Rudra Tara - A Love Bound By Duty

2. PRINCESS TARA

Being a princess of one of the most powerful kingdoms has always felt like a gilded cage around my heart. Since the beginning, I’ve known nothing but the weight of responsibility pressing down on my soul—no freedom to roam without the watchful eyes of guards, no carefree laughter with friends, no serene moments by the lake. My commoner friends speak of freedom like it's air, yet I've never tasted it. Instead, I’ve been shackled by endless rules and suffocating decorum: Walk this way, sit that way, never let them see your tears, your smile must be measured, and don’t even think about laughing too freely.

My mother drilled all these virtues into me, her voice always gentle, but her lessons sharp, a constant reminder of the perfection I must uphold.

Yes, I've mastered the arts—singing, classical dance, cooking dishes that would awe the finest royals—but my secret rebellion has always been more thrilling: archery and sword fighting, practices my mother would faint at the thought of. My grandfather used to train me, teaching me to dodge, strike, and defend with the grace of a warrior, but even he has drifted away, consumed by his duties. Now, I practice alone, in shadows where no one sees, no one knows.

For all that my parents have lavished upon me, they have denied me the one thing I crave more than anything: freedom. The freedom to live, to breathe, to be... my own.

Today is no different. The palace, with all its grandeur, feels more like a prison, filled with the ceaseless bustling of maids as they prepare my bath, lay out the elaborate silks I must wear, perfume the air with sandalwood. Mahashivratri is tomorrow, and I should feel excitement, but instead, I’m numbed by the routine.

I close my eyes, momentarily escaping in my mind, but soon enough, duty calls. I mustn't be late for the pooja, or mother will reprimand me. Her voice, though sweet, always feels like a blade slicing through my fragile will.

After bathing, I dress as a princess should—in an opulent lehenga heavy with jewels, each thread reminding me of the kingdom I represent, not the girl I truly am. My long hair must remain hidden, wrapped in a dupatta, for the eyes of men are forbidden from seeing anything other than what decorum allows.

As I walk to the temple, the rituals blur into a haze. Pooja after pooja, tradition after tradition, yet none of it fills the empty ache in my heart. When I return, my mother is already busy, consumed by preparations for the festivities. She barely looks at me. I help her in silence, my hands moving mechanically, my thoughts drifting toward an ever-pressing question: Does anyone see me for who I am? Or am I just a role to be played, a face behind the royal mask?

Later, I visit my father, lost in his court, my brothers engaged in their combat, and my grandfather, now so distant.

No one has time for me.

Left alone, the vastness of the palace feels colder than ever. I slip away to the sword-fighting grounds, the only place where, for a brief moment, I can lose myself in the dance of steel. But even that is not enough. Nothing is.

Dinner is the same—prayers, offerings, more silence. As I sit with my family, I can’t help but wonder if there will ever be someone who sees me, someone who loves me not as the princess of Suryagarh but as Tara. My heart aches for a love I’ve never known, a love that would make the world stand still.

With these thoughts haunting me, I smirk to myself, imagining a world where I break free of these chains. Tomorrow, I’ll make my move. For now, I fall into restless sleep, the weight of another day still heavy on my soul.