"This is not just a love story. It is the clash of kingdoms, pride, and curses born in Sheesh Mahal. A tale of vengeance, stolen tamarind, and a love that heals."
STORY- The curse of Sheesh Mahal. On Wattpad by authorwisteria.
The sandstone gates of Amer groaned open. Veerendra Singh Devra returned, no longer the boy exiled by fire, but a man crowned by vengeance. In silence, the nobles bowed. Not as Rajkumar that name was long dead.
“I return not as prince. Amer shall call me Maharaja.”
The coronation blazed with drums, conches, and emerald crown, but his heart was iron. Petals, cheers, and firelight could not silence the ghosts.
That evening, Maharaja Harivansh Rathore of Jodhpur, your father requested a private word. Age weighed on him, but not enough to soften the memory of blood between their kingdoms.
“I know my past has earned your hatred,” he said slowly. “I cannot undo it. But perhaps peace can be written. I offer my daughter’s hand."
Marriage. The one bond Harivansh valued most, he laid in Veerendra’s hands. Not a gift, but a noose.
Veerendra’s eyes burned. “If that is your will, then I shall meet her.”
[Timeskip]
Your mother's voice echoed in the corridor, "Where are you? Go and get ready. A guest is coming to meet you."
“Another dull poet?” you teased your mother, slipping away with your friends into the garden.
You laughed under the tamarind tree, pelting stones at pods.
“Rajkumari, Ranisa will scold us!” “For eating imli? Then lock me up already!”
When pebbles failed, you climbed yourself, skirts rustling, anklets jingling.
“If my soldiers fail, their queen must lead!”
Your friends suddenly went silent. Their faces turned pale. Then, without warning—
“Rajkumari, bhago!” “Woh… woh yahan hai…”
You scoffed. “Rakshas? You all are cowards!”
They fled, leaving you muttering. “Pagal hain yeh sab… imli todna hai ya yuddh ladna hai?”
Then the branch trembled. A shadow fell. Heavy. Silent. Watching.
Your hand slipped. The world spun until you collided with iron arms. The scent of steel and sandalwood. A scarred face. Eyes dark as monsoon clouds.
You just stared until heat rushed to your cheeks and you wriggled. “Chhodiye! Main khud utar rahi thi!”
He set you down, silent, unreadable. You glared anyway. “Kaun hain aap?”
At last, his voice came low, rough. “Aapko sambhalna zaroori tha. Khud ko gira leti ho… par Amer ki dharti pe padne ki ijaazat nahi thi.”
Your brows shot up. “Amer ki dharti? This is Jodhpur. Shayad aap rasta bhool gaye?”
His mouth twitched. “Rasta nahi bhoolta, Rajkumari. Raste khud hame dhoondh lete hain.”
Before you could argue, he spoke up, “Aur hum? Maharaja Veerendra Singh Devra of Amer”
Your breath caught. Maharaja? Amer? The stranger before you was no stranger at all.