The princess of Aurealia is ready to sacrifice anything for her kingdom and her people. With peasants revolting and her kingdom in the brink of civil war, Ayra decides she must marry a peasant to save her people from killing one another. When she se...
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Ayra was curious about almost every little thing. When I returned, she gave me the cold shoulder for about three minutes until she cracked under the awkward silence between us. Her big brown eyes lit up every time her gaze caught something ordinary. It would be uninteresting to someone from the village, after all, it was our day to day life. But, Ayra, who claims to come from the palace, seemed to know nothing about the outside world.
"Your leg seems to be fine, now." I said, when I see her walking towards a sculpture made out of red sand.
She halts, her back towards me. But she ignores my comment a moment later and caresses the hips of the sculpture of a woman. "I forgot about it, but there is a little pain."
"Doesn't look like it." I mutter. "It looks like you feigned being hurt to earn my trust."
"I told you before, and I'm telling you now." She said. "I am not capable of deception. I don't hurt people." Her voice echoed across the street. It was as if she knew how to project her voice. It was suspicious, because it was a skill that royals learned. But looking at her in the plain saree and her scattered hair wrapped in a loose bun, she looked nothing like a high-class woman. Besides, her manners wouldn't be acceptable for even a middle class girl. Everyone learns how to speak respectfully, despite their status.
"And how would you know that? You claimed that you forgot everything."
"It's a intuition." She shrugged.
For the rest of the trip, we barely open our mouths. She buys a few sarees and other feminine products I seen around the house but never commented on. Sindhoor, some jasmine, and plenty of rags.
"We're short on coins." I said when she picks up another rag from the cart. The vendor giggles at my comment but offers a sympathetic look towards Ayra.
"Well, this is necessary for women, so don't stick your head into this matter." The woman scolds.
"I don't have enough change," I reply, counting the gold coins in my hand.
The woman purses her lips. "Tell you what, your wife needs all this, so I'll let you take it for free, alright?"
"I'm not his—
"She's not my wife—
The woman's cheek reddens as she realizes that we are not husband and wife. I also see Ayra's rosy cheeks turn into a deep crimson. She hung her head in embarrassment (presumably) and stared at the ground beneath her. I cleared my throat, hoping to free my brain of the awkwardness of the situation. I walked two steps ahead of Ayra before she followed me. To passers by, we would've looked like a newly married couple purchasing necessities. In a Indian society, women always walked behind their husband, their heads casted down in respect. It was a tradition because the men could protect their loved ones from any danger or difficulties in their path. But nowadays, in a village filled with other civil people, where there are no predators or obstacles, there is obviously no need for such a foolish custom. Others apparently, had utilized this as a way to boast that they have a hold on their wives. It was both sickly, and unappealing to me, when my mother pointed the many woman in the streets, walking behind their intended.
