Premium: The Adultery & Passion of Jaipur's Princess -looks like Divya Bharti(Video)

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Scene 1 — Princess Gayatri Kumari of Jaipur — The Early Life

I was born on June 12, 1995, at 6:40 in the evening.
My father says I arrived “like a proper royal — fashionably late and immediately noisy.”

Apparently, there were fireworks that night — not for me, of course — but Jaipur was hosting some heritage festival.
My mother, Rajmata Devanshi, still insists the city was celebrating my arrival. My father, Maharaj Sumer Singh, calls that “revisionist parenting.”

I grew up in a world where even breakfast looked like a press conference.
Every morning my father read the newspaper as if he was part of it, and my mother checked her phone for messages from ministers before she said good morning.

Rajmata Devanshi: “Jaipur’s royal family must stay relevant,” she’d say, buttering toast.
Maharaj Sumer Singh: “To whom?” my father would ask, without looking up.
Rajmata Devanshi: “To everyone, Sumer. Public image is legacy,” she’d reply.

That was my childhood soundtrack — one parent arguing about legacy, the other about budget allocations. It was like a very complex drama happening every day.

While I was playing hopscotch in the courtyard, a group of tourists wandered in.
One lady clapped and said, “Oh look! The little princess!”
I froze.

She took a selfie with me while I held a skipping rope and half a frown.
That evening, I told my mother I wanted to go to a normal college.
Gayatri: “Then can we at least pretend?” I said.
She laughed and kissed my forehead. That was her way of saying no without sounding mean.

As I grew older, I started noticing things.
Like how everyone treated my father with rehearsed laughter, or how people called my mother Your Highness even at supermarket openings.
I also noticed that when adults said, “We’re proud of you,” what they really meant was, “Don’t embarrass us.” It was a simple, hidden message.
Once, I got second place in an inter-college essay competition. I was happy — until my mother said,
Rajmata Devanshi: “Second is just first with regrets.”
I stopped celebrating halfway through my cupcake. My happiness felt very small suddenly.
That night, I wrote in my diary: “Being perfect is exhausting. I want to be good enough instead.”


Few years later, they shipped me off to boarding college in Dehradun.
Maharaj Sumer Singh: “It’ll build character,” my father said.
Gayatri: “It’ll build trauma,” I muttered.
My first week there, I cried in the washroom because no one helped me fold my uniform properly. My roommate, Naina, caught me and said,
Naina: “You cry like a person who’s never had to carry her own suitcase.”
Gayatri: I sniffed, “I haven’t.”
She laughed and showed me how to tuck the sleeves.

By the end of the year, I could wash my own clothes, fake a fever, and sneak chocolate past the dorm warden — which, if you ask me, is better than any royal training.
When I turned 18 in 2013, I came back to Jaipur for summer break — slightly tougher, slightly sassier, my boobs had become bigger, my body voluptuous. I was a woman now, not a girl.
Maharaj Sumer Singh: “You’ve grown up.”
Gayatri: “Don’t worry, I’ll still embarrass you sometimes.”
He smiled and hugged me like he wasn’t supposed to.

That was the year I realized I didn’t need to be graceful all the time. I could trip, laugh, swear, and still be myself.
In 2014, I moved to Delhi for college.
It was chaos in the best way — noisy PGs, traffic, late-night chai, and a freedom that tasted like lemon soda. That freedom was my first real bite of life.
For the first time, I could go out without being followed by security guards or old family retainers pretending to buy groceries behind me.
Once, in my first semester, a guy in my class asked,
Classmate: “So… do you actually live in a palace?”
Gayatri: I said, “Yes, but the Wi-Fi’s terrible.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee, and for that one moment, I felt — normal.

My college years went fast — friends, heartbreaks, and one very short-lived attempt to become an influencer.
By the time I graduated at 22, my résumé said “social worker” and my heart said “freelancer in figuring life out.” It was like having two different jobs.
But that same year, I went home for Diwali, and my mother announced it like a press release:
Rajmata Devanshi: “Gayatri, it’s time you thought seriously about marriage.”
I nearly dropped the diya I was holding.
Gayatri: “Mom, I’m twenty-two. That’s not a serious age, that’s ‘what am I doing with my life’ age.”
Rajmata Devanshi: She said, “Exactly. And I’m here to help you figure it out.”

Fast-forward to 2021 — I was 26, managing small NGO projects in Delhi, half-independent, half-broke, when the call came.
Rajmata Devanshi: “Gayatri,” my mother said in that voice that means she’s made a decision on my behalf, “there’s a proposal from Jodhpur.”
Gayatri: “Please tell me it’s not arranged,” I groaned.
Rajmata Devanshi: “It’s introduced,” she corrected. “There’s a difference. His name is Aditya Singh Rathore.”
Gayatri: I said, “Sounds like someone with good hair and bad Wi-Fi.”
She ignored me, which meant I was about to meet him whether I liked it or not.
And that’s how the story began — not with fireworks or love at first sight, but with a phone call and my mother’s favorite line:
Rajmata Devanshi: “You’ll thank me later.”

Spoiler: I didn’t.



Disclaimer: This story is absolutely fictional and not related to any living or dead person. Not intended to hurt any one.
Any resemblance to real events, conversations, or institutions is purely coincidental. All characters, settings, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination.

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