Page 64 of The Promised Queen
I have not slept. How can I, when I have the habit—no, the need—of starting my day with her voice and ending my night with her smile? Without her, the hours are shapeless, colorless. The food brought to me is bland, no matter what delicacies are set before me. My tongue has forgotten taste. My body has forgotten rest.
The palace feels colder. The rooms larger, emptier. The corridors echo with a hollowness that cuts deep.
If we do not find her—if I do not hold her again—I do not know how I will survive this. The thought creeps into me like a shadow I cannot shake: I would rather die. Better that than live each day stripped of her, condemned to pretend to a world that I am whole when in truth I am bleeding.
A rustle pulls me from my spiraling thoughts. I lift my head. Sitara stands at the doorway.
She bows low, her hands folded, her face tilted down. “Bhai-sa.”
I nod in acknowledgment. She does not move forward. Her small figure lingers at the threshold like she is caught betweenstepping in and running away. Her eyes—large, rimmed with tiredness—do not meet mine. They fix on the carpet, the way a guilty child avoids the gaze of their elder.
I know my sister. I know her well enough to read the silence on her face. She is carrying something. She knows something. And the weight of it is pressing on her too heavily.
Slowly, I rise from my chair. The sound of it makes her flinch. I walk toward her, each step measured, until I am standing in front of her. Gently, I say, “Sitara.”
Her lips tremble but remain pressed into a thin line.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “Whatever it is, you can share it with me. You know that, don’t you?”
She nods once. Her chin quivers. Her hands twist together nervously. Then, after a long pause, she lifts her eyes to mine. They glisten with unshed tears.
“I… I may know why Bhabhi-sa left,” she whispers.
My heart stutters, my breath catching like I’ve been struck.
“What?” My voice is barely sound.
She swallows, her lips trembling. “We went to the temple the other day,” she begins, her words fragile. Her fear is plain, the way her eyes dart as though afraid someone might overhear. I reach for her hand, my palm covering her small fingers, and squeeze.
“It’s okay, Sitara,” I tell her softly. “Take your time.”
Her throat bobs. Her eyes blur with tears. “Bhai-sa… Maa-sa was there.”
The air seems to split around me. My lungs seize. For a moment, I cannot think, cannot breathe.
“No,” I manage, shaking my head, dread tightening like a noose. “Did she humiliate her again? Is that why—”
My thoughts are cut off by Sitara’s sudden outpouring, the words tumbling fast as though she has been holding them too long.
“She… she was a bit disrespectful towards bhabhi-sa. She said things—that you had lost your mind, that she could still replace you with Veeraj or Vihaan bhai-sa if she wanted, that even if you took her power away she could still harm you.” Sitara’s voice cracks. “Bhai-sa, I think… I think bhabhi-sa felt sad. I think that is why she left.”
“I overheard them” She sighs, trying to control her tears, “But I didn’t do anything. Just stood there, didn’t confront Maa-sa, didn’t console bhabhi-sa,” I see the tears welling up in her eyes, “I am so sorry, bhai-sa.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. Anger flares hot beneath my ribs. Not just anger—something darker, sharper.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head again, my hand tightening around hers. “She was not angry. She was not simply hurt.” The realization comes like a blade carving through me. My chest aches with it. “She felt responsible. She thought if she stayed, Maa-sa would strike at me. She thought she was the root of all my problems.” I close my eyes, pain wringing my voice. “She wasn’t.”
When I open them again, I look directly into Sitara’s tearful face.
“She had become my solution,” I say, my voice low but firm, each word carved from the truth in my chest.
Sitara lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, bhai-sa. I’m so sorry. It was me who suggested we go to the temple. If I hadn’t taken her there, they would never have met—”
“No.” My voice sharpens. I grip her shoulder, steadying her before she can crumble further. “Sitara, stop spiraling. None of this is your fault.” I soften, my tone lowering as I look at her trembling face. “Tara.”
Her eyes widen at the gentleness in my voice.
“If it is anyone’s fault,” I say, my chest tightening, “it is our mother’s.”
