From the winner of the 2013 Crossword Book Award for Children’s Writing

PUFFIN BOOKS

TWICE UPON A TIME Payal Kapadia grew up being any sort of girl she wanted to be, reading everything she could get her hands on and following her imagination wherever it took her. She studied English literature at St Xavier’s College, Mumbai, and received an MSc degree in journalism from Northwestern University, Chicago. She worked with Outlook magazine in Mumbai and the Japan Times in Tokyo—and ended up interviewing teenage gangs in inner cities, an elephant who paints for Christie’s and Japanese soldiers who fought under Subhash Chandra Bose. Her critically acclaimed debut, Wisha Wozzariter, won the 2013 Crossword Book Award for Children’s Writing and is featured in the 101 Indian Children’s Books We Love! compilation. She went on to write the bestselling school adventure series Horrid High. Her first book for grown-ups, Maidless in Mumbai, was a top pick on Amazon. When Payal isn’t reading at festivals and schools, she loves singing karaoke and travelling to new and strange lands (not just the ones inside her head). She lives in Mumbai with her husband, two daughters who enjoy breaking the rules just as much as she does, more laptops than one family should own up to owning and no dogs. Yet.

ALSO IN PUFFIN BY PAYAL KAPADIA Wisha Wozzariter Puffin Lives: B.R. Ambedkar Horrid High Horrid High: Back to School

Illustrations by Sandhya Prabhat

PUFFIN BOOKS USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China Puffin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

First published in Puffin Books by Penguin Random House India 2019 Text copyright © Payal Kapadia 2019 Illustrations copyright © Sandhya Prabhat 2019 All rights reserved 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. ISBN 9780143333326 For sale in the Indian Subcontinent only Typeset in RequiemText by Manipal Digital Systems, Manipal

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. www.penguin.co.in

For Keya and Nyla, my real girls, on the days they wear pink and on the days they don’t

Once upon a time . . .

T

here was a bird. But this story isn’t about him. Even      if he’d just flown across the Indian Ocean to get here for the summer. Even if he’d only just settled himself on the leafiest branch of a regal old tree with the rest of his birdie pals. He has a name, but it doesn’t matter because he only thought he’d be staying. AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHH! He isn’t. AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHH! A muscular scream sent our bird and the rest of his friends scattering, all the way back to the Arctic. The regal old tree emptied like a school when the last bell rings. The palace that rose behind it trembled as if it were made of toothpicks. And a peacock in the royal

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gardens, halfway through impressing a peahen, jumped right out of his feathers. Surya Mahal was on high alert. Many pairs of legs ran helter-skelter over the lawns, kicking up dust, stones and the unfortunate flower. Many pairs of arms dragged a safety net under a heart-shaped window. Many pairs of eyes looked skyward for a falling princess. But right now, Princess Keya was only intent on screaming. AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHH! The royal window-boy curled his toes around the rungs of the ladder to hold on for dear life. (His hands were clapped around his ears.) He’d never thought that window-cleaning could be so downright dangerous— and he wasn’t very brave. The scream issuing from that window was powerful enough to lop a man’s head off, and he was only a boy. He wobbled but didn’t dare grab hold of the sill. It was, after all, the princess’s bathroom window, and he did not want to catch Princess Keya, mid-tantrum, in her PJs. He gulped. Or worse. The royal plumber had turned off the water (in case the princess decided to drown herself). The royal lockpicker had been called in to force the bathroom door open. The royal paratrooper stood on the roof, preparing to swing in for the rescue at the king’s command. The royal scribe had slipped a series of letters from the king under the bathroom door. They all said the same thing, in twelve different kinds of calligraphy: Please open the door. 2

Twice upon a Time

And the king? King Ferrlip felt faint, and he reached for his jar of smelling salts. Bathrooms could be perilous places, and the princess—the king shuddered at the thought—was alone. He shouted a long list of safety dos and don’ts from the other side of the door. ‘Don’t throw yourself to the floor! Do stay away from the window! Don’t cry, your eyes will get swollen! Or scream, your throat might ache! Do mind your feet, you’ll bruise them if you stomp too hard! Do watch out for sharp corners, by the way!’ But there was only one, if predictable, response: ‘AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHH!’ Only this time, it came with loud crashing noises of the sort that potty lids make when they are flung up and down in anger. There was also the scraping sound of a footstool being dragged along the floor and the smash of toiletries being tossed. King Ferrlip’s eyes began to roll back in his head. He nodded grimly. ‘It’s time!’ The royal paratrooper slid down the rope that hung from the roof till he was right outside the princess’s window. The royal window-boy said a prayer for himself and prepared to clamber up. The royal lock-picker stuck a pin into the heart-shaped keyhole and gave it a good wiggle. ‘Don’t you dare!’ said the princess from inside. Something about that tone of voice made everyone freeze. The royal paratrooper dangled on his rope; the 3

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royal window-boy’s foot hovered a few inches above the sill; the royal lock-picker’s pin stopped mid-jiggle. What next? Everyone turned to the king. After all, kings are supposed to have all the answers. But King Ferrlip scratched his turban. (He would have scratched his head if the turban hadn’t been in the way.) He was as baffled as everyone else. He weighed the facts. Princess Keya was a hundred per cent real princess. She had been born with a golden spoon in her mouth (that she delicately spat out upon entering the world). She didn’t cry loudly like ordinary babies, but only mewled. She didn’t dribble food down her chin or, horrors, drool when her first tooth appeared. She didn’t wet her bed even once. Instead she batted the silver bell hanging above her cot with one delicate hand to summon the royal nappy-changer, who appeared with a fresh batch of nappies. A hundred per cent cotton, of course. King Ferrlip turned to Queen Purl, who had been vexingly quiet until now. ‘What’s happening to our daughter?’ he asked. ‘Your daughter,’ she said, barely looking up from her knitting, ‘is now officially a tween.’

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Chapter One ‘A real princess is hard to please, but harder to displease.’ —The Princess Rule Book, page 5

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rincess Keya of Pompuspur (‘Pom-puhs-poor’)       was as real a princess as they make them these days. Why, the queen pinched her every morning to make sure of it. Princess Keya did princessy things like any princess anywhere: She sang, she danced, she wore pink at all times. She threw tea parties, she embroidered, she crocheted. She joined her hands in a namaste more exquisite than a lotus bud, she admired the roses in her garden and, oh yes, she baked. 5

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But one Sunday, everything changed. Well, not everything. The sun rose and the morning dew twinkled— a touch less than the princess’s crown, but that was to be expected. The palace fountains danced, though less gracefully than the princess (which goes without saying). And the peacocks preened (with less reason to than Princess Keya). As on every other day, the world did its best to sparkle like the princess—and fell just short of the mark. But that Sunday, the princess’s heart changed. Even Ayah—as the princess’s nanny was called—couldn’t see it. Maybe because she was nodding off in an armchair across the room, waiting for the princess to stir. She was old and didn’t have her spectacles on. Or maybe because when a princess’s heart changes, no one can see it but her. A flutter of the princess’s eyelids, and Ayah’s heart raced. A stifled yawn, and Ayah’s breath snagged in her throat. For everything a princess does is a matter of great excitement, and waking up is no different. (Even if the princess has only been sleeping through the night and not for a hundred years.) Ayah would have jumped up if she wasn’t so heavy now. Rising slowly, she parted the thick curtains slightly (because even the sun can’t enter a princess’s room without her permission). What would the princess see first when she woke up, Ayah wondered. Would the world be perfect enough for her this morning? 6

Twice upon a Time

Ayah lumbered across the enormous room somewhat on tiptoe. And she tugged on the pink silken rope (yes, pink) that hung from the ceiling, as she had every morning for the last eleven years. It would appear that the silken rope was a useless thing because nothing seemed to happen after Ayah pulled on it. But deep inside Surya Mahal, the yanking of the silken rope had jangled a ginormous bronze bell. It clanged loudly, as though it were in an almighty frenzy. And it threw everyone into an almighty frenzy with it. The royal window-boy, asleep on his perch, was startled awake by the tolling sound. He shimmied up the palace walls to give the princess’s heart-shaped windows one last spritz. It simply would not do for the princess to open her eyes and see the world through a dust-flecked pane. Down in the kitchens, it was as if a starting gun had gone off somewhere: The royal maid sprang up to milk the royal cow. The royal stirrer turned the upma over ‘ten times for a golden finish’, as the royal recipe advised. The royal roller measured the dosa—exactly ten inches across—and permitted himself a tiny nod of triumph. The royal cutter sliced the almonds precisely a millimetre thick. The royal garnisher (for what else do you call a man in charge of decorating food?) applied a trained thumb 7

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to the freshly picked roses and squeezed three drops of rose essence on to a dish. The royal taster smacked his lips at what the royal bees had made. The royal folder transformed a table napkin into a swan that looked like it would float away. And ‘Wait!’ cried the royal polisher just as the silver tray was about to be whisked off, dabbing at a stray fingerprint that had stowed away upon it. On the other side of Surya Mahal, the queen put down her knitting needles with a sigh. She was still so many stitches away from finishing her fiftieth sweater and winning the Golden Needle Award. But it was time, and all that knitting had warmed up her fingers for the best part of her day. The princess’s morning pinch. As she walked down the winding hallways, Queen Purl thought of how much she looked forward to it. Placing her hand on the princess’s arm—as lightly as a butterfly landing on a leaf. Drawing her long fingers together in a barely visible movement. Gathering up the royal skin for the teensiest-weensiest tweak. Just enough to check that a princess this utterly perfect was indeed real (even though the queen already knew that she was). ‘It’s time,’ she called as she glided past the armoury, where the king was fretting over the blunt edge of his priceless sword. (Before that, he’d fretted over a spot of rust on his chainmail vest. And before that, he’d fretted over a dent in his battle shield.) 8

Twice upon a Time

‘Already?’ said the king, his worries vanishing as he thought of his daughter. He’d fallen hopelessly in love with her from the first moment he’d set eyes upon her. Skin as sheer as the finest silk; a chiselled nose that defied gravity; two points the colour of ripe mangoes where her cheeks rose up to meet her eyes. And those eyes—King Ferrlip felt his heart squeeze with affection—they were like the palace ponds on a moonlit night. It was true, the princess would never rule the kingdom because that was the work of a prince. The king’s moustache flared at the thought of princes; one day he would lose both his precious daughter and his precious kingdom to some charmer on a white horse who could bow gallantly and speak sweetly . . . And just like that, King Ferrlip’s worries returned. ‘Think of the princess,’ said the queen, reading his thoughts (and his twitching moustache) as they descended the spiral staircase. But as the royal parents sailed into Princess Keya’s chamber, her breakfast close on their heels, the princess waved everyone away. Why was Ayah always there when she awoke? Why was the door to her room open all the time? And why couldn’t she just burrow under the sheets for a little longer? She stared at the pink milk and shuddered. The drops of rose syrup on the kheer. The swan-shaped napkin. Pink again. 9

‘All princess stories are the same!’ But not this one. This is a story about two girls. Keya just happens to be a princess. Nyla just happens to be a tomboy. Both, as it turns out, just want to be themselves. When Princess Keya quits and Nyla shows up to replace her, two worlds collide. Together the girls ruffle dresses and feathers; break vases and traditions; fight dragons and boredom; grow roses and revolutions. So what if there are a few puny princes and snivelling snobs in the mix? Leave it to the girls to rescue everyone——and each other. Boisterous, over the top and wicked funny, this is the perfect princess book for girls who have outgrown princesses.

‘Gales of laughter and a sea of choices for today’s powerful princesses’ paro an an d

Fiction

Cover illustration by Sandhya Prabhat Cover design by Devangana Dash

MRP `199 (incl. of all taxes)