Her pov
I had been staring at the same line of the treaty for far too long.
The parchment lay open before me, its edges held down by the weight of a bronze seal, the ink precise and unwavering—every clause between our kingdom and Aaryagarh drafted with a clarity that should have demanded attention. It would have, on any other day. But today, the words slipped past me like water over stone. I traced them, read them, even mouthed a few under my breath, yet not a single condition settled in my mind.
Because he would not leave it.
Three days.
Three days since the fever broke, since the restless haze had lifted from my body—and yet something far more persistent had taken its place. His voice, his presence, that impossible nearness from the dream… it lingered with an audacity I could neither justify nor dismiss.
I pressed my fingers lightly against my temple and forced my gaze back to the treaty.
“Article seven—trade routes shall remain—”
“Still thinking about that soldier from the jungle?”
The words slipped into the room before I could brace for them.
I looked up sharply.
Gauri had entered without ceremony, as she always did, a tray balanced effortlessly in her hands. She set it down with care, then began clearing a space on the table, moving scrolls and documents aside so not even a stray grain would dare touch them. Her movements were efficient, but her eyes—those traitorous, observant eyes—glimmered with unmistakable amusement.
I gave her a look that should have been enough to silence her. It was not.
“I should not have told you anything,” I said, my tone clipped, though I could hear the faint edge of defensiveness beneath it.
She only laughed, soft and entirely unrepentant, as she adjusted the stack of treaties. “Oh, it was just a dream,” she said lightly. “Forget about it.”
“I am trying,” I replied, exhaling in quiet frustration, my gaze falling back to the parchment though I no longer saw it. “But that… bloody soldier—”
“Language,” she cut in immediately.
I made a face, more out of habit than guilt, and leaned back slightly in my chair. “Whatever he is,” I amended, though the irritation remained. “He has made it unnecessarily difficult to think.”
Gauri straightened, folding her arms as she regarded me with a patience that suggested she had already reached her conclusion. “He saved you,” she said simply. “Once from something that would have swallowed you whole, and once from questions that would have done far worse.”
I looked at her then, properly this time.
“I know,” I said, quieter now, the admission settling heavier than I intended. “But…”
The word lingered, incomplete, because I did not yet have the courage—or perhaps the clarity—to finish it.
And that was when the door opened again.
Bhabhi entered first, composed as ever, her steps measured, her presence settling into the room with quiet authority. And right behind her, almost colliding into her back, was Rudra—dishevelled, breathless, and very nearly in tears.
“Maa—” he dragged the word, voice trembling, “I’m saying sorry, just listen to me…”
She did not.
Not immediately, at least.
She walked past him as though his apologies were nothing more than a persistent breeze, unworthy of pause, and came to sit opposite me with the same calm grace she carried into every room. Only once she was seated did she look at me, her expression softening just enough to show concern.
“How are you feeling, Megha?”
“I am fine now,” I replied, straightening slightly, the corner of my lips lifting. “Thanks to you… and Gauri.”
Gauri, of course, looked entirely pleased with herself.
“And Moksha,” I added after a moment, a quieter note slipping in despite myself. “Of course… him.”
I did not elaborate, but I didn’t need to. He had never said it—not once, not clearly—but love did not always wait for words. Some things revealed themselves in pauses, in silences, in the way someone chose you without announcement.
Behind Bhabhi, Rudra’s voice rose again, softer now, fraying at the edges.
“Maa…”
It pulled at something instinctive in me. I turned, lifting a hand in a small gesture.
“Come here.”
He hesitated only a second before crossing the room, his steps slower now, as if unsure whether he was walking toward comfort or judgment. When he reached me, he stood close, eyes lowered, fingers twisting into the fabric of his kurta.
“I didn’t do it intentionally,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “The ink… it fell on its own.”
I placed a hand on his back, patting it gently. “It’s alright,” I said, my tone softer than I had expected it to be. “These things happen.”
Then I looked up at Bhabhi, curiosity threading through my calm. “What happened?”
She exhaled lightly, though there was no real annoyance in it—only the faintest trace of exasperation that came from familiarity rather than frustration.
“I was writing a letter to your brother…”
My mind moved instantly. Prithvi. Of course. He had been away for days now, caught in matters of trade and diplomacy that seemed to stretch endlessly beyond the palace walls.
I nodded, understanding settling in.
“And then,” she continued, glancing briefly at Rudra, “he decided the paper needed more… decoration.”
Rudra looked appropriately guilty.
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, the sound breaking the lingering heaviness in the room. “It’s alright,” I said again, this time with a hint of amusement. “Ink can be replaced. Letters can be rewritten.”
Bhabhi inclined her head slightly, conceding the point, though her eyes shifted back to her son with deliberate meaning.
Rudra, taking that as his final chance, rushed forward and wrapped his arms tightly around her, clutching at her neck with desperate affection. “Sorry,” he whispered again, softer this time, as if the word might finally land where it needed to.
Her dupatta slipped from her head with the suddenness of the embrace, but this time—she laughed.
Not the restrained smile she offered moments ago, but something warmer, freer. She reached up, tugging lightly at his ear. “You will still be punished,” she said, though the threat carried no real weight.
“Sorry,” he repeated, though now there was relief in it.
“I have heard you,” she replied, her tone gentler as she smoothed his hair, forgiving him without ceremony.
Then, as naturally as the moment had shifted, she turned back to me.
And though her expression returned to calm, there was something newly observant in her gaze—as if she had not missed a single undercurrent in the room, not even the ones I had tried, unsuccessfully, to hide. Bhabhi’s gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, thoughtful in a way that made me suspect she had seen far more than I intended to show. Then, as if setting that aside, she said simply, “I need paper. He has ruined all of mine.”
I gestured toward Gauri without looking away. “From the almirah.”
Gauri moved at once, crossing to the carved wooden cupboard by the wall. The doors opened with a soft creak, revealing neatly stacked sheets and scrolls within. She selected a fresh bundle and brought it over.
Bhabhi took it from her, her fingers brushing the edges with quiet care, and then—unexpectedly—she smiled. Not her usual composed, knowing smile, but something almost sheepish, as if she had been caught in a small, harmless mischief of her own.
“I have to go,” she said, rising.
I smiled back, understanding without needing the words. Letters, it seemed, were not a habit confined to soldiers and secrets.
The moment she left, the room settled again—but not for long.
Because the thought came suddenly.
Letters.
He had mentioned it so casually that day, as though it were nothing. That he is allowed to receive and write letters from his family. A mute wife who wrote to him while he was away… a story told for convenience, a lie shaped in the moment. And yet, the detail had stayed. It had rooted itself somewhere deep enough to return now, clear and insistent.
Aaryagarh.
I knew enough. The routes, the postings, the places where soldiers were stationed or passed through. If he was from there—if even a fragment of what he had said was true—then a letter could find its way.
Before I could reconsider, I turned to Gauri.
“Bring me paper.”
She blinked at me. “Food first.”
“Forget the food,” I said, already pushing the untouched tray aside, my focus sharpening in a way it had not all day. “I will eat later. First, he should know what he has done.”
Gauri stilled.
There was a pause—brief, but heavy with realization.
“Who?” she asked carefully, though I could hear the answer forming in her mind even as she spoke.
I only smiled.
That was enough.
She shook her head at once, a quiet disbelief in the motion. “No. You cannot just write to someone like that. You are a princess.”
My smile only widened, something steadier, more certain settling into place.
“No,” I said, my voice calm, almost amused. “I am an attendant.”
The words felt strangely natural, as though I were stepping back into a role I had already worn.
“And he,” I added, reaching for the paper as she reluctantly handed it over, “is a soldier.”
I let my fingers rest against the blank sheet for a moment, the weight of it far greater than it should have been.
“So, I can write a letter.”
Gauri returned with the paper, though the way she held it out to me made it clear she had not surrendered her argument.
“Think again,” she said, quieter this time, as if reason might succeed where teasing had failed.
I took the sheets from her hands almost too quickly, the faint crackle of parchment sharp in the stillness. “Stop talking,” I said, unable to keep the edge of excitement from my voice. “And bring ink.”
She studied me for a moment—really studied me—like she was trying to decide whether this was a passing impulse or something far more stubborn.
Then she nodded and turned.
When she came back, placing the ink and quill beside me, she didn’t leave.
She just stood there.
Watching.
I glanced up, catching her gaze lingering far too openly for my liking. “What?”
“What?” she repeated, as if the question itself were absurd.
I scoffed lightly. “Do you not have better things to do?”
She folded her arms, unimpressed. “Just don’t write something offensive to that poor soldier.”
And with that, she turned and walked away, though not without one last glance over her shoulder.
I watched her go, then muttered under my breath, mimicking her tone, “Poor soldier.”
The words felt ridiculous—and yet, they stayed.
I pulled the paper closer.
For a moment, I did nothing.
The room was quiet again, save for the faint rustle of the curtains and the distant hum of palace life continuing without me. My fingers tightened slightly around the quill as I drew in a slow breath, steadying something that felt far less certain than I had allowed Gauri to see.
This was foolish.
Unnecessary.
Entirely beneath the dignity I had been taught to carry without question.
And yet—
My hand moved.
I dipped the feather into the ink, watching the dark liquid gather at its tip, heavy and precise. A single drop threatened to fall, and I caught it just in time, pressing the quill gently to the page.
The first stroke lingered for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Then I began.
Hey, soldier—
The words looked almost… trivial.
Too simple for everything that had built up behind them.
I stared at them, the ink still fresh, as if expecting them to rearrange themselves into something more fitting—something sharper, colder, less revealing.
They did not.
A faint exhale left me, something between a sigh and a quiet surrender.
“Poor soldier,” I murmured again, softer this time, though now it no longer sounded like mockery.
And then, with a steadier hand, I continued writing.
The words came faster now, no longer hesitant, no longer searching for form. Whatever restraint I had tried to hold onto dissolved with each line, replaced by something sharper, more honest than I would have ever allowed aloud.
I did not pause to soften them. I did not stop to reconsider.
I let them fall exactly as they were.
Hey, soldier—
What was that?
No—don’t answer. I don’t even know why I am writing this.
There is no reason for me to be thinking about it, about you, about that moment—and yet it returns, uninvited, as if it refuses to leave me alone.
You had no right.
Do you understand that? No right to stand there and say those words as if they meant something. As if I… as if we—
It was nothing.
It should have been nothing.
So why does it not feel like nothing?
Distance was meant to settle it. Instead, it has done the opposite. What should have faded has only sharpened, lingering where it does not belong—in thought, in memory, even in sleep.
Do you find that amusing? Or was it so insignificant to you that you have already forgotten?
Because I have not.
And I do not understand why.
You will call it nothing, I am sure. Strategy. Convenience. A moment handled as any other. I told myself the same. It was the most reasonable explanation.
And yet—
It lingers.
Like the daldal that tried to pull me under, your words have a way of holding on. I find them where they should not be, returning with a persistence that makes no sense for something so meaningless.
I saw you there.
Not as you were that day, distant and composed, but… closer. As if the space you placed between us had never existed.
Do not mistake this for longing. I would sooner walk back into that mire than indulge such foolishness.
But I will not pretend ignorance either.
You placed something upon me that day. A claim. A story.
And stories have consequences.
I do not know what right you think you have—to appear in my thoughts uninvited, to linger in places you were never given permission to enter. And yet, you take that space as if it was always yours.
I find myself questioning things I had no need to question before. That is your doing.
I am angry.
At you—for saying it.
At myself—for remembering it.
So take this, since you seem so willing to take things without asking—
Take this unrest back with you.
I do not want it.
—mute wife
I let the last line dry for a moment before folding the letter with deliberate care, as though neat edges could disguise the storm inside it.
“Gauri.”
She appeared almost immediately, as if she had been waiting just beyond the door—which, knowing her, she probably had.
I held the letter out. “Send this to him.”
She did not take it.
“No,” she said at once, her brows drawing together. “There is no way you are doing this.”
“I am absolutely doing this,” I replied, my voice steady in a way that left little room for argument.
Her eyes flickered between my face and the letter, disbelief settling deeper. “You do know,” she said slowly, as if explaining something painfully obvious, “that letters to soldiers are not just… sent like this. Usually only family—”
“Yes,” I cut in calmly, placing the folded parchment into her reluctant hands. “And now you will take this and send it.”
She stared at it as though it might burn her fingers. “How exactly do you expect them to accept it?”
I did not hesitate.
“Tell them it is from his wife.”
The silence that followed was almost comical.
“What?” she breathed, her voice rising in shock. “How could you even—”
I had already turned away, walking back toward the couch with unhurried ease, as though we were discussing something trivial rather than entirely improper. I sat down, adjusting the edge of my dupatta, then looked at her.
“Just as he could say I am his wife,” I said evenly, meeting her gaze without the slightest hint of doubt, “I can say I am his wife. Simple.”
“It is not simple,” she insisted, though her certainty had begun to waver. “What if he writes back? A soldier from another kingdom sending letters to a princess—do you understand what that could mean?”
“He won’t.”
The answer came easily.
“I have not mentioned my address.”
Gauri blinked, then frowned. “But you have written to the palace of Aaryagarh. And he already knew that you are an attendant here. What if he sends a reply to this palace like you did and it finds its way back here?”
For the first time, I paused.
Only for a moment.
Then I leaned back slightly, letting logic settle where doubt tried to creep in. “He is a soldier of that kingdom,” I said, quieter now, but no less certain. “He cannot write directly to this palace without consequence. It would raise questions—questions no soldier would risk inviting. At worst, he would be accused of passing information, of overstepping rank. He will not do it.”
Gauri studied me carefully, as if weighing not just my reasoning but the conviction behind it.
Slowly, she nodded, though I could see she was not entirely at ease.
“Now go,” I said, softer this time, but still firm.
She exhaled, adjusting her grip on the letter. Of course, she knew how to ride—she had learned alongside me. If she left now, she would reach there on time and return by evening.
“If anyone asks?” she said, pausing at the threshold.
“I will tell them I sent you on my work.”
That seemed to settle the last of her hesitation.
Gauri gave a small nod and turned, the letter held carefully, almost reverently now, as though she had begun to understand that it carried more than ink and parchment.
I watched her leave.
And only when the door closed behind her did the quiet return—thicker this time, heavier.
My gaze drifted to the table where the treaties of Aaryagarh still lay open, their neat lines waiting for attention I could not yet give.
Somewhere between those formal agreements and the letter now riding out beyond the palace walls, something had shifted.
Irrevocably.
For the first time, it was not his silence that unsettled me—but the thought that he might not understand at all.
Write a comment ...