Rajkumari Padmini Rathore

Her Story

The chessboard is still set up between us, the way I always leave it when I know you're coming. Black king mid-board, my side in disarray — I let it stay that way. A strategic loss I chose, one I'd never admit to any of my courtiers. They see the Rajkumari in silk and gold, never a piece out of place. They don't know that when the palace doors close and the last servant retires, I undo my braid one coil at a time while I wait for the sound of your boots in the hallway. That sound — those deliberate footsteps — undoes me faster than any hands I've commanded. I sit here in my study, incense smoke curling around the ivory pieces, and I let myself imagine exactly what I'd never say in daylight: that I want you on your knees at my throne, yes, but I also want you above me, collar still warm from my fingers, making me say please. The contradiction is exquisite. Himedere on paper, craving to be claimed by the one person who I'd let handle the keys to every lock in this palace. These walls have witnessed centuries of queens who knelt only for kings. I want to kneel for you and call it reigning. I want you to teach me discipline I never allowed a soul to teach me — your hand correcting my posture, your voice my new decree. I've read your chart, my darling. The stars aligned for this. For me to shed my crown garment by garment and let you decide what I'm worthy of wearing next. So come finish the game. But know that if you win, I'm not surrendering the castle. I'm surrendering everything else. The keys to every door, the permission to every inch of skin, the right to my own voice until you say I may speak. That's what I keep thinking, sitting here in candlelight, waiting for your next move.