E R A Y A
Sunday stretched languid and heavy in the Sharma household. The air in our usually vibrant home felt suspended, thick with the weight of a decision that hovered over us all. The familiar scents of lemon polish and Ma’s jasmine incense couldn’t cut through the tension.

Now, I was curled on my bed, legs tucked beneath me, the soft, worn cotton of my favorite yellow kurta providing little comfort. The ceiling fan spun in a slow, hypnotic circle above, its rhythmic whirr-whirr-whirr the only sound in the twilight of my room.

My parents’ words from earlier played on a loop in my mind. Papa’s firm, reassuring, “It is entirely your independence, beta.”

And Ma’s softer, more anxious plea, “He seems like a good man from a good family… but it is your heart that must decide.”

Their respect was my anchor, but it also made the responsibility terrifyingly mine alone.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat.

The name was no longer just ink on a biodata sheet. It had shape. It had a face—that photograph of a man with kingly eyes that had stared back at me with unsettling intensity. I’d heard the surname before, in passing conversations at NGO fundraisers, spoken with a hint of awe. A name synonymous with legacy, with palaces and history books.

But now… it was a man. A man who wanted to meet me.

A restless energy buzzed under my skin. Curiosity, that insistent, treacherous thing, had won. With a heartbeat that felt too loud for the quiet room, I reached for my laptop.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. This felt like crossing a threshold. Once I knew, I couldn’t un-know. I took a deep, shaky breath and typed.

Vidhart Singh Ranawat Jaipur.

The screen exploded with results. A deluge of headlines, articles, galleries. My eyes, wide and darting, tried to take it all in.

And then- him.

The first image stole the air from my lungs. It was from a high-profile charity gala. He stood beside an elderly gentleman-his grandfather, the Maharaja, I presumed- under a chandelier that looked like a waterfall of diamonds.

Vidhart was clad in a deep navy bandhgala, the fabric so impeccably tailored it seemed a part of him. A silver lion brooch—the Ranawat crest—glinted austerely on his chest. His posture was erect, his expression composed, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the camera with a calm that felt absolute. He wasn’t just handsome; he was regal. A statue of duty and dynasty carved from living stone.

My throat went dry. I scrolled, my pulse a frantic bird against my ribs.

Another photo: him alighting from a sleek black car in Delhi, a discreet security detail a respectful step behind. The sharp lines of his charcoal suit spoke of boardrooms and billion-dollar deals.

Another: at a polo match in Jodhpur, his hands firm on the reins of a powerful mare, his focus absolute, the world around him a mere blur.

“Rajasthan’s Crown Without a Throne.”

“Oxford Scholar Turned Heritage Custodian.”

“The Silent Prince:The Most Elusive Royal of Jaipur.”

The headlines painted a portrait of a man who was a paradox: modern yet ancient, powerful yet withdrawn.

Driven by a need I couldn’t name, I clicked on a video link—an interview from his Oxford days. A younger Vidhart, his hair slightly longer, but the same intense, dark eyes. The interviewer asked about the pressure of his birthright.

He leaned forward slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was a low, measured baritone that resonated deep in my bones. It wasn’t arrogant. It was… weary. And profoundly sure.

“Legacy isn’t about ownership,” he said, each word deliberate. “It’s about responsibility. I didn’t inherit a crown. I inherited a promise.”

I sat utterly still, long after the video ended. The noise of the fan faded. His words- a promise- hung in the quiet of my room, challenging every preconception I had about men like him.

I scrolled further, my search growing more desperate, more personal.

And then I found it.

A different photo altogether. No galas, no suits, no cameras flashing. It was a candid shot, likely taken by a staff member or a patient’s family. It was inside a modest, government hospital in Udaipur.

Vidhart sat on the edge of a simple hospital bed. He wore a plain, white cotton kurta, slightly crumpled. In his arms was a small boy, one tiny arm heavily bandaged. Vidhart wasn’t looking at the camera. He was looking down at the child, and on his face was a smile, soft, unguarded, and breathtakingly gentle. It was a smile that held no agenda, sought no approval. It was the smile of a man who had nothing to prove to anyone in that moment.

In that photograph, he wasn’t a prince. He was just a man. A kind one.

A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest, and my eyes stung with unexpected tears. I slammed the laptop shut, the sound overly loud in the silence. I pressed my palms flat against the cool lid, as if I could push the storm of images and emotions back inside.

Why me?

The question screamed in my head. I was not royalty. I was not polished. My world was one of dust-chalkboards, children’s laughter, and the stubborn fight for small victories. My silver jhumkas came from a local jeweller, not a vault. My hands were often stained with paint or soil, not henna for frivolous parties. I smelled of sweat and hope, not French perfume.

And yet… this man, from that world of crystal and crests, had chosen to send a proposal to my door.

A strange, thrilling warmth spread through my veins, followed immediately by a cold wave of fear. The two sensations warred inside me, leaving me dizzy.

I fell back onto my pillows, staring blankly at the fan’s endless rotations, as if its cycles could decode the chaos in my heart.

What do I do? Should I meet him or not?

He seemed… respectful. Grounded, despite the pedestal the world put him on. The man in the hospital photo felt real in a way the man in the bandhgala did not.

The soft creak of my door broke my spiralling thoughts. Tara slipped in, her face a mirror of concern. Without a word, she flopped down on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping with her weight.

“You didn’t go to the NGO today,” she stated, propping her head on her hand to look at me.

“The team took all the kids to the water park. Luv and Mahi too,” I murmured, my voice distant.

“Achha… Good for them.” She studied my face, her eyes missing nothing.

“But you… you always find some work, even on off days. Kya hua, Di?” She paused, a sly grin creeping onto her face. “Kahin aap Jaipur ke Ranawat Sahab ke baare mein soch toh nahi rahi?”

I didn’t have the energy to deflect. I turned my head to look at her, my confusion laid bare. “Tara… I don’t know what to do. Should I agree to meet him or not?”

“If you want to meet him, meet him!” she said, as if it were the simplest equation in the world. “If you like him, good. If you don’t, say no. Simple.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “I… I searched for him online.”

Tara’s eyes lit up with instant, mischievous delight. “Ooooh! Pehle se hi research shuru! Kaisa laga?”

“Tara, please, be serious.”

“I am!Tell me!”

I gave in, the need to voice my turmoil overwhelming. “I opened his Instagram. He doesn’t follow a single person. He’s never posted anything. But he has… 875 Thousand followers.” I couldn’t help the tiny, self-deprecating pout that formed. “And I have only two hundred and fifty.”

Tara burst out laughing, the sound like wind chimes in my heavy room.

“Di, yaar! Isse kuch nahi hota! Why are you counting his followers? Who cares if he doesn’t follow anyone? Maybe if he marries you, his ‘following’ list will have just one name—yours!”

I shoved her shoulder lightly, a reluctant chuckle escaping me. “Kuch bhi…”

“I’m serious! So, what’s the real problem?” she pressed, her tone softening.

I stared at the ceiling, the words tumbling out. “I don’t know… I don’t know what to do if… agar milne ke baad…” I trailed off.

Tara finished for me, her voice gentle.

“Agar milne ke baad aap unko pasand kar baithe, aur shaadi ke liye naa kehne ka koi reason hi na mile? Is that it?”

I nodded silently, the fear acknowledged.

“Then say yes! What’s the doubt?” she said, as if it were obvious.

“My NGO, Tara. My children here. What happens to them if I… go to Jaipur?”

“Di, look,” she said, turning fully to face me, her expression earnest.

“Stop overthinking. The NGO will be managed. You have a whole team. The kids… one day, they’ll grow up and have their own lives. Will you stay alone forever then?” She took my hand. “You can handle so much online now, so yo will. At least meet him once. If it feels right, you talk more. If it doesn’t, you walk away.”

Her logic was a lifeline in my sea of doubt. She was right. I was building cages of ‘what-ifs’ before I’d even seen the sky.

“You’re right,” I whispered, the decision crystallizing. “I should at least meet him once.”

Tara’s face broke into a triumphant smile. “Yes! And if all goes well…” she wiggled her eyebrows, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper,

“...you will become Mrs. Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat. Now, say it. Doesn’t it sound powerful? Doesn’t it sound… right? Eraya Vidhart. It sounds like two names meant to complete each other.”

I swatted her arm, a real laugh finally bubbling up. “Pagal! Nothing is fixed! Don’t jump so far ahead!”

She giggled, getting up. “Okay, okay! Take your time. But let me know soon—is it a yes for the meeting or not?”

I nodded. As she closed the door softly behind her, the room settled back into its quiet. But the silence was different now. The chaos had been given a direction.

I lay there in the lamplight, the fan still whirring above. The fears were still there, whispering about palaces and distance. But they were quieter now, overshadowed by a fragile, budding courage, and the haunting image of a man’s gentle smile in a hospital ward.

Into the warm, hopeful dark, I whispered it, just to taste the future on my tongue.

“Eraya Vidhart Singh Ranawat.”

A strange, delicious shiver ran down my spine. It didn’t sound like a title. It sounded like a beginning.
.

.

The afternoon sun streamed through the dining room windows, painting warm squares of light on the polished wooden table. Lunch was a symphony of familiar clatters and quiet conversation, but beneath the surface, a current of unspoken tension hummed. We were four—Papa, Ma, Tara, and I—gathered around dishes of simple dal, sabzi, and fluffy rice, a portrait of normalcy that felt fragile.

Tara animatedly described her plans, her hands painting shapes in the air. “...and if the Hyderabad art internship goes well, the next step is Paris! Can you imagine, Ma? Studying restoration at the Louvre!”

Papa smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s my girl. Aim for the stars.”

But my gaze kept drifting to Ma. She was listening, nodding, but her eyes—her eyes kept finding mine. A quick, searching glance, then away. Then back again. A silent question hung in the air between us, heavier than the steam rising from the kadhai. She was trying so hard not to ask, not to pressure, that her silence became its own kind of plea. I pushed my food around my plate, my appetite lost to the whirlpool in my stomach.

Later, in the lived-in comfort of our living room, the atmosphere shifted. The NGO volunteer had just dropped off Luv and Mahi for a visit, their presence instantly flooding the space with a different, purer kind of energy. Ma and Tara were on the floor, making Mahi giggle with a soft toy. Papa sat in his armchair, reading the paper, but his eyes softened every time he looked at the little girl.

And then Luv, my brave, beautiful boy, approached me with a secret held tightly behind his back. His eyes, once so full of fear, now sparkled with mischief and affection.

“Didi…” he said, shifting from foot to foot.

I put down my teacup, a smile tugging at my lips. “What are you hiding, Luv? Show me.”

With a shy flourish, he presented his treasure. It was a tiara, painstakingly crafted from twisted silver foil, glittering beads, and what looked like carefully folded origami paper. It was lopsided, slightly crumpled, and absolutely magnificent.

“I made it for you,” he whispered, his voice full of pride and vulnerability.

My heart swelled, pressing against my ribs with a love so fierce it stole my breath. This child, who had nothing, had fashioned a crown for me. I took it from his small, careful hands as if it were the Kohinoor.

“Oh, Luv… it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I said, my voice thick. Without hesitation, I placed the tiara on my head. It sat there, absurd and perfect.

His whole face lit up. “Didi… you look like a queen!”

From behind the sofa, Tara’s voice chimed in, dripping with playful implication. “Haan! Aur jaldi hi tumhari didi ke raja ji bhi aane wale hain!”

(Yes! And your didi's rajaji will be arriving soon too.)

I shot her a warning glare, but she just giggled, utterly unrepentant.

Luv’s eyes widened. “Raja ji?” He looked from Tara to me, confusion and curiosity warring on his face. “Matlab kya, Didi?”

I opened my mouth to deflect, but Tara, the little traitor, was already explaining.

“Tumne abhi kaha na didi queen lag rahi hain? Toh shayad sach mein tumhari didi queen banne wali hain! Pata hai, unke liye ek raja sahab ne shaadi ka rishta bheja hai!”

(Didn't you just say that your didi looks like a queen? Well, maybe your didi is actually going to become a queen! You know, a king has sent a marriage proposal for her)

Luv’s expression transformed into one of pure, unadulterated wonder. “Sach mein, Didi? Aapki shaadi? Wow!” Then, a shadow crossed his features- a tiny, heartbreaking pout.
“Par… par aap mujhe apni shaadi mein bulayegi na?”

(But... but you will invite me to your wedding, won't you)

The question, so earnest, shattered any remaining walls around my heart. I knelt before him, the foil tiara tilting precariously. I took his hands. “Luv, agar kabhi meri shaadi hogi… toh tum sabse pehle mere mehman banoge. I promise.”

(Luv, if I ever get married... you'll be my first guest. I promise.)

His face lit up again, brighter than before. Seizing the moment, Tara snatched the biodata photo from the side table-the one of Vidhart and thrust it into Luv’s hands before I could stop her.

“Dekho! Yeh hain potential raja sahab!”

I made a lunge for it, but it was too late. Luv held the photograph, studying it with the solemn intensity of a royal advisor. His small finger traced the sharp line of Vidhart’s jaw.

“Didi…” he breathed, utterly serious. “He is so handsome. Aap inhi se shaadi karna.”

Then, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper that was anything but quiet, he added, “Inka koi chhota bhai hoga? Toh aap uski shaadi meri behen se karwa dena.”

(Does he have a younger brother? If so, you should arrange his marriage to my sister.)

The room erupted. Tara howled with laughter, clutching her stomach. Papa chuckled behind his newspaper. Even Ma covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking. I buried my face in my hands, a mix of acute embarrassment and overwhelming affection flooding me. In the middle of my existential crisis, life had served up this perfect, hilarious moment.

An hour later, goodbyes were said, and Luv and Mahi were whisked away, leaving a quiet that felt both empty and charged. We settled back with our evening chai- a comforting ritual. The steam curled from our cups, and the last of the golden light gilded the room.

The laughter had faded, and the unasked question returned, hanging patiently in the fragrant air. I cradled the warm porcelain in my hands, feeling its heat seep into my skin, grounding me.

I looked at my parents-at Papa’s kind, patient eyes, at Ma’s hopeful, restrained expression. I looked at Tara, who gave me a small, encouraging nod.

My heart hammered, not with fear now, but with the clarity of a choice made. I took a deep, steadying breath, the air filling my lungs with resolve.

“I will meet him.”

The words fell into the quiet room, clear and solid.

The effect was immediate. Ma’s face transformed. It was as if someone had switched on a light inside her. A radiant, relieved smile broke through, her eyes glistening with sudden tears of happiness. She didn’t say anything, just pressed her fingers to her lips.

Papa leaned forward, his gaze searching mine, wanting to be absolutely sure.

“Beta... you want to meet him of your own free will, right? Not under any pressure from anyone?”

I met his eyes squarely, my voice firm.
“Ji, Papa. Main sacchi mein unee milna chahti hoon. Sirf milna… shaadi ke liye haan nahi.”

(Yes, Dad. I really want to meet him. Just to meet him... not to say yes to marriage.)

He studied me for a long moment, then a slow, proud smile spread across his face. He gave a single, firm nod. “Accha.”

That one word was a blessing. It was permission. It was the unlocking of a door I had been both afraid and desperately curious to open.

Tara grinned, raising her teacup in a silent, triumphant toast.

As I sipped my chai, the sweet, milky taste felt like a promise. The tiara Luv made, now sitting on the coffee table, caught the dying light.

And  I was no queen. I was just Eraya Sharma. But I was an Eraya Sharma who was brave enough to meet a king. The journey ahead was shrouded in mist, but for the first time, I was ready to take the first step into the unknown.

✧

V I D H A R T

The entire day had bled away, minute by agonizing minute, stretched on the rack of my own silent hope. The grand clock in my room ticked with a mocking slowness, each swing of its pendulum a hammer against my already frayed nerves. Sunset had long since surrendered to the deep indigo of night, and still, my phone lay silent, a dark, inert slab of glass that held no answers.

The hollow ache in my chest had solidified into a cold, heavy certainty. She wasn’t going to say yes. Why would she? Eraya Sharma, a force of nature who answered to no one, had no reason to agree to meet a stranger from a gilded cage. The hope I’d nursed for four years, the fragile castle I’d built in the secret corners of my soul, began to crumble into dust.

If she doesn’t want me… then I will never intrude upon her life. The resolution was a bitter pill, swallowed with a grimace. But I will never stop loving you, Eraya. Perhaps… you were simply never written in my destiny.

A sharp, physical pain clenched around my heart. I leaned my forehead against the cool windowpane, staring out at the moon-washed gardens of the haveli, seeing nothing.

A knock, too cheerful for my mourning world, sounded at the door. “Bhaiya! Aajao, sab log dinner table pe aapka intezaar kar rahe hain!” Siya’s voice was a bright, unwelcome intrusion.

(Brother! Come on, everyone is waiting for you at the dinner table.)

I straightened, mechanically smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from my kurta. “Haan. Aa raha hoon,” I replied, my voice flat. I would go downstairs, I would sit through dinner, and I would begin the long, quiet process of burying a dream that had never been allowed to breathe.

Descending the grand staircase felt like walking to my own wake. The soft glow from the crystal chandelier over the dining table illuminated my family, already seated. And then I saw their faces.

Dadaji, at the head of the table, wasn’t wearing his usual look of stern appraisal. Instead, a subtle, knowing smile played on his lips. Maa and Choti Maa were beaming, their eyes shining with unshed tears of joy. Before I could process this bizarre shift in mood, a whirlwind of chaos detonated.

Siya, Aaradhya, and Vikrant launched themselves from their chairs. In a tangle of arms and laughter, they surrounded me, a hugging, jumping mob of pure elation.

I stood frozen, a statue of confusion in the middle of their celebration. My heart is breaking, and they are having a party? Do they not see?

Vikrant fumbled with his phone, and suddenly the room was filled with the loud, upbeat chorus of a popular wedding song:

“Chhote chhote bhaiyon ke bade bhaiya…
Aaj banenge kisi ke saiyaan!”

The lyrics-Today, Chhote chhote bhaiyon ke bade bhaiya…Aaj banenge kisi ke saiyaan
-hammered into my stupor. I snatched the phone from Vikrant’s hand, switching off the music with a sharp jab.

“What…” I managed, my voice a low growl of frustration and bewildered pain. “What are you all doing?”

Siya bounced on her toes, her face radiant with triumph. “Dekha, bhaiya? Maine kaha tha na! Agar aapki destiny mein Eraya likhi hai, toh aapko wahi milegi!”

(See, brother? I told you! If Eraya is written in your destiny, you will get it.)

Eraya.

Hearing her name in Siya’s gleeful shout was like a lightning strike to my system. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stuttered, stopped, and then roared back to life with a violent, thunderous rhythm.

“W…What?” I stammered, my carefully constructed composure in tatters.

“Bhaiya!” Siya squealed, grabbing my arms. “Unhone aapse milne ke liye… HAA KAR DIYA HAI!”

She said yes.

The four words were a universe contained in a whisper. They were the sun exploding in the darkness of my chest. The cold, dead certainty of moments ago vaporized, replaced by a supernova of pure, undiluted joy. A sensation I’d never truly felt before—a thousand frantic, beautiful butterflies taking flight in my stomach—made me lightheaded.

My Eraya said yes to meeting me.

Oh, God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

My eyes, wide and disbelieving, found Dadaji’s across the room. His smile deepened into a full, proud grin, and he gave me a slow, regal nod. I smiled back, a real, unguarded smile that felt strange and wonderful on my face.

My father cleared his throat, the official pronouncement cutting through the residual giggles. “Vidhart, wahan se abhi phone aaya tha. Eraya ne tumse milne ke liye haan kar di hai. So Wednesday tum Eraya se millena.” He paused, his tone turning respectful.

(Vidhart, I just received a call from there. Eraya has agreed to meet you. So you will meet Eraya on Wednesday.)

“Lekin woh chahti hai ki tum pehle ek baar Dehradun mein milo. Usska lifestyle, uska ache se jaan lo… pehchaan lo. Uske baad hi aage baat badhegi.”

(But she wants you to meet her in Dehradun first. Get to know her lifestyle, understand her properly... get acquainted with her. Only then will things move forward.)

I nodded instantly, the movement sharp with agreement. Of course. That was so utterly, perfectly her. No pretense, no staged meetings in five-star hotels. She was offering me a glimpse of her world, raw and real. But my love, I already know. I have studied the map of your soul for four years. I am already ready to marry every version of you.

“Accha, Papa,” I said, my voice miraculously steady, a masterpiece of forced calm. “Wednesday ko main Dehradun jaake Eraya se miloonga.”

(I will go to Dehradun on Wednesday and meet with Eraya)

Inside, the composed prince was gone. In his place was a man who wanted to spin Siya around the room, who wanted to shout his gratitude from the haveli’s rooftops.

Finally. Finally, I am going to meet my Eraya.

Finally, she will know that a man named Vidhart Singh Ranawat exists, and that he has loved her since the moment he saw her standing barefoot in the rain.

Dinner was a surreal affair. Through courses of rich, fragrant food, I was the eye of a playful hurricane. Siya, Aaradhya, and Vikrant launched a relentless, good-natured assault of teasing.

“Bhaiya, kya pehen kar jaoge? Bandhgala? Sherwani?” Vikrant winked.

“Nahi, casual! Jeans and t-shirt! Cool ban na padega bhabhi ke saamne!”Aaradhya countered.

“Bas itna soch rahe ho, bhaiya, ki khana toh kha lo!”Siya giggled, spooning more raita onto my plate.

I endured it all with a slight, tolerant smile, playing the part of the stoic elder brother mildly amused by their antics. I ate, I nodded, I gave monosyllabic replies. All the while, my mind was a thousand miles away, in a modest living room in Dehradun, rehearsing a first hello.

And through it all, Dadaji watched me, his eyes twinkling with ancient wisdom. He saw right through the act. He saw the boy beneath the king, trembling with anticipation.

When the meal finally ended, I excused myself with what I hoped was regal nonchalance. The moment the door to my chamber clicked shut, the facade shattered.

I leaned back against the heavy wood, my body sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, my long legs stretched out before me. I pressed a palm hard against my chest, as if I could physically contain the wild, hammering celebration within.

Eraya… thank you.

The two days until Wednesday stretched before me, an impossible eternity. How will I live through them?

My mind raced ahead, tripping over itself. Our first conversation in four years… What will I say? What will she ask? Will she like me? Will she see past the title to the man who has loved her silently?

A low, incredulous chuckle escaped me. I buried my face in my hands. Vidhart, get a hold of yourself. You are not a lovestruck teenager. You are a Ranawat.

But in this private, breathless space, I could admit the truth. I was lovestruck. I had been for four long years.

And now… now a fragile, dazzling hope was unfurling in the ruins of my former despair. Maybe… just maybe… the way she said yes to meeting me… maybe that ‘yes’ could one day grow into another, even more precious ‘yes’.

For the first time, I dared to let the belief take root, to water it with the gratitude flooding my veins.

Maybe… you will become my wife.

Eraya vidhart singh ranawt.

The thought was no longer a desperate fantasy. It was a seed, planted by her courage, and now, trembling in the sunlight of her agreement, it began to grow.