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Chapter 89: The Wish-Granting Tree
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The palace revealed itself slowly.
Arched corridors opened into sunlit courtyards. Stone lions guarded stairways worn smooth by centuries of rule. From high balconies, the land stretched outward—fields, rivers, towns—each one carrying the weight of history and expectation.
The princess walked ahead, hands clasped behind her back, moving with the ease of someone who knew every echo and shadow of the place. The prince followed, unhurried, observing not just the palace but the way she paused at certain corners, how her gaze lingered on old murals as if they were old friends.
"You've seen palaces before," she said without turning. "Yet you're looking as if this one is… different."
"Every palace tells the truth of its ruler," the prince replied. "Some shout it. Some hide it. This one remembers."
She smiled faintly and gestured toward a terrace overlooking the inner gardens.
They stopped there.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she turned to him, head tilted slightly, curiosity sharp in her eyes.
"Tell me something," she said. "What exactly do you do?"
The prince blinked.
"You don't know?"
She shook her head. "I know what people say. I want to hear it from you."
He considered her for a second, then answered plainly.
"I am the Finance Minister of India."
She burst out laughing.
The sound echoed across the garden, bright and unrestrained. The prince stiffened—not offended, just… surprised.
"You're laughing," he said.
"Because you said it like you're a clerk counting coins," she replied, still smiling. "You said nothing about the rest."
"The rest?" he asked.
She stepped closer, eyes gleaming.
"You're the wish-granting tree."
The prince stopped walking.
Completely.
"What did you just say?"
She noticed the change immediately—the way his shoulders squared, the way his eyes sharpened.
"You don't know?" she asked, incredulous.
"No," he said slowly. "I don't."
Her laughter softened into something gentler.
"All over India," she said, "from villages to assemblies, people say the same thing. If you go to the Finance Ministry with a dream, you don't come back empty-handed."
She began counting on her fingers.
"Factories?" she said. "You give them.
No capital? You arrange loans.
Irrigation? You build canals.
Fertilizers? You subsidize them.
Jobs? You create them."
She looked straight at him.
"Hope?" she added quietly. "You give that too."
The prince felt something twist in his chest.
"And do you know who made the name famous?" she continued. "Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru himself."
His eyebrow rose.
"In Parliament," she said, lowering her voice theatrically, "he once joked—'Where is our wish-granting tree today? Why is he not here to answer our prayers?'"
She spread her hands.
"And just like that, it stuck."
The prince let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
A laugh escaped him—soft at first, then fuller, shaking his shoulders.
"A wish-granting tree," he repeated. "So that's what I've become."
She watched him closely.
"You don't like it?"
"I don't know whether to be flattered or terrified," he admitted. "Trees are expected to stand forever."
She smiled.
"And yet," she said, "you're very human."
They resumed walking.
The palace seemed quieter now, as if listening.
"So," she said lightly, "since you grant wishes to the entire nation… what is your wish?"
He didn't answer immediately.
They passed beneath an old banyan tree in the garden, its roots hanging like threads from the sky.
"My wish," he said finally, voice lower, steadier, "is not something you can grant."
She looked at him, surprised.
"Try me."
He stopped beneath the tree's shade.
"I want freedom," he said.
Her smile faded.
"I want to walk anywhere in India," he continued, "without guards, without whispers, without people weighing my worth before hearing my words."
He turned to face her.
"I want to live without the judgmental gaze of society. To choose where I go, whom I meet, how I live—without my name entering the room before I do."
She studied his face, searching for exaggeration.
She found none.
"You're a prince," she said softly. "You can't have that."
"I know," he replied.
"That kind of freedom," she said, "is denied even to commoners. For you, it's impossible."
He nodded once.
"That is why it is my wish."
Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable.
Then, suddenly, his expression shifted—lighter, mischievous.
"Well," he said, "there is one solution."
She narrowed her eyes. "I don't like the way you said that."
"If you want freedom," he said casually, "marry me."
She stopped dead.
"What?"
"If you marry me," he continued smoothly, "I'll give you all the freedom you want."
She stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.
For one terrifying second, she wondered if he was serious.
Then he laughed.
"I'm joking," he said quickly. "Relax."
Her expression did not soften.
"Stop joking," she said sharply.
He raised his hands in surrender.
"Message received."
She shook her head, muttering something under her breath about powerful men and dangerous humor.
Yet as they walked back toward the palace, something had changed.
The prince felt lighter—unburdened, if only for a moment.
And the princess, despite herself, found her thoughts returning to a man who carried the weight of a nation… and wished only to walk freely within it.
The wish-granting tree stood tall.
But even trees, she realized, longed to move.
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