The sun spilled over Devgarh like liquid saffron, warming ancient walls carved with gods and gold. The palace stirred to life with the scent of sandalwood, the clinking of silver thaalis, the rustle of silks being folded and unfolded again.
Siyamika Rathore sat cross-legged by the jharokha, her cheek resting against the cool stone. Below her, in the courtyards, the temple bells sang their morning hymn. Peacocks strutted lazily across the sandstone, servants bustled to prepare breakfast, and someone was arguing—again—over the wrong colour of rose petals for the shrine.
It was peaceful. Beautiful. But never free.
At eighteen, Siyamika was every bit the princess—trained in music, embroidery, diplomacy, and silence. Her world was a walled garden, trimmed and sweet, but it was not her own.
“You’ve been awake for hours,” Meera said, walking in with a fresh veil and a plate of lotus-soaked sweets. “You’ll go blind reading poetry before sunrise.”
“I was already awake,” Siyamika replied softly, not looking up from the page. “The birds woke me.”
“The birds,” Meera snorted playfully. “Or your thoughts?”
Siyamika smiled faintly, but didn’t answer.
Her thoughts were too large for words most days. Too quiet to be shared.
She moved through the day with grace, as expected—greeting courtiers, reciting lines of the Ramayana, weaving gold threads into fabric she would never wear. Sometimes, she visited the temple. Sometimes, she danced alone in her garden when no one was watching.
At night, she traced the constellations through her window, pretending the stars could hear her secrets. That somewhere beyond them, she was more than a pawn in waiting.
She knew her father would soon begin searching for alliances.
She knew the smiles of the palace hid calculations.
But for now… she still belonged to herself.
And that was the only freedom she had.
Siyamika's day passed like most others—quietly, elegantly, invisibly.
After morning rituals and courtly appearances, she retreated to her garden. It was her sanctuary—tucked behind the zenana walls, hidden from the court’s watchful eyes. The marble pathway led to a pond, where lotus flowers bloomed stubbornly despite the heat, and dragonflies darted like sparks over the water.
She dipped her fingers into the cool surface and watched the ripples distort her reflection.
Sometimes, she wondered what she would look like in a mirror that didn’t belong to the palace.
A mirror that didn’t show her as a princess—but just… a girl.
“You’re too quiet for someone so young,” Meera often teased her.
“Princesses are meant to be graceful,” Siyamika would reply.
But in her head, she added
"not voiceless".
She had dreams she dared not name.
Of wandering the markets barefoot. Of learning to ride, really ride—not sidesaddle in silks, but like a warrior, hair flying, unbound. Of eating sweet mangoes without decorum, juice on her chin.
But these things weren’t for her.
Not for a daughter of Devgarh.
Not for a princess being groomed for alliance.
As the sun began to dip, she sat beneath the gulmohar tree, a scroll of poetry open in her lap.
“Kisi ki yaadon ka dard le kar, jo khamoshi se jee jaye... woh hi toh rani hoti hai.”
(She who carries someone else’s sorrow in silence... she is the true queen.)
The verse struck something in her.
She closed the scroll and hugged her knees to her chest. The weight of things left unsaid pressed down on her chest like invisible silk.
Everyone thought Siyamika was delicate. Submissive. Obedient.
But she knew something else lived beneath her softness.
A quiet kind of rage.
A fire that burned so gently, no one noticed it was there.
Not yet.
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