and a warm laugh that invited you to take her into confidence. She was referring to a well-known saying, “the deeper the red of themehendi, the better the husband.”
“What?” said Sameera, straightening, as her friends gave her expressions of complete incredulity. “Is it wrong to think of it as a possibility?”
“Only if you’ve lost your marbles,” said Chandra, pursing her lips.
Kalpana merely bent her head to her task, neither agreeing nor denying, her demeanor uncomfortable as always when this topic was raised.
“Surely, you don’t agree with her?” prodded Chandra.
“It’s not for me to say, Princess,” replied Kalpana noncommittally.
“You only call me ‘Princess’ when you have to say something I won’t like,” grumbled Chandra.
“Fine.” Kalpana dropped the princess’s hand, giving up on fixing the pattern, and took a deep breath, glancing up. “I have resolved to speak the truth about what really happened that night seven years ago.”
Chandra searched her dearest friend’s face. “Why make this decision now?” she asked neutrally.
Kalpana swallowed and turned away. “Because Girish proposed to me yesterday,” she said with downcast eyes, as if conveying news of great distress. Sameera, oblivious to the undercurrents, exclaimed and embraced her friend, congratulating her several times.
“And what answer did you give him, Kalpana?” Chandra frowned and made no move to offer her well wishes. Somethingwas quite obviously off—Kalpana didn’t have the radiant happiness of a bride-to-be.
Kalpana bent her head to her lap and the heap of loose flowers she had gathered. She began tying them into a garland, but her tension showed itself in the unusual lack of dexterity, as the loops of thread kept slipping from her fingers. “I refused,” she said softly.
“What?” Sameera exclaimed in confusion. She laid a gentle hand on Kalpana’s shoulder. “But…I thought you loved him?”
“Yes, Kalpana, why don’t you explain why?” asked the princess. “Do you not think he is a good man? Does he not dote on Sarun? Is he not head over heels in love with you?” her voice rising toward the end.
* * *
Sameera gave a quizzical look at the belligerent tone of the princess. It was unlike her to rub salt onto what must have been a difficult decision for Kalpana.
“I owe my life to you—” began Kalpana haltingly.
“And how is that a hindrance to accepting his offer?” interrupted Chandra, exasperation lacing her voice.
“You don’t understand!” said Kalpana fervently, dropping the pretense of tying the garland and standing up. The flowers fell to the ground, strewing in a fan pattern. “I can’t be happy with my future husband knowing your life has been wrecked because of me.”
“What has happened wasn’t your fault,” said Chandra with gritted teeth. “How many times do I have to insist on that before you start believing it?”
Chandra stood from the settee and faced Kalpana, the anklets around her feet jingling with every agitated step shetook. Her mane of dark hair was unbound, falling well past her waist, swishing with her movements.
The saree Kalpana insisted on for Chandra was gossamer thin, suitable for the hot climes of Amaravathi. She had draped it around her torso and over one shoulder, leaving the other shoulder and her midriff bare. A spiral gold armlet in the shape of a snake, a gift from one of her distant relatives, rested on her upper arm.
Slender of build, the princess carried herself with the grace of a warrior. And had the temperament of one with a quickness to anger. As much as Sameera knew about her quick temper, she also knew the princess had a huge heart and forgiving nature.
