Dawn stole gently into the zenana, like a shy maiden drawing aside the veil of night. The soft clink of anklets and the low whispering of attending dasis followed the familiar path to the inner shrine of the mahal. There, in the sanctum of flickering ghee lamps and curling strands of incense, Maharani Lalima Devi, the Pink Queen, knelt upon the cool marble floor, her hands folded in supplication.
Her silk rose-hued saree, bordered with gold zari, trailed gracefully like a river of dawn light behind her, and the faint scent of attar of roses surrounded her as though even fragrance itself paid court to her presence.
Yet her eyes—kohl-lined and heavy with unshed tears—betrayed a turbulence of emotions beneath the glittering serenity expected of a Maharani of Rajgarh.
Outside, the palace stirred with awakening:
The conches of the temple priests.
The drumbeats of the palace guard changing watch.
The distant clang of steel from the training akhadas.
But here, before Devi Durga's murti, Lalima sought something the outer world could not give—assurance that destiny would not devour her children.
The Mother Behind the Queen
She touched the cold stone at the goddess's feet.
Not as the Queen Consort.
Not as the jewel of the harem.
Not as the rival of the Queen Regent.
But as a mother.
A mother whose world was shaped into two living hearts:
• Rajkumari Charumati – her proud, flame-bright daughter• Rajkumar Aarav – her youngest son, laughter incarnate, still on the threshold of youth
And in silence she spoke within herself:
"O Mother of the Universe, grant them safety beneath Your thousand arms. When the storms of power rage and the cannons of firangi thunder, let not my children be sacrificed at the altar of empire."
For the palace corridors echoed increasingly with low-voiced discussions of the British Residents, treaties, land revenue, sepoy unrest… and the unmistakable faltering of sovereignty.
She feared the day when English boots would sound in the Rang Mahal, when the emblem of Rajgarh might be lowered from its fort parapets like a defeated banner, and when decisions for the kingdom would travel not from throne to village—but from Calcutta to crown.
Lalima Devi and the Weight of Being "The Other Queen
Though draped in jewels and surrounded by attendants, Lalima Devi knew the ache of being second.
Not first wife.
Not mother of the Crown Prince.
Not the woman who ruled during the Maharaja's ailments.
She was the softer song in a court of thundering drums.
Maharani Aishvarya Devi—the Green Queen, the Queen Regent—was the lioness of statecraft, mistress of the council hall, formidable in diplomacy, mother to:
• Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh – the valiant general• Samrat Veer Singh – Crown Prince• Rajkumari Mrinalini – composed and poised
The courtiers bowed deeper when Aishvarya walked.
The nobles listened sharper when her voice rang.
Her seal determined policies that even the Maharaja sometimes accepted in silence.
Lalima was expected to remain the glittering lotus – beautiful, smiling, serene.
And she did.
Yet beneath that serenity lived endless prayer.
Because power was not her armor—faith was.
The Pink Queen's Temple
The shrine room was a world within a world.
Lotus engravings upon the pillars.
Marble floor in cool white veins.
A thousand mirrored fragments upon the ceiling catching lamp-light like stars trapped beneath a dome.
Diyas floated in bronze vessels.
Jasmine garlands coiled around lattice.
Silver bells waited for the lightest touch to awaken sound.
The temple doors led toward the private ghats, where sacred waters glimmered under morning sky. The British officers admired it as an "architectural marvel," but to Lalima Devi, it was simply the place where she could breathe without protocol tightening like silk ropes around her throat.
The raj-purohit entered quietly and marked her forehead with vermillion.
"Maharani-sa, your devotion pleases the Mother," he murmured.
She bowed her head not in pride—but humility.
For everything she did now was woven with fear for the future.
The Whisper of Court Intrigue
Just as the mantra chants deepened, the soft padding of footsteps outside the sanctum thickened the air with tension. Two ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances, whispering urgently.
Something was happening in the outer court.
A murmur traveled like monsoon wind passing through trees.
The British Resident had arrived unexpectedly.
The council of sardars was summoned earlier than planned.
Railway maps and revenue parchments lay unrolled in the Diwan-e-Khas.
Lalima recognized the tremor of impending change.
She whispered to Durga once more.
"If all the world crumbles, leave at least my children standing."
A tear slid down her cheek.
She permitted herself only one—then straightened, regaining her queenly composure before rising.
A Mother's Moments with Her Children
As she stepped from the shrine, perfumed air brushed across the corridors.
A light laugh echoed.
"Ma-sa!"
Her daughter Charumati came running down the passage, her red saree vivid as sindoor, maang-tikka flashing like captured sunlight upon her brow. She was a storm of life—fearless, questioning, impatient with decorum and thoroughly her mother's child.
"Will the british-sahibs truly take our lands?" she asked breathlessly, her young voice laced with the stubborn courage of someone yet unbroken by the world.
Lalima smiled faintly.
"The peepal tree does not tremble for every wind that touches its leaves, my daughter."
Charumati tilted her head.
"So will we tremble for none?"
"Not while you remember who you are."
Their moment was shattered by the sound of training shouts in the courtyard below.
Lalima's gaze softened when she saw Aarav practicing mock sword maneuvers with wooden sticks, making dramatic cries as though he were vanquishing entire battalions. He spotted his mother and grinned so brightly that a hundred suns could have been humbled.
He ran to her, breathless.
"Ma, one day I shall command elephants in battle!"
Her heart stopped for a second.
Not battle, she prayed silently. Not blood-soaked fields under British cannons.
She brushed her hand gently through his hair.
"Command your books first."
He groaned dramatically while Charumati laughed.
But Lalima held them both close, imprinting their warmth in her soul, as though preparing for a tomorrow where touch might become memory.
Devotion Amidst a Crumbling Empire
The palace musicians began the mangala veena melody.
Incense spiraled.
Yet beyond the mahal walls, the world darkened:
British taxation squeezing villagers.
Railway lines carving through forests like scars.
Sepoy whispers of revolt smouldering beneath obedience.
Englishmen demanding more tribute, more control, more land.
Rajgarh was not a mere palace—it was a kingdom poised upon a precipice.
And Lalima Devi felt its every tremor beneath her pulse.
So she returned to the shrine again that evening, after court had been dismissed and torches burned low across the courtyards.
This time, her prayers were not for victory or power.
They were for mercy.
For souls yet unborn.
For soldiers yet unburied.
For the women who would become widows when wars were written by men who never saw the battlefield.
The Pink Queen's Vision
During the night, beneath the chanting echoes and steady flame of the akhand-jyoti, Lalima felt something shift—like the turning of a cosmic wheel.
Her head bent.
Her breath stilled.
And she saw.
She saw:
• banners torn by wind
• crowns fallen into dust
• brothers raising swords against brothers
• a queen in green standing alone upon palace steps
• a crown prince kneeling in grief beneath monsoon rain
• and a woman in red —eyes burning upon her brow like fire — filled not with devotion,
but with ruthless purpose
The vision struck like lightning.
She gasped softly, clutching her chest.
The priests rushed toward her, but she lifted a hand.
"I am not faint," she whispered. "Only… forewarned."
She could not yet understand it, but the image branded itself upon her heart:
A red-clad daughter-in-law
with a gaze sharper than steel
standing before a throne room of silence—
because everyone else was gone.
A destiny written with blood instead of ink.
The Unspoken Rivalry of Love and Power
Later that night, as the anklets of attendants jingled softly and the palace lulled into sleep, Lalima Devi sat at her jharokha, watching moonlight cascade over the fort battlements.
She thought of:
Aishvarya Devi, regal and resolute.
The Maharaja, weary yet noble.
Her children — pieces of her soul walking outside her body.
She also thought of Yuvrani Aushka Devi.
The Bengal princess.
Red-sareed bride.
Quiet smile—
but eyes that watched everything, missing nothing.
There was grace in her voice.
Humility in her gestures.
A softness that made others underestimate her.
And yet…
The goddess had shown Lalima an image.
Was it warning?
Or merely the shadow of fear?
The Pink Queen folded her hands again, whispering into the silence:
"If darkness must rise from within these walls, then show me how to confront it before it devours us all."
But the night remained silent,
keeping its secrets close,
like a cobra coiled beneath silk.
A Queen's Resolve
By the time dawn returned, colouring the palace domes with gold and setting the banners fluttering in crisp light, Lalima Devi had decided something within herself.
She would not remain merely a soft floral ornament of court.
She would not let history describe her as the queen who prayed and watched silently while destinies shattered.
She would pray—
yes.
But she would also act.
With grace, with compassion,
and with the quiet strength the world often mistakes for fragility—
until it learns how wrong it is.
For prayers can become weapons
when mothers wield them.
And in the great story unfolding beneath the gaze of empire,
beyond the shadow of the British flag
and the rising storm of Independence,
the Pink Queen's prayers would become the unseen tides shaping fate itself.