When the Jaipur police broke down the door of a locked room in the Singh Palace on the morning of April 23rd, 2013, they found the body of a 29-year-old woman on the floor. She was European with blonde hair wearing a silk sari. Her eyes were open and there were blue marks on her neck from fingers. Death was caused by asphixxiation, strangulation by hand.
On her wrist was a gold bracelet engraved with Princess Emma Singh. There were no surveillance cameras in the room. The 17th century palace was not equipped with a modern security system in the private quarters. The only witness was a 25-year-old maid, Priya, who heard screams last night but was afraid to enter.
The deceased’s husband, Prince Raj Singh, heir to the Maharaja, claimed that his wife died of a heart attack. The family doctor confirmed this. The body was cremated 12 hours later. The ashes were scattered over the sacred river. The evidence was gone forever. Emma Larson was born on June 23rd, 1983 in the small Swedish town of Vestros to a family of a machine factory worker and a district hospital nurse.
It was a typical middle-ass family, a two- room apartment in a pre-fabricated building, one vacation a year on the Swedish coast. No extravagances. Emma was an only child. She was tall, 5’9″, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and regular features. At 14, she was spotted by a modeling agency scout in a shopping mall.
He suggested she try her hand at modeling. Her parents were skeptical, but Emma had a dream. fashion magazines, catwalks, travel, money, fame, everything that was missing from her dull life in Westeros. At 18, right after graduating from school, she moved to Stockholm and signed a contract with Nordic Models. It was a small agency, not a top one, but it had connections.
She worked actively for the first two years, shoots for H&M cataloges and other mass market brands, several appearances in Swedish glossy magazines, a couple of shows at Copenhagen Fashion Week. She earned a decent amount by ordinary standards, about $30 to $40,000 a year. But for the modeling business, that was average.
The problem was that Emma was not unique. Scandinavia produces hundreds of beautiful blondes every year. International agencies were looking for something special. Either exotic looks, a height of over 1.80 m, or connections. Emma had none of these things. By the age of 25, the flow of work began to dry up.
The agency increasingly offered shoots for minor brands and work at corporate events as a promotional model. She was making money, but her career was stagnating. Emma understood that in another 2 or 3 years, she would be out of the industry. Age is ruthless in the modeling business. In the summer of 2010, in mid July, the agency offered Emma a job at a charity party in Monaco.
The organizers were looking for models for a photo shoot. The pay was modest, €2,000 for 3 days of work, but the trip was paid for by the company. Accommodation was in a four-star hotel, and there was an opportunity to make useful contacts. Emma agreed. Monaco meant rich people, and maybe someone would notice her and offer her something better.
The main party took place on July 18th on a 70 m yacht owned by a Qatari businessman. The yacht was estimated to be worth $50 million. The guests included European aristocrats, Middle Eastern shakes, Russian oligarchs, soccer club owners, second tier actors, and models. Emma was there as part of the decor, smiling for photographers, holding a glass of champagne, and engaging in light conversation. It was a typical job.
Around midnight, a man approached her. He was short, about 5’7, stocky with dark skin, black hair stre with gray, and a mustache typical of South Asians. He was about 45 years old. He was dressed expensively, a dark blue bion suit, a white shirt, and a PC Philippe watch, a model that cost more than $120,000.
On his right hand, he wore a massive gold ring with a coat of arms engraved on a large ruby. He introduced himself. Raj Singh, Jaiper, India. He had a British accent and was clearly well educated. A conversation ensued. Raj was polite, asking questions about Emma’s work, her life in Sweden, and her plans. He listened attentively, didn’t interrupt, and maintained eye contact.
Emma, who was used to men at such events only looking at her cleavage and hinting at her hotel room number was surprised. This man behaved like an old school gentleman. They talked for about an hour. Raj told her a little about himself, the only son of a Maharaja from Rajasthan, educated at Oxford, managing the family business, real estate, hotels, land holdings.
He mentioned in passing that his family owned an 18th century palace. At the end of the evening, he suggested they meet for lunch the next day. Emma agreed. They saw each other everyday for the next 6 days. Micheland starred restaurants, walks along the waterfront, a helicopter ride along the coast. Raj was generous. He gave her flowers, a Cardier bracelet worth €8,000, and paid all the bills.
But he kept his distance, did not insist on physical intimacy, did not invite her to his room. He behaved like a man who was courting her with serious intentions. On July 24th, the last evening before Emma’s departure for Stockholm, Raj invited her to dinner in his room at the Hermitage Hotel, a suite overlooking the casino, bleak interior, terrace with panoramic views of Monte Carlo.
Dinner was brought from Luia Thu restaurant. Oysters, black caviar, truffles, lobster, chat margo, wine from 1997. The bottle cost about €4,000. After dinner, when the waiters had cleared the table and left them alone, Raj poured some Remy Martan Louis cognac. He sat down opposite Emma and looked her straight in the eye.
He said, “Emma, I have a proposal for you. A business proposal. Listen to the end, then decide.” He took an envelope out of his jacket’s inside pocket. Creamcolored paper embossed with gold. He handed it to Emma. She opened it. Inside was a three-page document printed in English titled Preliminary Marriage Agreement.
Raj began to explain in a calm business-like tone as if he were proposing an investment project. I am offering you to become my wife. The contract is for 5 years. You will live in my residence in Jaipur, bear the title of Princess Singh. Accompany me to public events and represent our family in society. You will have a comfortable life, personal servants, an unlimited budget for clothes and personal expenses, travel.
You will not be required to perform marital duties in the traditional sense. We will share our public life, but your private life will remain your own. After 5 years, provided that all the terms of the contract are fulfilled, I will pay you $2 million. The divorce will be finalized by mutual agreement with no claims on either side. Emma sat silently digesting what she had heard.
Raj continued, “I understand this sounds unusual, but such agreements are not uncommon in certain circles. My family needs a wife of European descent to strengthen international ties. The old dynasties of Rajasthan are losing influence and ties with the British crown have weakened since India’s independence. A European wife will raise our status and attract the attention of Western investors to our projects.
You need financial stability and the opportunity to secure your future. This is a mutually beneficial partnership. Emma found her voice. Are you offering to buy me? Raj shook his head. I am offering a business partnership. You are an intelligent woman. You understand how the world works. Marriages of convenience have existed for thousands of years.
The difference is that I am offering honest, open terms with clear deadlines and payment. $2 million for 5 years. That’s more than you’ll earn in your entire modeling career. Think about it. Emma asked him to leave the document, saying she needed time. Raj agreed and didn’t insist. He gave her his phone number and said, “Call me when you decide. I’ll be waiting.
” He walked her to her car and kissed her hand goodbye like a 19th century gentleman. Emma returned to Stockholm on July 25th. She spent the next 2 weeks thinking. She reread the document dozens of times. She showed it to a close friend who worked as a lawyer for an international corporation. Her friend studied it and said, “Technically, it’s legal.
It’s a prenuptual agreement with clear terms. These exist, especially among very wealthy people. If everything is done correctly through a notary and lawyers, it’s a legitimate deal. The only question is ethical. Are you willing to sell 5 years of your life?” Emma thought about the numbers. $2 million.
at the current exchange rate that’s about 14 million Swedish croner. With that money, she could buy an apartment in central Stockholm, invest in a business, provide for her parents, who had worked their whole lives for pennies. 5 years isn’t that long from 27 to 32. After the divorce, she would still be young with money, the title of former princess, and connections in high society.
she could start a new life with a clean slate. On August 5th, 2010, Emma called Raj. She said, “I agree, but I want my lawyer to review the contract.” Raj replied, “Of course. I’ll send you the full version of the contract. Your lawyer can make any changes. We’ll discuss it.” 3 days later, DHL delivered a package, a 20page contract written in English in legal language stamped by an Indian law firm. Emma took it to her lawyer.
He studied it for a week, consulted with colleagues specializing in international law. He returned with his conclusion. The contract is professionally drafted. The terms are clear. The main points are the marriage is registered under Indian law. The term is 5 years. You agree to live in your husband’s residence in Jaipur for at least 9 months a year, participate in public family events, uphold the reputation of the dynasty, and not disclose the details of the contract to third parties.
In exchange, you receive maintenance, a personal budget of $50,000 a year for personal expenses, and international level medical insurance. After 5 years, he pays $2 million in a lump sum and the divorce is processed through a simplified procedure. There is a clause about children. If a child is born during the marriage, he or she will remain with the father’s family and you will receive additional compensation of $500,000.
If you violate the terms of the contract, disclosure, infidelity, damage to the family’s reputation, the payment will be cancelled. If he violates it, non-payment of the promised amount, physical violence, you are entitled to double compensation through international arbitration. The lawyer added, “I recommend adding a clause about the right to leave the country without the consent of your spouse and retain your Swedish citizenship.
Also, a clause stating that any changes to the terms require your written consent.” Emma agreed. The lawyer contacted the Indian side and conducted negotiations. 2 weeks later, the final version of the contract with amendments was prepared. On August 25th, 2010, Raj flew to London. He invited Emma to join him there.
They rented a room in a neutral location, the office of an international law firm in the city of London. Present were Raj, Emma, two lawyers from each side, and a notary. They read the contract aloud in English, clause by clause. Emma was asked questions. Did she understand the terms? Was she entering into the agreement voluntarily? Was she being coerced? She answered yes to every question.
They signed three copies and had them notorized. Raj took out his checkbook and wrote a check for $100,000 to Emma. He said, “An advance, a sign of goodwill.” He handed it across the table. Emma took the check and looked at the numbers. $100,000, more than she had earned in 2 years of modeling. It was real.
She had just sold 5 years of her life to a stranger. Adrenaline, fear, and excitement mixed into one feeling. The wedding was set for September 20th, 20110. Emma returned to Stockholm and told her parents. Her mother cried, unable to understand. Do you love him? You hardly know him. Emma couldn’t tell the truth about the contract.
She said what she had agreed with Raj. We fell in love. He’s a prince. He has a palace. He proposed. I accepted. It’s like a fairy tale. Her father was silent, looking skeptical, but he didn’t argue. What could he say? His daughter was an adult and made her own decisions. On September 15th, Emma flew to Delhi on an Air India flight.
Raj met her at the airport with security and a driver. He took her to Jaipur, 400 km to the northwest. They drove for 5 hours on Indian roads. Chaos, trucks, motorcycles with entire families, cows on the road, dirt, poverty along the highway. Emma looked out the window trying to comprehend that she would be spending the next 5 years here.
Jaipur is the city of Pink Stone, the capital of Rajasthan with a population of 3 and a half million. old forts on the hills, Maharaja’s palaces, bizaars, temples. The car drove through the gates into the old city, wound its way through the narrow streets, and stopped in front of massive carved gates. The guards opened them.
Behind the gates was the Singh Palace, Heli, as such mansions are called in Rajasthan. A three-story building made of pink sandstone built in 1784. An inner courtyard with a fountain, arches with carved columns, fresco on the walls depicting hunting scenes and battle scenes of Rajput warriors, 40 rooms. According to Raja, the family’s private quarters, guest rooms, reception halls, a library, and a prayer room.
About 20 servants, gardeners, cooks, cleaners, security guards. Raja led Emma inside. An old man was waiting for them in the main hall. Maharaja Vikram Singh, Raja’s father, 78 years old, tall, thin, with gray hair and beard, dressed in traditional clothing, a white korta and doty.
He leaned on a cane with a silver knob. His eyes were sharp and probing. He looked Emma up and down making no attempt to hide his assessment. He said something in Hindi. Raj translated, “Father says, you are beautiful. You will bring good luck to our family.” Emma was shown to her rooms on the second floor, a spacious bedroom with high ceilings, antique furniture, and a balcony overlooking the courtyard.
The adjoining room was a dressing room, and the bathroom was finished in marble. Luxurious by Indian standards, but archaic. There was no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan. The plumbing was old and the water flowed intermittently. There were damp patches on the walls. Emma realized that the palace looked majestic from the outside, but inside it was falling apart due to time and a lack of money for repairs.
The wedding began on the evening of September 19th and lasted 3 days. It was a traditional Hindu ceremony which seemed endless to Emma. There were more than 500 guests. the Raja’s relatives, local aristocrats, state politicians, businessmen, and land owners. Emma’s parents were also invited, and their tickets and accommodation were paid for.
Her mother and father sat lost among Indians in sars and turbans, not understanding what was going on. Emma spent the first day in the hands of stylists. She was dressed in a traditional red and gold wedding sari, hand embroidered and encrusted with tiny Swarovski crystals. The outfit cost $80,000. She was told, jewelry from the Singh family collection, a gold necklace with emeralds weighing about a kilogram, bracelets on both hands, earrings, a tiara on her forehead, and rings on her toes.
The total weight of the gold was about 2 kg. It took 5 hours to do her makeup and hair. Emma was adorned like an idol in a temple. The ceremony took place in the palace courtyard under the open sky. A mandap was set up. A ceremonial canopy made of red and gold fabric decorated with flowers. Under the canopy was a sacred fire in a copper bowl.
Brahinss and white doties recited mantras in Sanskrit, sprinkled rice and ghee into the fire and rang bells. Emma sat next to Raj on silk cushions, mechanically repeating the actions whispered to her by the translators. Stand up, sit down, take his hand, walk around the fire seven times, tie the ends of her clothes to her groom.
The rituals lasted 6 hours. Emma didn’t understand anything. She just followed instructions and smiled for the photographers. Raj was dressed in the ceremonial attire of a Maharaja, a gold embroidered sherwani, silk trousers, a turban with precious stones, and a peacock feather sultan.
The sword in its sheath on his belt was ceremonial but real. A family heirloom, he looked like a character from a historical film. He kept his distance, said the necessary words, performed the rituals, but without emotion. It was a deal, a contract, and he was doing his part. After the ceremony, there was a banquet for a thousand people.
Tables were set up in the courtyard, on the roof, and in the palace halls. The food consisted of dozens of traditional Rajasthani dishes from spicy curries to condensed milk suites. Musicians played the sitar and tabla, and dancers performed classical dances. Fireworks lit up the sky over Jaipur at midnight. Hundreds of strangers congratulated Emma, calling her princess and touching her feet as a sign of respect.
She smiled and nodded, not understanding a word of what they were saying in Hindi. The wedding night was a formality. The Raja took her to the bedroom and closed the door. They stood in silence. Then he said, “You’re tired. Go to bed. I’ll go back to the guests. He left. Emma was left alone, took off her heavy jewelry, and collapsed onto the bed.
She realized that he was not going to share her bed. The contract did not require physical intimacy, and he did not pretend otherwise. The first months of her life in the palace were strange. Emma woke up in a huge room. The servants brought her breakfast and asked what clothes to prepare. She had her own wardrobe, dozens of sars, jewelry, shoes, a personal budget of $50,000 a year as promised, but there was nothing to spend it on. Jaipur is not Paris.
The shop sold textiles, spices, souvenirs for tourists. There were no luxury boutiques. Raj rarely appeared. He ate breakfast separately and spent his days in the office managing the family business. He had dinner with Emma once a week to discuss formalities, what events to attend, what clothes to wear, how to behave.
The rest of the time she was left to her own devices. She read, watched movies on the internet, and walked around the palace. She was bored to death. The old Maharaja, Raja’s father, kept his distance. He spent his days in his prayer room, received visits from old friends, and hardly ever left his chambers. Emma saw him once a month at family dinners.
He looked at her as if she were a curiosity, sometimes asking questions through an interpreter, where she was from, what she thought of India. Emma answered politely, feeling like an exhibit in a museum. Public events began 3 months later. Raj took Emma to a charity evening in Delhi where money was being raised for a children’s hospital. Emma wore a sari by an Indian designer.
Jewelry and her hair was done. She was introduced as Princess Singh, wife of the Maharaja’s heir. Photographers took pictures, journalists asked questions. Emma smiled and recited prepared phrases about how happy she was in India and how delighted she was with the culture. Raj stood next to her holding her hand for the cameras and playing the role of the loving husband.
After the event in the car, he said, “You did well. Keep it up. We need society to see us as the perfect couple.” Emma nodded. Work. She was fulfilling her part of the contract. There were 10 to 12 such events a year. parties, charity auctions, hotel openings, weddings of other aristocratic famil family’s children.
Emma was always dressed to the nines, smiling with Raj’s arm around her waist for photos. The rest of the time they lived like roommates, greeting each other in the hallway, eating dinner in silence, sleeping in separate rooms. Raj initiated physical intimacy about once a month. He would come to her room late at night and say, “I need it.
” It was mechanical, emotionless, and lasted about 10 minutes. Emma lay with her eyes closed, waiting for it to end. Afterwards, he would get up, get dressed, and leave without saying goodbye. The contract did not require sex, but Raj apparently believed it was necessary to maintain the appearance of a normal marriage.
Emma did not protest. It was part of the deal, although not explicitly stated. A year later, in September 2011, Emma tried to get pregnant, not because she wanted a child, but because of the calculation. The contract included a clause for an additional $500,000 upon the birth of an heir. This would increase her payment to 2.5 million.
She stopped taking birth control pills without telling Raj, but nothing happened. Either she was physiologically unable to conceive from him or the frequency of their contact was too low. After 6 months, she gave up and went back on the pill. Life went on slowly. Emma called her parents in Sweden once a week and told them that everything was fine. Her mother asked if she was happy.
Emma lied. Yes, she was happy. She sent photos, her in a sari in front of the palace, her with Raj at a reception, her smiling. Her parents saw what she wanted them to see. The reality was different. Loneliness, boredom, the feeling that life was passing her by. In December 2012, in the third year of her marriage, an event occurred that changed everything.
The old Maharaja Raj’s father died. He was 78 years old, dying of old age and heart failure. Emma found out in the morning when the servants came running with cries. She went downstairs and saw Raj sitting next to his father’s body in the prayer room. The old man lay on the floor on a white cloth, his hands folded on his chest. Raj sat motionless beside him, staring into space.
The funeral was held according to Hindu tradition. The body was cremated on the banks of the sacred Ganges river 300 km away. Raj himself lit the funeral p as required by the ritual for the eldest son. He stood watching as the flames consumed his father’s body. His face was stony without tears. Emma stood at a distance surrounded by the women of the family who were wailing and crying. She did not cry.
She did not know the old man and felt no grief. After the funeral, Raj became the head of the family and the official heir to the title of Maharaja. The title was symbolic. After India gained independence in 1947, the Maharajas lost their political power but retained their social status and wealth. Raj was now the Maharaja of the sings, the head of the dynasty, the guardian of traditions and he changed.
In the first weeks after his father’s death, Raj stopped leaving the palace. He canceled all business meetings and handed over the management of the business to trusted managers. He spent his days in his father’s prayer room reading ancient texts in Sanskrit. He invited brahinss, Hindu priests who performed daily rituals, recited mantras and burned incense.
The palace was filled with the smell of incense and melted butter. Emma saw him gradually sink into religious fanaticism. He grew a beard and wore a rudracha, a necklace made from the seeds of a sacred tree worn by aesthetics. He stopped eating meat and switched to a strict vegetarian diet.
He woke up at 4:00 in the morning to pray and spent hours meditating. Emma tried to talk to him asking what was going on. He replied, “I am discovering the true path. My father showed me how I had strayed. I betrayed tradition for Western values. Now I will return to my roots.” In March 2013, 3 months after his father’s death, Raj summoned Emma to the library.
She entered He was sitting at a massive wooden table with an open book in front of him. It was old. Its pages yellowed. The text was in Sanskrit. Raj looked at Emma. His eyes burned with fanatical fervor. He said, “Sit down. We need to talk.” Emma sat down opposite him, feeling uneasy. Raj began to speak slowly and clearly. You are my wife.
According to the laws of our ancestors, a wife is part of her husband. When a husband dies, his wife is obliged to follow him into the afterlife. This is called sati. Emma knew that word. Sati is an ancient Hindu tradition of widows burning themselves on their husband’s funeral ps.
It was banned by the British colonial authorities in 1829 and criminalized by Indian law. The last recorded cases were in the 20th century in remote villages and caused scandals. She asked again, “Sati, what are you talking about?” Raj continued, “My father has died. You are my wife. Therefore, you must follow him by performing a purification ritual.
This will cleanse our family’s karma and bring the blessings of our ancestors.” Emma couldn’t believe her ears. Your father died 3 months ago. I am not your property. Sati has been illegal in India since the 18th century. Are you out of your mind? Raj did not raise his voice, speaking calmly like a teacher explaining to a student.
The law is for ordinary people. We are royalty. Tradition is above the law. Our ancestors have practiced sati for hundreds of years. It is an honor for a woman to die with her husband or his father if her husband is still alive. It shows her devotion. Emma stood up, blood pounding in her temples.
I’m not going to burn myself for your dead father. This is madness. We have a contract. Two more years and I’m free. Raj closed the book and looked at her coldly. Contracts are a western invention. I was blind when I signed it. Now I see clearly. You are not here under contract. You are here as my wife according to the laws of Dharma and you will fulfill your duty.
Emma turned and ran for the door. Raj’s hand grabbed her wrist and squeezed painfully. She tried to break free but he held her tight. He said, “Don’t make me use force. You have time to think. The ceremony will be held in 7 days. Get ready.” He let go. Emma ran out of the library, went up to her room, and locked herself in.
She was shaking, unable to believe this was happening. He wasn’t joking. The fanaticism in his eyes was real. He believed what he was saying. She grabbed her phone and tried to call the Swedish consulate in Delhi. The number didn’t go through. She checked her phone. No signal. She tried the internet on her laptop. It didn’t work. She went to the door and tried to open it. It was locked from the outside.
She was trapped. Emma spent the first night trying to find a way out. The door was locked from the outside with a massive bolt. She could hear the metal creaking when she tried to push the handle. The windows of her room faced the courtyard on the second floor about 6 m high. It would be impossible to jump without injury.
Guards patrolled below. Two men with flashlights making their rounds every half hour. She tried shouting out the window, calling for help. The guards looked up, exchanged glances, and continued their patrol. They knew they had been ordered to ignore her cries. The next morning, March 16th, 2013, there was a knock at the door.
A woman’s voice in broken English said, “Princess, breakfast.” A tray was slipped through the crack at the bottom of the door. Emma waited until the footsteps had faded away, then picked up the tray. Rice, vegetable curry, choppity flatbread, tea, the usual fair. She didn’t touch it, afraid that the food might be poisoned or laced with sleeping pills.
But by evening, hunger got the better of her. She ate a little rice and drank water from the jug. Nothing happened. They were just keeping her locked up. The days blurred into monotony. Food was served three times a day through a slot in the door. Twice a day, a maid, an elderly woman, came to change the sheets and take out the chamber pot.
Emma tried to talk to her to ask for help. The maid shook her head, looked away, muttered something reassuring in Hindi and left quickly. She was afraid or she had been instructed to remain silent. Emma heard sounds behind the door, footsteps, voices, sometimes singing in Sanskrit, Brahmans were performing rituals somewhere nearby. She listened.
Mantras, the ringing of bells, the smell of incense seeping through the cracks. They were preparing her for death as one prepares a sacrifice. On the third day, March 18th, Emma heard a new sound. The rhythmic scraping of metal on stone behind the wall of her room. They were building something. She pressed her ear to the wall and listened.
Hammer blows, men’s voices giving orders. After a few hours, everything fell silent. She didn’t understand what they were doing, but her anxiety grew. The fourth day, March 19th. Emma sat by the window looking out at the courtyard. She saw firewood being brought into the courtyard. Lots of firewood. Men in white doties stacked it neatly in the center of the courtyard.
A pyramid about a meter high and 2 m in diameter. A funeral p. She realized that Raj wasn’t bluffing. He really was going to burn her. Panic overwhelmed her. Emma began banging on the door, shouting, “Help! Someone! He wants to kill me! Call the police!” she shouted until she was horsearo. No one came, only the echo in the empty corridors of the palace.
The fifth day, March 20th. In the morning, the door opened. Two women she didn’t know, dressed in traditional sars, entered. One was carrying a tray of food, the other a jug of water. They set the tray on the table and turned to leave. Emma rushed to the door and tried to run out. The guard outside, a large man with a mustache, grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back into the room.
His strength was immense. Emma fell to the floor. The door slammed shut. The lock clicked. She sat on the floor and cried. For the first time in days, she allowed herself to break down. Before that, she had held on, tried to think rationally, look for a way out. But there was no way out.
She was in the middle of India in a private palace, surrounded by people loyal to the Raj. No one knew she was in danger. Her parents in Sweden thought she was fine. She had last called them two weeks ago, saying she was busy and would call back later. The sixth day, March 21st. In the evening, the door opened again. Raj entered alone without guards.
Emma sat on the bed looking at him. He looked calm, peaceful. His beard was trimmed. He wore a white quarta and sandals. In his hands, he held a scroll, old paper covered with Sanskrit writing. He approached and sat down on a chair opposite her. He said softly. Emma, tomorrow the ceremony is at dawn. You have one last chance. Agree voluntarily.
It will be an honorable death. The brahinss will perform the right correctly. You will depart in peace. Your soul will be reborn into a high cast. It is a blessing. Emma looked at him unable to believe that this was the man with whom she had signed a contract 3 years ago. The civilized Oxford educated businessman had turned into a religious madman.
She found her voice from screaming, “Raj, this is murder. Do you understand? You will kill me. The law will punish you. Sweden will demand an investigation. You won’t be able to hide it.” Raj shook his head. The law won’t get me. This is my land, my palace, my family. The local police won’t dare come here without an invitation.
The politicians of Rajasthan are connected to us. Your death will be recorded as natural heart failure. The doctor will sign the report. You will be cremated according to Hindu rights. Your family will receive compensation and condolences. Everything will be clean. Emma stood up, came closer, looked him in the eyes. I won’t burn myself.
No way. If you want to kill me, you’ll have to do it by force. And then there will be signs of a struggle on my body. The doctor won’t be able to hide it. Raj stood up, his face hardening. Then you will die a criminal. Renouncing dharma is a sin. Your soul will be cursed. He turned and walked to the door.
At the threshold, he turned around. Dawn, get ready. The door closed. Emma was left alone the last night. She didn’t sleep. She sat by the window looking at the stars. She thought about her parents who would never know the truth. About how greed had brought her here. $2 million had seemed so important 3 years ago. Now they meant nothing. Life was priceless.
She realized this too late. On the morning of April 22nd, 2013, an hour before dawn, the door opened. The same two women entered. They brought a sari, white, the color of mourning and death in the Hindu tradition. They laid it on the bed and gestured for her to put it on. Emma didn’t move. The women exchanged glances and left.
A minute later, a guard entered. He was large, the same one who had pushed her yesterday. he said in broken English, “Get dressed or I’ll help you.” The threat was clear. Emma took the sari and went behind the screen. She put it on mechanically, her hands shaking. The fabric was white, plain, without decoration, a shroud.
She came out. The guard nodded and pointed to the door. She walked. He followed her, his hand on her shoulder, pushing her forward. They led her down the corridor down the stairs into the main hall. People had gathered there about 20 people, brahinss and white doties, the raja’s relatives, servants.
Raj stood in the center. Next to him, the chief brahman, an old man with a long gray beard. Everyone looked at Emma silently. Raj approached, took her by the hand, led her to the exit to the courtyard. Emma tried to break free. The guard behind her pushed harder. They went out into the courtyard. The sun had not yet risen. The sky was gray pre-dawn.
In the center of the courtyard was a bonfire made of wood stacked the day before. Nearby was a copper bowl with oil and a torch. Raj led her to the bonfire. The Brahman began to chant mantras, his voice monotonous and rhythmic. Other brahinss joined in and the singing surrounded them. Emma stood there unable to believe that this was really happening.
Now they would force her to lie down on the wood, pour oil over her, and set her on fire. They would burn her alive. Raj leaned over and whispered in her ear. One last time, lie down yourself. It’s easier that way. Emma spat in his face. The saliva landed on his cheek. Raj froze, his face contorted with rage.
He wiped the saliva with his hand and looked at her with hatred. Then his hands grabbed her by the throat. He squeezed. His thumbs were on her larynx, the rest on the back of her head. He squeezed hard. Emma tried to breathe but couldn’t. The air wouldn’t pass. She scratched his hands, trying to pull them away.
He held her tight, his face inches from hers, his eyes crazy. She could hear the brahinss continuing to sing as if nothing was happening. Her vision began to darken. Her lungs burned. She tried to hit him, but she had no strength. Her knees buckled. He continued to strangle her methodically, professionally. 4 minutes. Emma stopped resisting.
Her arms fell. Her body went limp. Raj held on for another half minute to make sure. Then he released his grip. Emma fell to the ground. She lay motionless, her face blue, her eyes open and glassy, dead. Raj straightened up and looked at his hands. They were shaking. He slowly realized what he had done.
He had killed her with his own hands, not with ritual fire as he had planned. He had killed her in a fit of rage. The brahinss fell silent. Silence. Everyone stared at the body. Raj commanded the guard, “Take her back to the room quickly.” The guard lifted the body and carried it inside the palace. Raj followed.
Priya, a 25-year-old maid, stood in the shadow of the arcade and watched everything. She saw the prince strangle his wife. She heard the crunch. She saw the body being carried away. She pressed herself against the wall, shaking with fear. She shouldn’t have seen it, but she did. An hour later, Raj called the family doctor. Dr.
Ma, a 60-year-old man who had been treating the Singh family for 20 years, arrived quickly. Raj led him into the room where Emma’s body lay on the bed. The doctor examined her. He saw bruises on her neck, characteristic of strangulation. He looked at Raj questioningly. Raj said calmly. She died of a heart attack. Right up the report.
The doctor hesitated. Maharaja the marks on her neck. Raja interrupted him. She fell and hit the edge of the bed after the heart attack. Write that down. He took out an envelope and put it on the table. It was a thick envelope clearly containing money. The doctor looked at the envelope, then at the body, then at Raj. He took the envelope.
He wrote the conclusion. Acute heart failure. Death occurred at 5:30 a.m. on April 22nd, 2013. He signed it and stamped it. At 10:00 in the morning, Emma’s body was taken to the crematorium. The private crematorium owned by the Singh family was used to cremate members of the dynasty. Raj personally supervised the process.
The body was placed on a wooden platform covered with a white cloth and doused with melted butter. The Brahman read a short prayer. Raj set at a light. The fire engulfed the body in seconds. The cremation lasted 4 hours. By 2:00 in the afternoon, only ashes remained. They were collected in a copper ern.
The next day, April 23rd, Raj took the ern to the Ganges River and scattered the ashes over the water. Tradition: Emma’s body no longer existed. The evidence was gone. On the same day, April 23rd, Raj called Stockholm. He contacted Emma’s parents. Ingred Larson picked up the phone. She heard a voice with an accent. Mrs.
Larson, this is Raj Singh, your daughter’s husband. I have sad news. Emma died yesterday morning of a heart attack. It was sudden. The doctors couldn’t save her. My condolences. Ingrid couldn’t speak. Her husband took the phone and asked for details. Raj explained that it was acute heart failure and that the body had been cremated according to Hindu rights as is customary for members of the Singh family.
The ashes were scattered over the sacred river. He expressed his deep sorrow, saying that he loved Emma and that this was a tremendous loss. Emma’s father asked if he could see the medical report and speak with the doctor. Raj said, “Of course, he would send a copy of the report. He added, “As a sign of respect and support, I am transferring $500,000 to you for expenses related to the funeral.
It is the least I can do.” The parents were in shock. Their daughter was dead. There was no body. Only the words of a stranger on the phone. But what could they do? India was far away. The laws were different. The traditions were incomprehensible. A week later, the transfer arrived. $500,000 to the Larsson account along with an official letter from the palace expressing condolences and a copy of Dr.
Ma’s medical report. Seal signature. Everything was in order. Ingred didn’t believe it. A mother’s intuition. Emma was healthy, young, 29 years old. Never complained about her heart. A heart attack. Out of nowhere. She contacted the Swedish Foreign Ministry and demanded an investigation. The Foreign Ministry requested information from the Indian side.
The Indian government replied that the death had been investigated by the local police recognized as natural and the body cremated according to the religious traditions of the deceased’s family. The case was closed. Ingrid did not give up. She hired a private detective in India. He went to Jaipur and tried to gain access to the Singh Palace.
He was refused. He tried to interview local residents. No one would talk. The Singh family is influential and everyone is afraid. The detective returned empty-handed. Months passed. Ingred wrote letters to human rights organizations, the UN, and the European Court of Justice. Everyone sympathized, but no one could do anything.
There was no body, no evidence of a crime, only the suspicions of a griefstricken mother. A breakthrough came a year later. In May 2014, Priya, the maid who had witnessed the murder, could no longer remain silent. She quit her job at the Singh Palace and left for Delhi. She worked as a maid in a hotel, lived in a small room and was afraid.
But her conscience would not let her rest. She had seen the prince strangle his wife. She saw the body being carried away. She knew it was murder. She contacted the human rights organization Women of India which dealt with cases of domestic violence. She asked for a meeting. She was received by activist Arandati Roy, a well-known women’s rights activist.
Priya told her everything. The contract she had heard about from other servants. Emma’s confinement, the demand for Sati, the murder at the hands of the prince in the courtyard at dawn. Arandati recorded her testimony on a dictaphone. She realized that this was a huge case. If the story was true, it was not just murder.
It was the revival of Sati, a banned ritual, a scandal of national proportions. She contacted a journalist from the Hindu, India’s largest English language newspaper. The journalist, Sanjay Kumar, took on the investigation. He traveled to Jaipur, interviewed Priya in detail and recorded it on video. He tried to interview other palace servants.
Most refused to talk, but one who had already been fired confirmed, “Yes, the princess had been locked up for the last week. Yes, a py had been built in the courtyard. Yes, on the morning of April 22nd, she had been seen carrying a dead body into the house.” Sanjay found Dr. Meta. The doctor refused to give an interview, saying he was bound by medical confidentiality.
But the journalist hinted that if the case went to court, the doctor would be called as a witness and then he would not be able to remain silent. Ma was frightened, but he did not change his testimony. In July 2014, the Hindu published a front page article. Swedish princess strangled in Rajasthan Palace for refusing to commit sati.
The article included a photo of Emma, details of the contract, Priya’s testimony, and the opinions of human rights experts. A scandal erupted. International media outlets picked up the story. BBC, CNN, The Guardian. Prince Murderer Sati in the 21st century contract for death. Feminist organizations across India took to the streets demanding the arrest of Raja Singh.
The Swedish government officially demanded that India conduct an investigation and deliver justice. Under international pressure, the Rajasthan police were forced to act. On July 23rd, 2014, a police squad arrived at the Singh’s palace. They had an arrest warrant for Raj Singh on charges of murder. Raj surrendered without resistance.
He was taken to Jaipur prison. The investigation began. Priya, other servants, the doctor and relatives were questioned. The palace and the courtyard where the murder took place were examined. But a year and a half had passed. The traces had been washed away by the rains and the witnesses changed their testimony under pressure from the Singh family.
The trial began in December 2014. It lasted 2 years. Priya was a key witness for the prosecution. She testified that she saw Raj strangling Emma with her own eyes. She saw the body. Raj’s lawyers attacked her viciously. They pointed out that she was from a low cast, a dullet and untouchable. Her testimony could not be trusted.
She was upset that she had been fired. She was seeking revenge. The Indian court system is still permeated with cast prejudices. The judges listened but they had their doubts. Dr. Meta refused to change his testimony. He insisted heart attack under oath. The prosecutor tried to prove that the doctor had been bribed, but there was no direct evidence.
No one saw the envelope with the money except the doctor and Raj. The main problem, there is no body. There is no forensic evidence to confirm strangulation, only the maid’s words against the princes. Raj’s lawyers built their defense. Emma really did die of a heart attack that happened during her morning walk in the courtyard.
Raj tried to save her, performed CPR, which is why there were marks on her neck. It didn’t help. In his grief, he cremated his wife according to tradition. Everything was legal. In November 2016, the court delivered its verdict. Raj Singh was acquitted due to lack of evidence. The judge announced that Priya’s testimony was contradictory and not corroborated by independent sources.
The medical report indicated a natural death and the absence of the body made it impossible to establish the exact cause of death. The charge was not proven beyond a reasonable doubt. The courtroom erupted in shouts. Activists chanted, “The murderer is free.” Emma’s mother, Ingred, who had flown to India for the trial, wept.
Raj left the courtroom a free man. He returned to his palace, a triumphant victor. To smooth over the international scandal, the Indian government offered Emma’s family compensation, $3 million for moral damages on one condition, to stop public accusations, not to appeal, and to close the case. Emma’s parents, exhausted by the 2-year trial, agreed. They took the money.
They returned to Sweden. They buried an empty coffin in the Vestro Cemetery. On the gravestone Emma Larson 1983 2013 Beloved daughter In December 2016 a month after Raj’s acquitt Priya disappeared she lived in Delhi rented an apartment and worked for an NGO that helped victims of domestic violence.
On the evening of December 21st she left the office, got into a rickshaw and went home. No one has seen her since. The police found the rickshaw the next day abandoned in an industrial area. The driver had disappeared. There were no signs of a struggle in Priya’s apartment. She just disappeared. The search continued for 2 weeks.
Neither her body nor any traces of her were found. Activists claimed that she had been killed by Raj Singh’s people. Revenge for her testimony. A warning to others who dare to speak out against influential families. The police denied this. They said she may have left voluntarily, hiding from the media. The case was registered but not actively investigated.
Arundati Roy, a human rights activist, gave an interview. Priya was a brave woman. She risked her life by telling the truth. The system betrayed her. The court acquitted the murderer. Now she is probably dead. This is a message to all women in India. Keep quiet or pay the price.
Raj Singh refused to comment on Priya’s disappearance. His lawyer issued a statement. Mayharaja Singh has nothing to do with the witness’s disappearance. This is an attempt by activists to tarnish his name after he was justly acquitted by the court. Today, years later, Raj Singh lives in his palace in Jaipur. He is 62 years old.
He is not married. He runs the family business. He leads a secluded life and rarely appears in public. Local residents avoid the palace, saying it is cursed. Tourists who come to Jaipur do not know this story. The palace is not open to visitors. Ingred Larson, Emma’s mother, died of cancer in 2019. Until her last days, she demanded justice for her daughter. She did not receive it.
Emma’s father is alive, 83 years old, living in a nursing home in Westeros. He does not give interviews. He keeps a photo of his daughter on his bedside table. Priya was never found. She is officially considered missing. Most people are convinced she is dead. The story of Emma Larson is a reminder that ancient traditions, even those prohibited by law, continue to live on in the shadows.
Sati has been officially eradicated, but the belief in its sanctity exists in the minds of some. A woman who signed a contract for a life of luxury received a death sentence for refusing to be burned alive. Her body was destroyed, the evidence was erased, and the witnesses were silenced. $2 million. That was the price of Emma’s 5 years of life.
In the end, she got nothing except death at the hands of the man she called her husband. The contract signed in a luxurious London office ended with her being strangled at dawn in the courtyard of an Indian palace. Justice did not prevail. The killer is still at large. The story has been forgotten by everyone except those who remember.
And somewhere in the depths of Rajasthan, in the locked rooms of old palaces, things may be happening that the world will never know about. Women disappear. Traditions are observed. Silence is bought. And the law is powerless against power, money, and fear. Emma’s story is not unique. It is simply one of the few that has come to light.
How many more remain buried under the ashes?
