Category: Child of the River

Sugandha is the quiet heartbeat of the Prophesied Prince trilogy. I’m deep in Book Two right now, so I’m living in her world every day—and she’s definitely taken up long-term residence in my head.

When we first meet her in Child of the River, she’s grieving the loss of the only family she’s ever known: her grandfather.

“Sorrow and grief filled my heart when I realized I would receive no more guidance from my grandfather. I had never known my parents, and my grandfather had raised me from birth.

Usually, I would stir into wakefulness at this time of day. From my cot, I would hear my grandfather in the kitchen, pulling down pots, grinding an array of herbs, and brewing them.

Those small sounds would bring me peace, and I would snuggle into my sheets and close my eyes… He would grin at me as if I brightened his day just by existing, his wrinkled face glowing.”

One of my favorite chapters featuring her is Chapter 31 (Summer, Year 1). There’s a certain innocence to Sugandha there—one that still survives even as she’s fighting for her life. She stumbles through chaos guided only by instinct and heart, doing what she believes is right, even when she has no idea what’s really happening around her. That combination of bravery and bewilderment is exactly what makes her so compelling to write.

Book Two lets me deepen her dynamic with Atul. These two couldn’t be more different—each carrying their own scars, their own expectations, their own definitions of who they should be. Watching them learn to trust each other, challenge each other, and sometimes collide spectacularly has been one of the joys of drafting this book. This moment between them is from earlier in book two:

“Look at me,” I said, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Imagine what it would mean to master that power,” I said, my voice low. I let the oars still in my hands.

She clenched her jaw, then closed her eyes again. Her breath evened out, arms stretching forward as if reaching for something unseen. I waited. But the river stayed calm.

Then she gasped—clutching her throat like something had seized it—and coughed, harsh and broken.

“Nanda—”

“No.” Her voice came between sobs, ragged and raw. “Stop. You think you understand what it’s like—to carry this wild, flickering thing inside me—but you don’t. You can’t.”

This trilogy is, at its core, a coming-of-age story. Through Sugandha, I wanted to portray a deeply human young woman—strong yet unsure, resilient yet overwhelmed, someone whose magic feels as dangerous as it is wondrous. Her journey isn’t neat or easy, and it mirrors the hardships a girl on the run would face in a world shaped by myth, patriarchy, and the weight of expectations. These are truths often left unexplored in traditional Indian mythology, and Sugandha gives me the space to write into those gaps.

She grows slowly. She stumbles often. But she keeps trying.
And that, to me, is what makes her unforgettable.

Meet Atul — the Heir to Malla… just not by blood.

I feared that the men who revered me as the Heir to Malla would abandon me if they knew the truth about my birth. That was the reason I had urged my uncle, King Jay of Malla, to send me on this mission. Uncle Jay wanted me to wait until our soldiers had secured Kashgar, but I itched to prove myself.

Atul’s journey in Child of the River is a tangle of identity, duty, and the quiet ache of wanting to be enough. When his ships crossed the Nira Sea, he didn’t just bring soldiers—he carried the weight of his own questions about who he is… and who he desperately hopes to become.

One of my favorite moments to write is his exchange with the fake prince in Chapter 26 (Spring, Year 2). Those scenes crack Atul open a bit. The fake prince’s doubts mirror Atul’s own, and you see him slide into that big-brother role so naturally—steady, protective, and sometimes wiser than he realizes. And then, just as quickly, he’s unmistakably a teenager again: impulsive, earnest, and brave in ways that don’t always make sense but feel undeniably true.

Being Meera’s son (yes, that Meera from the Land of Magadha trilogy) gives me a chance to explore the complicated corners of his heart—respect tangled with resentment, admiration overshadowed by old hurt. His mother’s secrets shaped him, and in many ways, he’s still deciding what parts of that legacy he wants to claim.

Through Atul, I get to return to one of my favorite questions: What truly makes a good ruler? Birthright? Choice? Sacrifice? Something quieter and harder to name?

Atul doesn’t have the answers yet—but he’s determined to earn them.