Page 4 of The Promised Queen
I sigh, setting the ghungroos aside. He’ll complain later that his back hurts if I leave him like this. I walk over quietly, kneel beside him, and gently tug his shoes off one by one. The laces are knotted, probably from when he was already tipsy last night. His socks smell faintly of dust and the street. I set them aside and slide a pillow beneath his head. He stirs, mutters something—maybe my mother’s name—but doesn’t wake.
A sharp knock on the door jolts me.
Please, not another person asking for payment. My salary is still ten days away, and whatever cash I had left, Papa “borrowed” last week for his drinks.
I grab the dupatta draped over the chair, toss it over my shoulders, and open the door.
For a moment, I think I’ve opened it to the wrong house.
A tall man in a crisp royal guard’s uniform stands there, posture straight as a sword. The dark blue and gold fabric catches the sun, the Shekhawat crest glinting on his shoulder. My brain scrambles. What business does royalty have with me—Meher Sharma—whose life is about as far from a palace as you can get?
He scans a paper in his hand.
“Ms. Meher Sharma?”
I nod, still unsure if I’m awake.
“This royal decree is for you.”
He hands me an envelope stamped with the royal seal—a thick red wax crest pressed so perfectly I can see each tiny detail. And then, just as calmly, he turns and walks away, as if he hasn’t just delivered the most confusing moment of my life.
I can already feel the stares. Sure enough, two of the neighborhood aunties are leaning over the low wall across the lane, whispering behind their dupattas but very much looking at me. Their eyes dart between me and the envelope like they can will it open from where they stand.
I shut the door quickly before they can come over with “Oh, we were just passing by” as an excuse.
The chair creaks when I drop into it. My hands feel a little sweaty as I turn the envelope over, tracing the seal with my thumb. I break it carefully, unfold the thick parchment, and read.
By royal order,
Ms. Meher Sharma is requested to present herself before His Majesty, King Devraj Singh Shekhawat, at the City Palace, Udaipur, today at 4:30 PM.
I blink. Read it again.
Why would the King want to meet me? I have no business with royalty. No connection. And how does he even know I exist?
My mind flips back to years ago—my first and only encounter with a royal. The former king, Baapu-sa as everyone called him, had come to my school for some speech about heritage and education. He’d visited the dance class after, and I remember him ruffling my hair like I was his own grandchild. I, of course, told him off for messing it up—without realizing who he was. The teacher nearly dragged me out by the ear afterwards, but the king had just laughed, telling her not to scold me. He’d seemed… kind. Human. Not distant like you’d expect from a man wearing a crown.
His son though—Maharaj Devraj—I’ve never met him. I’ve only seen his face in the local papers or, sometimes, on the TV during festivals. Always looking neat, efficient… robotic, even. My neighbors love to gossip about him, about how disciplined and cold he seems. I swear, if these women spent half the energy they use on gossiping on their own lives, they wouldn’t be living in such misery. But who am I to say anything?
I fold the letter and tap it against my palm.
Should I tell Papa?
No. No, absolutely not. He’ll either demand to come along, make a scene, or try to twist it into some way to get money. I can’t trust him with this.
It’s not like the king can accuse me of anything—I haven’t done anything wrong. Well… except for not paying certain people yet. But if this is about that, I can stand my ground. Isn’t it his job to take care of his people? To make sure poverty isn’t swallowing us whole?
If only he could see how we live here—how narrow the lanes are, how the drains stink in the summer, how the air feels heavy with everything people don’t say out loud.
But kings and politicians—they’re all the same. We exist for their use. To wave at during parades. To fill the seats when they make speeches. To be “helped” in ways that look good on camera.
I set the letter on the table, staring at the seal again.
Whatever this is, it’s a royal order. I have to go.
And for reasons I can’t explain, my heart is pounding harder than it should.
CHAPTER 4
