The Court of the King of Bhopal, Magh VS 1833 (early 1776).

  "Mwaah!"

  A flurry of flustered guards and prying ladies-in-waiting, drowned in oversized kurtas* and lehenga-chunni*s that covered their frail bodies from head to toe, sauntered into the room.

  They espied upon the trembling, uncontrollably sobbing figure of a girl dressed in her nightgown. She had covered her face with her arms and her body shook convulsively. The servants could see that her tresses were an entangled mess and the gown she wore had dampened at some places.

  "My lady," started a servant.

  "Please, no! Don't punish me! I swear I didn't do this on purpose!"

  "My lady, please―"

  "PLEASE, I BEG YOU! DON'T INFORM THE KING!"

  "My lady, we shall not; pray apprise us of the mischance that has befallen!"

  The princess flinched and her lips parted in a vague distress. Her left arm arose and she pointed a finger at the corner of the hallway. The guards' eyes followed it and chanced upon at a shattered painting.

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  Broken splinters of glass were strewn all over the burgundy carpet. Evidently, the painting had knocked off the nightlights attached to its sides, and the candles had been scattered across it too!

  The guards were momentarily stunned and the ladies-in-waiting let out an ear-piercing cry.

  "My lady, please do not tell us that you've broken a painting yet again!"

  The girl looked at the guard with swelled eyes and managed to whine a soft "yes".

  The congregation of guards let out a synchronised sigh. One of them approached the ladies-in-waiting and gestured the group to usher the princess to her bedchamber. The ladies scurried away, their bangles and necklaces producing a clear, tinkling, musical sound.

  The head guard sauntered towards the painting and lowered his head to steal a glance. The moment he did so, his pupils dilated and he recoiled in unrestrained horror. The painting slipped from his palm and fell on the carpet, scattering the shrapnels of glass even more.

  "Sahib, what is the matter?"

  "Are! I hope this brat dies! She cannot do anything properly. Are; we are ruined! Truly ruined, I say!"

  "But what happened?"

  "Disaster happened; Womenfolk deserve the harrowing depths of hell, for their tiny brains knows nothing but cunning and mischief. She has broken the King's painting!"

  "KYA?!" (WHAT?!)

  It was the painting His Highness had commissioned for a special occasion―his fiftieth birth anniversary.

  Artists from all over the Indian subcontinent had been invited to craft this masterpiece, which took two weeks to complete. They had been paid 20,000 dams* in total, the head guard recalled.

  The King was looking gallant and daunting in the portrait―the burgundy background lending it a regal touch. His oval face, not yet marred by an unkempt beard—as was the custom of royalty—suited a pair of intimidating brown eyes. The painters had taken extra care to highlight the scimitar, which outshone the entire painting.

  The guard cussed profusely. This "princess", with all her clumsiness and absentmindedness, had become unbearable. Her antics and whims perplexed every servant great and small, who ignored her idiosyncrasies partly out of fear of reprisal and partly out of quiet sympathy for her predicament.

  "Look at her lachrymose face! Hmph! Even the wives of the untouchables*, filthy and barren as they are, look better than she does," muttered the guard, who had no love for anyone below his station.