CHAPTER 3
A Gold Cage?
POORVI
The sound of my sitaar flows low in the air, each note curling softly like smoke, filling the quiet corners of my room. My fingers move over the strings almost on their own, muscle memory guiding them as my mind drifts elsewhere. There’s something comforting about this—the soft vibration under my fingertips, the music breathing life into a space that often feels too still, too silent.
This room is the only place in the palace that feels mine. Not because it’s beautiful—though it is, with its carved arches and pale blue walls—but because here, no one watches. No one judges.
I lean forward slightly, closing my eyes as the sound deepens, wrapping around me like a shawl. For a moment, it’s enough. For a moment, I can almost pretend I belong somewhere.
The door bursts open.
“Rajkumari!”
The string snaps under my fingers, the sharp sting biting my skin as I jerk back. My heart stumbles in my chest as I look up to see Janki standing in the doorway, breathless.
“What happened?” I ask, frowning, setting the sitar gently on the rug.
“Maharaj is calling you.”
I blink. The words don’t make sense at first. “Me?”
She nods, urgency shining in her eyes. “Yes, Rajkumari. Please hurry.”
I rise quickly, smoothing the creases in my pale pink lehenga. My palms feel clammy, and not because of the broken string. The Maharaj never calls for me. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been summoned to his office—and each one left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Janki steps forward, murmuring, “I’ll put your sitaar away, Rajkumari. Please go. Don’t keep him waiting.”
I nod stiffly and follow the younger maid who stands ready at the door. My sandals click softly against the cool marble as we walk through the long corridor. Sunlight filters in through the jharokhas, gilding the floors in warm gold. The palace is quiet, almost serene—but inside me, something churns.
I glance at the maid beside me, her dupatta fluttering slightly as she keeps pace. “Why do you think I was called?”
She bows her head quickly. “I don’t know, Rajkumari.”
Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? Maharaj Digvijay doesn’t share his thoughts with anyone, least of all with me.
Digvijay Sisodiya. My half-brother. My king. After our father died, he took the throne like it was always meant for him—andmaybe it was. Being the eldest son of the Rajmata, there was never any question. I wasn’t invited to the coronation, naturally. But still, I thought it would be unkind not to congratulate him.
So I spent an entire week painting him a gift. His portrait. It wasn’t perfect—not even close. My brushstrokes were clumsy, my colors too stark. But it was mine, a piece of me I thought he might value.
When I went to his chambers, I stood outside for hours, rehearsing what to say. But when the door opened, it wasn’t him—it was a guard, his face blank. “The Maharaj says you can hand it over to me.”
And that was it. He never even looked at it. Never even looked at me. I told myself it didn’t matter. That maybe he was busy. That maybe it was foolish to expect warmth where none existed. But I’d poured every ounce of hope into that canvas, every desperate, aching wish for a little recognition. For something that said:You matter. I see you.
He didn’t see me. He never has.
And maybe I don’t blame him. How could I? His mother made sure I stayed ten miles away from her children. Rajmata Sumitra, in her silks and diamonds, the perfect queen with a gaze like ice. If I were in her place, I might have hated me, too. If my husband had betrayed me, had fathered a child outside his vows…
But none of this was my fault.
I wasn’t asking for love. I stopped asking for that long ago. All I ever wanted was kindness. A little space to exist without being treated like a stain on their marble floors.
We reach the heavy teak doors of his study. They loom before me like the gates of some ancient fortress. The maid starts to follow, but I stop her with a quiet, “You stay here. I’ll go in alone.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Rajkumari—”
“It’s never good when I’m called here,” I say softly. “I don’t want anyone to witness that.”
