The moon was full, lighting up the dome that had become a symbol of man’s greatest love for woman. Sita sighed as she gazed upon the Taj Mahal at midnight, a privilege few ever had. At least the chests full of money in his palace could buy her this — he had greased the palms of the guards, who were awed by royalty and consumed by greed.

She drew her thin cotton sari closer around her as she walked barefoot on the cool marble, the breeze caressing her long black hair, tied with a string of jasmine and falling to her waist in loose waves. She could feel his eyes on her and tried to ignore him, but couldn’t resist sneaking a look; he hadn’t even bothered to remove his riding boots! What arrogance, she thought, I will never love this man, I don’t care if he is my husband. But why did her stomach flutter so?

Rajkumar Vijay’s dark eyes watched as she seemed to glide along with anklets clinking, her almond-shaped eyes staring at the dome, her dusky skin glowing... It’s the moonlight, he told himself, resisting the urge to crush her delicate form against the hard marble and have his way with her right there. He couldn’t wait much longer to claim his new bride.

When they reached the sanctum, Sita stepped hesitantly into the dark, feeling her way along the lattices. Lost in a daydream about the queen buried here, she gasped as she suddenly felt her prince’s hands sliding across her bare, smooth stomach. His mouth fell on her neck as she tried to fight him, and he found that she tasted of raw mangoes smeared with salt. He whipped her around to face him and plundered her mouth with his, his moustache bruising her lips even as she felt her resistance melting like ghee on a hot roti.

Aishwarya Subramanyam is associate managing editor for Vogue India

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