Royal Hearts : When Eyes First Met chapter 4

Author

Hiii

Jaipur, 1950. The country might have woken to freedom, but the walls of the Rathore Mahal held tightly to the old ways.

Inside its pink-stoned arches and intricate jharokhas, one woman’s fate had been sealed long before she was born.

Princess Diara Rathore

She was the light of Jaipur, they said. A beauty meant to be seen, not heard. A royal jewel, too valuable to be touched by the world beyond.

Diara Singh Rathore

(thinking as she brushed her long, ink-dark hair, watching its sheen catch the morning light) India broke its chains. The streets outside are new… hearts are new… but mine is still locked away in these ancient, painted walls.

Diara Singh Rathore

When will someone set me free? Or will I have to set myself ablaze first?"

The heavy teak door creaked open. Meera, her maid since childhood, slipped inside like a cautious breeze.

Meera

(softly, avoiding her princess’s eyes): “Rajkumari… your mother sends word. You must be ready by noon. The jeweller is bringing new bridal sets for you to see.”

Diara Singh Rathore

(a hollow laugh, her gaze fixed on the mirror, her reflection a stranger): “Another one? Tell her I haven’t even tried on the last three. Do they think diamonds can bind my soul tighter?”

Meera

(glancing nervously toward the corridor, her voice barely a whisper): “They say… they say your marriage will be announced by the end of this month.”

Diara Singh Rathore

(her words a blade, soft but sharp): “A life traded like a silk bolt in Johari Bazaar. A bargain struck by men, paid for with my years.”

Outside her window, Jaipur’s streets were waking. The scent of wet earth. The cries of hawkers. Somewhere, a child’s laughter. And beyond it, the country still tasting its new freedom — flags unfurled, voices raised, hopes reborn.

But within the rose-tinted walls of Rathore Mahal, time clung stubbornly to the old world. Tradition turned its face from the sun.

Down in the courtyard, Queen Rajeshwari stood speaking in hurried whispers with the royal priest.

Queen rajakumari

(anxiously, worry knitting her brow): “She must accept Kunwar Devendra. The alliance is vital. A good boy, from a respected house. Dutiful.”

Priest

(gravely, nodding): “And obedient. Unlike your daughter. Fire should be contained, Rani Sa.”

But Diara was not born to be contained. She was not the soft, pliant gold they mistook her for. She was wildfire. A storm. A rebellion dressed in silks.

In stolen hours, she’d slip onto the palace terrace, watching the desert stretch beyond the city, aching to run. To feel sand beneath her bare feet. To laugh without covering her mouth. To ride through the pink streets as a nameless girl, unknown, unowned.

That morning, alone in her chamber, she opened the worn pages of her secret diary. The paper smelled of ink and nights spent with unshed tears. And she wrote:

Diara Singh Rathore

(writing, her hand trembling with rage and longing): “They say I am the light of Jaipur. But no one sees how light burns when it’s caged. I was not born to gleam behind glass. I was born to scorch skies. One day, these walls will fall, and my name will no longer be a prisoner’s. I am not a jewel. I am a flame.”

And somewhere, on a train cutting through Rajasthan’s restless plains, a boy with storm-dark eyes felt, for the briefest moment, a tug in his chest — as though a flame miles away had just called his name.