Before the monsoon winds ever touched Mahishmati, before anklets chimed in wedding pavilions, before vermilion ever touched the parting of Anushka's hair, there was a letter.
It did not arrive with music.
It did not arrive with procession.
It slipped into the palace like a rumor.
Yet it would one day change the fate of a kingdom.
I. Before the Wedding
The palace at Rajgarh awoke beneath a pale dawn. Peacocks called in distant gardens, unfurling feathers still jeweled with dew. Temple bells echoed along marble corridors; the world stirred, stretching from slumber to ritual.
The kingdom did not yet know that history had begun to write differently overnight.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi, Queen Regent, was already at prayer.
Before courtiers,
before council,
before titles,
before war,
she bowed her head before the kul-devi, the ancestral goddess of her house. A single flame flickered in the bronze lamp, reflecting in her eyes.
Her lips moved silently.
When she finished, she did not rise immediately. She continued to kneel, hands lightly touching the stone, like a warrior resting her palms upon the earth to feel if cavalry yet rode upon it.
Behind her came footsteps soft as breath.
The female attendant bowed deeply.
"Maharani-sa," she whispered. "The royal courier from Bengal has arrived. A sealed dispatch… bearing the crest of Navadvipa House."
Aishvarya Devi opened her eyes slowly.
Navadvipa House.
West Bengal.
The kingdom of ancient rivers and fearless queens,
scholars and rebels,
songs that held both joy and defiance.
She rose.
"Bring it."
The attendant approached with both hands raised, as though carrying fire. The letter lay wrapped in crimson silk and sealed with a golden wax impression of a lion crossing a river.
Aishvarya Devi dismissed everyone with one flick of her fingers.
Only when the door closed silently behind her did she break the seal.
The paper smelled faintly of sandalwood and rain.
And in elegant Bengali-tinged Devanagari, it began:
To the Illustrious Maharani Aishvarya Devi,
Queen Regent of Rajgarh,
Guardian of the Peacock Throne,
With blessings of the Ganga and the Eastern Winds,
From Maharaja Devnarayan of Navadvipa
and his daughter,
Princess Anushka Devi.
Aishvarya Devi's brows softened in surprise.
The letter was written by two hands.
The first lines—formal, heavy, political—were plainly the father's.
The later lines—lighter, sharper, alive—would be the daughter's.
She read on.
II. Bengal Writes
The opening was as protocol demanded:
praise of the gods,
exchange of blessings,
the language of diplomacy older than any empire.
Then came the heart.
We write not merely with royal seal,
but with the weight of changing times pressing upon our young princess's shoulders.
The Queen Regent paused.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.
You are no stranger, Maharani-sa, to the currents of this age.
The British Raj stretches its shadow even upon our temples and schools.
We have seen zemindars grow impatient,
we have seen missionaries probe our faith,
and we have seen soldiers march where only pilgrims once walked.
Aishvarya Devi felt her jaw set.
Yes.
She knew.
Then, newer ink,
slightly different script,
flowing and feminine,
began to weave its own lines:
My Lady Regent,
I am Anushka.
The Queen Regent's eyes lingered there.
This was no messenger speaking.
No father.
No priest.
The girl herself.
Rumor says your court is full of lions.
My tutors say it is full of scholars.
My governess says it is full of spies.
I believe it is full of all three.
A faint, unwilling smile touched Aishvarya Devi's lips.
I write not to boast of virtue nor to pretend modesty.
I write because my heart has not yet learned to stay silent when it feels the wind change.
The Queen Regent folded the letter partly closed for a moment and simply stood still.
Wind.
Yes.
Something had shifted.
She read on.
III. The Girl Before She Became Queen
Anushka wrote of Bengal,
and through her words the land itself began to breathe.
I am daughter of rivers.
My childhood was monsoon clouds and boats painted red,
mango orchards filled with laughter,
and long verandas where widows whispered forbidden stories of warrior queens.
My father taught me Sanskrit and the art of treaties.
My mother taught me silence and the art of endurance.
She did not embellish.
She simply unfolded herself.
Our palace is surrounded by water during the rains.
It becomes an island.
Sometimes I feel I am already living on one.
She confessed something quietly:
The British Resident visits often.
He praises my education,
admires my knowledge of English poetry,
and says my "mind is too quick for domesticity".
Yet when he speaks to my father,
he counts cannons.
Aishvarya Devi inhaled slowly.
Then, like a monsoon gust cutting through stagnant air, the questioning line came:
Maharani-sa,
tell me truthfully —
is your kingdom a shore,
or another island?
The Queen Regent closed her eyes briefly.
This was no ordinary princess.
This was a listening mind.
A dangerous mind.
A needed mind.
An inevitable mind.
IV. The Marriage Proposal Beneath the Words
Between the lines,
between rivers and rain,
lay the true message.
Word has reached our kingdom
that your youngest Son Prince, Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh,
stands on the cusp of marriage.
Formal phrasing re-entered the script,
like ceremonial music after private laughter.
Our house expresses willingness to join bonds with Rajgarh,
should destiny approve
and should hearts not be unwilling.
Destiny.
Hearts.
Two words that monarchs used when saying:
Power. Strategy. Alliance.
But then Anushka's personal handwriting slipped through again around the father's formality:
I do not know the prince.
Nor does he know me.
Yet my fate has begun to move toward your palace
like the Ganga moving toward the sea.
She hesitated in the writing—the Queen Regent could see the tiny point where the quill had paused.
I am not afraid of marriage.
I am afraid of becoming smaller.
Aishvarya Devi's throat tightened unexpectedly.
This was not political.
This was profoundly human.
They say Rajgarh is a fortress city.
If I must become part of it,
I would rather be a torch than a tapestry.
The Queen Regent lowered the letter and remained utterly still.
Not a tapestry.
A torch.
She saw suddenly not merely a bride for her son
but a storm-born woman who would not remain ornamental.
A queen who could ignite.
A queen who might burn.
For a long time, Aishvarya Devi did not move.
When she finally did,
she summoned a servant.
"Send for the Crown Prince," she said.
V. Samrat Veer Reads What the Future Writes
Crown Prince Samrat Veer Singh arrived soon after, dusting the scent of horses and training fields from his shawl. He bowed and waited silently—he knew his mother did not summon without cause.
She handed him the letter.
He read without speaking.
First lines—
diplomatic,
expected.
Then he reached the parts written by her.
His brows lifted fractionally.
Then again.
He slowed down.
He reread.
He did not blush
or laugh
or scoff.
The Crown Prince of Rajgarh did something unexpected.
He thought.
When he finished, he remained silent a long time.
His mother watched him.
"Well?" she asked at last.
He set the parchment down very gently, as though it were not paper but destiny wrapped thin.
"She sees clearly," he said.
"Yes," Aishvarya replied.
"She thinks dangerously," he added.
"Yes," Aishvarya replied again—this time with something almost like satisfaction.
He was quiet again.
Finally he looked up.
"Mother," he said slowly, "if she fears becoming smaller, Rajgarh must not shrink her."
The Queen Regent held her son's gaze.
And in that moment,
she knew:
he could love such a woman…
but more importantly,
he could be matched by one.
"Then learn to walk beside her," she said softly. "Not ahead. Not behind."
He nodded.
But something else flickered beneath his calm—something less spoken:
curiosity.
Who was this princess of rivers
who wrote like fire?
VI. Mrinalini and the Letter of the Other Princess
Princess Mrinalini found her mother and brother together when she entered.
The letter lay between them on a low table like a silent guest.
Aishvarya Devi gestured for her.
"Read."
Mrinalini read fast at first,
then slowed,
then stilled.
When she finished,
she sat without speaking.
Her scholar's mind glowed.
"What do you see?" the Queen Regent asked.
"A queen who does not yet know what she will become," Mrinalini answered slowly. "A bow already drawn—without knowing where the arrow will fly."
She lowered her eyes to the closing passage.
For there, Anushka had written:
Should I be called to Rajgarh,
I will come without fear.
Not because I am brave,
but because I am unwilling to belong to any age except my own.
There were no timid flourishes.
No self-praise.
Just truth.
Mrinalini whispered one more line, as if to herself:
"She will never be ruled silently."
Aishvarya Devi's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon.
"No," she murmured. "She will not."
VII. The King and the Hidden Cough
The Queen Regent brought the letter last to the king.
Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj sat against embroidered cushions, looking every inch the lion of Rajgarh even as illness chipped at his strength. His eyes were bright still. His authority had not diminished, only his body.
He listened to the letter as Aishvarya Devi read aloud.
He did not interrupt.
He did not sigh.
He did not smile.
Only when she finished did he close his eyes briefly, as if weighing the unseen.
At last he said quietly:
"Bengal sends not a bride."
He opened his eyes again.
"Bengal sends a future."
Aishvarya Devi bowed her head.
He looked toward the open jharokha window, where wind played with ivory curtains.
"Arrange talks," the king said. "No commitment. No haste. But do not refuse destiny when it knocks."
Then suddenly he coughed,
harshly,
pain splitting through composure.
The Queen Regent rose instantly,
supporting him,
eyes tightening.
He waved weakly for her not to summon attendants.
"I am all right," he lied.
They both pretended to believe it.
But between cough and silence,
the truth hung heavy:
Rajgarh needed strength.
Whether that strength would come from swords,
from sons,
or from one Bengali woman's mind…
neither yet knew.
VIII. The British Learn of the Letter
News travels strangely in palaces.
Sometimes love letters never leave a room.
Sometimes royal secrets reach continents.
This letter,
unlike the others,
walked into the wrong ears.
A low-ranking courtier,
hungry for silver and importance,
whispered near the British Resident's aide.
He did not repeat words,
for he had never seen the letter itself.
He repeated something more dangerous:
"There is to be alliance with Bengal."
The aide smiled thinly.
Soon the Resident knew.
Soon the Resident wrote.
Soon Calcutta knew.
Soon London would know.
And from that moment on,
the British crown did what empires do best:
they began recalculating.
IX. The Letter Read by The One Who Would One Day Burn the World
There was one more person
to whom the winds eventually carried echo of the letter.
Not the words.
Not the phrasing.
Just the fact:
The Crown Prince may wed the princess of Bengal.
Anushka Devi herself sat beside the Hooghly river, veil loose around her shoulders, watching floating lamps drift across dark waters like slow constellations. She had already written the letter weeks ago.
But tonight,
as firelight trembled across her face,
the messenger brought back news:
Rajgarh had not refused.
Her father was pleased.
Her governess was worried.
Her maid cried from mixed joy and fear.
Anushka said nothing for a long time.
Finally,
she whispered into the river:
"If destiny sails toward me,
I will not lower my eyes before it."
The wind carried her vow away.
The river listened.
History smiled faintly,
like a player rearranging pieces on a board no one else could yet see.
X. The Regent's Answer
One week later,
on auspicious day chosen by priests,
Aishvarya Devi wrote the reply.
Each word was measured,
neither invitation nor rejection,
door open without surrender.
To Princess Anushka Devi of Navadvipa,
Daughter of Bengal's waters,
whose words carry both gentleness and steel —
She paused,
considered,
then continued.
Rajgarh does not seek a smaller queen.
It seeks one who can stand beneath monsoon clouds without trembling.
The times ahead will not be easy.
Empires look upon us with hungry eyes.
Our sons and daughters will not live simple lives.
If destiny entwines our houses,
it will not be for comfort,
but for history.
She sealed the letter.
And she prayed,
not for ease,
but for courage.
XI. The Shadow Before the Wedding
From that day onward,
everything in the palace shifted slightly,
like a great beast adjusting in its sleep.
Samrat Veer trained harder.
Aditya sharpened swords longer.
Mrinalini read deeper into political manuscripts.
Lalima wept more softly.
Aarav made new mischief,
because childhood always persists even beneath empire.
And Aishvarya Devi began watching the future
as though it were already standing in the doorway.
The first letter from Bengal
was tucked safely in her jewel-box,
—but the consequences did not remain contained.
Whispers grew.
British attention sharpened.
Alliances stirred.
Priests discussed omens.
Courtiers calculated dowries and armies and heirs.
Yet beneath politics,
beneath treaties,
beneath history,
something quieter had begun:
Two destinies had noticed one another.
A prince of Rajgarh.
A princess of Bengal.
Not yet married.
Not yet bound.
But already,
unavoidably,
moving toward the same horizon.
And far in the secret chambers of fate,
another truth waited—
that the girl who wrote this letter
would one day become the biggest clue for The Benefactor in the creation of Dharmapuriya,
that she would walk through blood and coronation,
through love and ruthless purpose,
and that this gentle first correspondence,
born of rain and curiosity,
would someday be remembered not as romance
but as the first spark of a conflagration.
For now, however,
it was simply:
a letter.
Folded.
Sealed.
Carried across plains and rivers.
A beginning written in ink,
not yet in fire.