Be strong. Always protect your ma

Queen Hetel—who had so warmly invited Malani to the celebration—looked at me, confused, her hands gently resting over her pregnant belly. I took a small breath, stood up a little straighter in Malani’s arms, and said with calm but unwavering strength,

“I’m sorry… but my mother won’t go to a place where bad people gather.”

Gasps spread like ripples across a still pond. The breeze stilled for a moment, as though even the wind held its breath.

“People who talk without knowing the truth… people who think a woman is only worthy if she gives birth. But they don’t see the hearts she heals, the love she gives, the strength she carries.”

The tension was thick. Some women lowered their gazes in shame. A few looked at each other, unsure whether to speak or stay silent.

But then—I smiled. A small, innocent, forgiving smile. I wasn’t here to punish. I was here to protect.

I looked at Queen Hetel, who stood frozen, unsure whether to feel honored or insulted.

I beckoned her gently with a wave of my little hand. “Belle,” I called her sweetly, my nickname for her because she always wore flowers in her braid.

She stepped forward, hesitantly, like walking through glass.

I took Malani’s hand in mine and then reached out to place both our hands on Hetel’s round belly. The hall was dead silent now. Not even the anklets dared to jingle.

“My ma is blessing you,” I whispered, loud enough for all to hear.

“Be strong. Always protect your ma from bad people. When you’re born, and you come to visit me…” I leaned forward and said playfully, “I’ll give you so much candy, okay? But don’t forget me, promise?”

Hetel’s eyes welled up. She pressed her hand over mine, over her child, and nodded. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing. She couldn’t.

Before anyone else could speak—before a single word of praise or protest could rise—I turned toward Malani and tugged her dupatta softly.

“I’m hungry, ma.”

That was it.

She looked down at me, her teardrop-stained face glowing with the softest smile, and then turned her gaze toward the room full of stunned royals.

Her voice was calm. Regal. Yet brimming with quiet thunder.

“My daughter is hungry. So, I won’t be able to attend your celebration anymore.”

She didn’t apologize. She didn’t hesitate.

“I hope you’ll understand.”

And with that, we walked out.

Her arms wrapped tightly around me. My head resting against her shoulder. And behind us—a trail of silence, regret, and awe.

The palace doors closed behind us with a quiet thud. But it echoed in every corner of their hearts.

Malani carried me through the back corridors of the palace—those old, quiet passageways where the walls smelled like rose oil and old stories. The floor was cool beneath her feet, polished by time, and every flicker of the lanterns cast soft shadows that danced like memories. The echo of music and royal laughter from the grand halls faded behind us, like a faraway dream.

We arrived at the garden veranda—a space kissed by moonlight, with marble arches wrapped in soft pink bougainvillea. A light breeze drifted in, carrying the scent of sandalwood, cardamom, and fresh flowers. Malani gently placed me down on a rosewood seat, its cushions plush and embroidered with threads of silver. She crouched beside the food table, preparing a small plate with careful, loving hands. She placed golden rotis, soft dal, colorful sabzis, and sweet bagi mithai on a silver thali, her eyes always checking on me. Then she reached for the Savaija, the soft vermicelli dessert—

But before she could serve it, a familiar voice interrupted, light and playful:

“Tara doesn’t like Savaija. She likes kheer... extra cardamom.”

Malani turned, surprised. Standing behind her was a woman glowing like moonlight in silk—a soft lavender saree draped gracefully over her shoulder, her smile radiant, her presence gentle but strong.

I turned sharply, my eyes lighting up.

“Maa!” I cried, launching forward.

I ran to her and hugged her tightly, burying my face in her warm embrace. She picked me up instantly, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair with hands I missed every moment.

Then, footsteps echoed behind her.

“Tara Hemanshi, finally you found her!” came a familiar, deep voice—Raghav Singh, my father. His tone was part scolding, part laughter.

Beside him stood Virender, his eyes bright with mischief. “She’s been so naughty, maa! Always running here and there!”

And behind them was Tajveer, tall and proud, his eyes full of quiet relief. “Finally, my sher is here,” he said with warmth as he stepped forward.

He then turned toward Malani, who stood still, watching me in Hemanshi’s arms. Her golden eyes were unreadable—part surprised, part soft, and something else... something deep.

Tajveer walked over, standing beside both women. With a soft smile, he began introductions.

“This,” he said, motioning to Raghav first, “is the king of Ramgadh, Raghav Singh. And this, his son, young Prince Virender.”

Malani offered a respectful nod, still quiet.

Then, as Tajveer looked to Hemanshi, something shifted in the air. The breeze seemed to still, as if waiting.

Before he could speak, Hemanshi stepped forward, holding me close. Her voice was calm, firm, and full of love.

“I am Tara’s mother,” she said, looking directly into Malani’s eyes. “And she... is my daughter.”

There was no hesitation. Just truth.

Malani’s breath caught. She didn’t blink. Her eyes flickered from Hemanshi to me, still nestled in her arms. Her lips parted, but no words came. Her hands, resting on her saree, clenched slightly. The moonlight kissed her face, and her golden eyes shimmered—not with jealousy or bitterness, but something far more fragile:

An unspoken ache. A silent heartbreak. A mother’s wound.

But also—relief.

As if the child she once loved as her own… was truly loved, truly safe.

The garden grew quiet. Even the wind slowed, honoring the moment.

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