The Royal Siblings [Smita]

Princess Smita stood at the edge of the north wing terrace, against the perforated white parapet, her pretty almond eyes idly watching the men shouting and hustling and the horses neighing and snorting. She had a spat that evening with her mother and ran up to the terrace, fuming. The north wing of the palace was somewhat deserted, only used occasionally for guest accommodations. That made it ideal for venting and moping. She had also composed some of her best poetry sitting on this very ledge. But there were days she only wanted to sit there and watch over the world below like an ancient owl. So, she set aside her small palm-leaf journal and her quill and observed the men below laboring away amid all the noise and confusion.

There were three wagons being equipped for the journey. One must be for the clothes, and the other two must be for the food and water and such. The path from the north wing led straight to the north gate of the palace, which then opened into the city and through the city gates, to the world beyond. She had heard of her brother, Prince Surya's impending journey to the north, where he would stay for months. Good.

In all her fourteen years, Smita had traveled to the East thrice, with her mother, when they visited her mother's folks and remembered eating all the fish. Smita had visited West many, many times and remembered eating the rarest fruits and receiving such exquisite robes. And Prince Indra of the West was the most handsome man she had ever laid her eyes on. He had the most charming smile and presented her with the loveliest flowers that he freshly plucked from their garden just for her, whenever she visited Indraprastha. And so when she heard of the prince's wedding to a harlot from the south, she could not believe it for days.

Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the poems she had written for Prince Indra over the years that she never dared to show him. Smita was so certain he must have thought she did not want him. If he knew of her interest, he would not even have looked at that…. The boys from the court said she was tall and dainty, with a small waist and ample bosom. She seethed at the words but kept her resentment to herself.

"I was looking for you in your chambers." A male voice floated in. Smita continued to stare at the commotion below as men scrambled to put matters in order. "Do you come up here often? I have not come here in a long time."

Smita knew, which was precisely why this was her favorite place to hide for hours. She was foolish to have believed for a moment that her brother, Surya, would win that harlot in the Swayamvar. He must not have even tried. If he did, no man in the world could have beaten him. She had seen him in combats. And she had also seen how he looked at the knights and how he smiled at them sweetly. She was silly to think for a moment that he could bed a girl. He could not even gaze at women, only stared at men. Sometimes she just wanted to tell the world how queer her brother was, the pure, faultless prince of RakhtaPrastha. Smita was waiting for the opportune moment. Then, she would just stand aside and watch while they pointed and laughed at Surya. Mother would love that very much, so would father.

"Is my sister sad that I am leaving?" He wished! Surya came up to her side and gently stroked her hair, which she hated so much. "It is only for a few months. You need not envy me. They say it is so cold in the north, you lose all your teeth from the endless chattering."

Smita batted away Surya's hand from her hair. "They say you are going mad." Her brother went silent, and his smile disappeared from his lips. Smita was still nursing a broken heart, and Surya had to come and make it all about himself. "Is that why you are leaving?"

"They relish at others' pain," Surya said glumly. "You must not listen to such trifles." He then adjusted his face to bring on a cheerier look. "Have you given thought to what you want from the north?"

Smita, at last, glanced at her brother. She was almost as tall as him, and yet, he patronized her as if she was a child. "I do not know. Bring what you like. North is not Arabia." She said dryly.

"I will bring you the thickest northern tunics made from the softest wool of the hairiest sheep."

Smita shivered, repulsed by the suggestion that caused her brother to dissolve into a fit of laughter.

"Little sister, you must write me a letter every day with a new poem."

"I will. I will write you the most awful poems."

Surya glanced at the journal lying on the side and scooped it up before poor Smita could put it away. "Ah, what is this?! Chronicles by my dear sister!" Surya exclaimed with delight.

Smita blazed and immediately pounced upon him like a tigress. She grabbed and scratched and clawed until she had her journal back. This time, she had it locked tight in her embrace so that her brother could not steal it from her again. Tears came unbidden to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She hated for her brother to see her like this, and so she hid away her face.

"Oh, my sweet sister," Surya spoke in the kindest voice as he wrapped his arms around her. "Do not cry. I will return in no time. Until then, listen to mother. She worries for you."

"No, she does not. She only worries for you."

Smita tried to wriggle out of the embrace, but Surya squeezed her tighter. "Come. It is getting dark."

"I do not want to." But her brother did not listen, dragging her to the exit and, then, down the stairs with him.

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