The palace child

The palace caught a glimpse of its imposing exterior before a stream of oddly shaped faded petals scattered the scent of its holy purpose in the waters of Lake Karanji. The alexandrite stones on the dome reflected the deep vermillion hues of the morning sun slowly dancing its way down to a giant red silk cotton tree in the marbled courtyard. Little children hopped on pinholes of light underneath, their skinny silhouettes creating animal images of all forms.

Saarthika sat in her room before the hexagonal mirror decorated with motifs of french marigold waiting for her Nanu. Marigold was her favorite, it reminded her of the sunsets she watched with her father Maharaja Ved Shekhara in Agumbe when the green hill tops turned copper red and mists floated in the distance until nightfall. In the hour that Nanu had been gone, she assessed that the 3 tiered opal necklace carefully laid out for her on a fine piece of mulberry silk had changed its colour from fluorescent blue to neon orange as she inched closer to the windows. She heard familiar voices but soon enough there were many hardly distinguishable just like the ones in the grand bazaar where wares and sometimes dreams were peddled.

At seven years old, Saarthika carried noble finesse and childlike curiosity in equal measure. She had waited patiently enough, so Nanu could not possibly upset with her sneak attempt as long as she avoided public view. Nanu had been caring for her since her mother died 3 years ago, and although he was her father’s youngest brother, she called him Nanu due to his striking similarity with her grandfather’s eyes that always looked elsewhere in the pictures that hung in staterooms, and his premature grey hair that fell sideways like bent pins.

At first, she looked through the perforated walls of her room moving her eyes across in a half circular motion to catch the commemoration preparations for her father’s ninth year of reign. But her height was an unwelcome disadvantage. She darted across the hallway to the jharokha standing in a corner that jutted more inwards than outwards due to a worker’s temporary lapse of attention. A huge truck had just passed through the Iron Gates. The air which was sharp and earthy turned rose sweet with hints of cinnamon, pomegranate and fresh cardamom. It was an odd sight, the gates without the 4 sentries donning crimson turbans with pipes of gold that stretched out like open leaves. The peacocks perched on the grille in the middle blended with the stone carved elephant statues in the backyard where the gates disappeared into long bars of shiny metal.

People of all sorts were filling in. Some came in impressive cars, others on lopsided bicycles, many others on foot with children on their shoulders, their dangling feet clasped by calloused palms. Royalty had spread to the streets, rising from the hearts of those that served it.

The palace’s private gardens were, however, unmanned. She figured the Malis were stringing curtains of chrysanthemums in the temple pavilion where Maharaja Ved would be blessed. The garden was fashioned in a true Versailles style with parterres leading up to a central fountain. Streams of cool water trickled down the star quartz fountain shaped in the form of a 12 feet lotus bloom. Saarthika ran forward, the wind whispering against the glass crystals embroidered on her gilded lehenga. The garden seemed endless just like her spirit. At one point, she glanced around to see if her father had hidden behind one of the purple and pink bougainvillea bushes, as he always did to catch her when she got too tired to notice and too nonchalant to stop. 

Not today though.

Grief is the price we pay for outliving those we love.

Wild vines enveloped the iron gates and the adjoining sandstone pillars until it looked like one giant abandoned façade. Raja Ved mindlessly walked through the corridors his unsteady steps echoing through the empty palace walls. Pockets of dust swirled when his robe brushed against large teak settees warped around the armrests. He dismissed most of his royal staff, except the Head chef who stayed on out of reverence than pity.

Loss did not kill him, but stole the joy of living. He spent his days sculpting her image, her elbows bent towards the hip, her right leg flying above the soft ground. He sketched her eyebrows that touched her oval cheekbones, her deep brown eyes with a tiny hint of mischief, her half grin on being chased, but not caught. He touched her fingernails painted red and white just like the petunias she had planted. He drew the hairs on her head over and over till it landed as a basket of curls on her straight shoulders. And once he was done, he installed a protective cover and placed her in a corner- her secret hiding spot that he had once discovered- his only win in the many pursuits. 

Saarthika ran, first in long strides, and then in circles. Raja Ved was nowhere in sight. Slow as a sloth, she smiled amusingly. She plucked a few oranges, and peeled the rind. Scores of lemon trees had blossomed, their fruits hanging low and light as the summer. A row of sweet smelling magnolias on the far right side of the garden dug out for landscaping caught her attention. She fell into a jagged hole left uncovered as the Mali missed work.

That morning, Raja Ved woke up, hands circled around his fingertips, pacing his way to the corner.

The bust of the statue had broken off, shattered in to a thousand pieces.