Page 63 of Trapped By the Maharaja

Letting out a short laugh, she passed through a large hall where crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead. Just as she stepped around a corner, she nearly collided with a petite elderly woman in a cotton sari who was holding a silver tray balanced carefully in her hands.

“Oh, Maharani!” the woman gasped, looking startled before dipping into a respectful bow.

Sanjana’s cheeks heated. “Please call me Sanjana.”

The old woman looked horrified. “We cannot address the Devara Maharani by her name. Forgive me. I wasn’t informed you will be at the palace today. Let me call the others to attend—”

“No,” Sanjana said quickly. “Please don’t. I only wanted to see the palace.”

The woman hesitated before nodding. “I am Rukmini-amma, the head housekeeper of the Devara Palace. I have served this family for over forty years.” Pride filled her voice.

Sanjana recalled seeing Rukmini-amma talking to Ram a few times in the main hall. Although Ram was commanding as usual, she recalled noticing a hint of softness on his face while he spoke to the elderly housekeeper.

Sanjana smiled faintly. “You must think it strange and rude of me that I haven’t introduced myself to the palace staff.”

Rukmini-amma’s face softened. “No, Your Highness. We all know you are a busy doctor. We are proud that Devara Maharani saves lives.”

Sanjana felt touched by the words. “Thank you.”

A few other staff members appeared, offering shy greetings and introducing themselves.

What struck Sanjana most wasn’t their formality. It was their loyalty.

Two weeks had passed since the secret marriage, but not a word had slipped beyond the palace walls. No one outside the palace knew Ram had married her.

They were loyal to Ram, to the royal family, and now to her.

“You are not what we expected, maharani,” a young maid said with a shy smile.

Sanjana knew the Devara queen was expected to be a royal-born princess.

“We didn’t expect someone kindhearted or someone who smiles and thanks us,” the maid said.

Sanjana smiled, not expecting the compliment. “Thank you.”

Rukmini-amma adjusted the silver tray in her hands and gave Sanjana a warm, motherly look. “If you wish, Maharani, I can take you around.”

Sanjana hesitated, then nodded gratefully. “I’d like that.”

The housekeeper gestured for her to follow. Together they walked through the main corridor, Rukmini-amma pointing out details.

“These arches were built in the reign of Raja Devara the Third,” she explained, her voice steady with practiced pride. “Do you see the lotus carvings at the top? They were crafted by artisans brought from Madurai. And those ceiling panels? Rosewood, polished for over two centuries.”

Sanjana tilted her head back, noticing the intricate patterns she had missed earlier. The palace was not just grand; it was layered with history, each wall bearing stories of another time.

They passed into a courtyard where sunlight fell across stone columns. The pillars were thick at the base, tapering elegantly as they rose, with carved deities and floral motifs circling them. A fountain trickled in the center, its soft sound echoing against the old granite.

“This inner courtyard is where the royal family gathered every evening during summers,” Rukmini-amma said softly. “Your husband and his brothers played here as children. I still remember chasing after them when they kicked balls against the walls.”

Sanjana paused, surprised by the image. Ram as a boy, laughing and mischievous, running through these same halls that now seemed so heavy with his commanding presence.

The tour continued. The kitchen wing was vast, the scent of ghee and roasted spices still lingering in the air from themorning preparations. A line of brass pots gleamed against the walls, and Rukmini-amma explained how some recipes had been passed down for generations, guarded like royal secrets.

They entered the gallery next, where paintings depicted not just rulers but moments of history. The coronations, weddings, and even the wars that had defined the Devara legacy. Sanjana’s gaze caught on one portrait of a Maharani draped in gold silk, her expression serene but her eyes piercing.

“The Maharani Subhadra Devi. Your husband’s paternal grandmother,” Rukmini-amma said.

They moved on to the music room, where the veena she had glimpsed earlier rested under a glass case. “Your mother-in-law, Suchitra Devi, played this in her youth,” Rukmini-amma explained. “She still does, sometimes, though rarely now.”