CHAPTER 13
The Sound of Ghungroos
DEVRAJ
The meeting stretches longer than it should.
A dozen men in pressed white kurtas and tailored suits argue across the polished teak table, their voices rising and falling as if each believes volume is equal to reason.
Numbers are spoken, policies suggested, graphs shown on the projector.
At some point, the debate narrows to one question—how much more can we demand from the people without turning their resentment into rebellion?
I listen, intervene when necessary, but I mostly let them argue. I was raised to understand that power is often in silence; my presence is enough. They look at me before finishing their sentences, searching for approval they are too afraid to name aloud.
When the final draft is drawn, the Chief Minister himself clears his throat and reads it out. Taxes on luxury imports, a marginal increase on tourism services, and stricter controls on land leases. Practical. Manageable. Enough to keep the treasury flowing without bleeding the people dry.
I nod once. That is all the confirmation they need. The meeting ends.
As I rise, the scrape of my chair against marble echoes in the chamber. Papers shuffle, chairs push back, but all I notice is the way the CM himself bends slightly, bowing before me as though centuries of monarchy still anchor his spine. A king without a throne is still a king, it seems.
I leave without another word. The heavy doors close behind me, sealing away the stifling scent of politics and paper. The corridor stretches long, lined with arches and oil paintings of men who ruled before me, each frame a reminder that duty does not end with signatures and speeches.
My shoulders ache, my head pounds with the residue of debate, but the palace is quiet.
It’s late enough that most wings are empty, shadows stretching across sandstone walls, broken only by the faint glow of lanterns.
I tell myself I’ll go straight to my chamber, let the silence swallow me for a few hours.
And then I hear a faint metallic rhythm, sharp and delicate all at once. Ghungroos.
The sound is so out of place in the stillness that I pause mid-step, convinced I’ve imagined it. But there it is again—soft, patterned, threaded with music I cannot hear but can somehow feel.
Curiosity pulls me before thought does. I follow the sound through the side corridor, down the steps into the garden attached to the private wing.
And there she is.
Meher.
Her back is to me, but the moment is hers entirely.
She moves across the grass in a pale blue anarkali that flares with each turn, the fabric catching the garden lights, the air itself seeming to bow around her.
Her feet strike the ground with precision, bells tied at her ankles answering with each movement.
She is not performing for anyone; I can see it in the ease of her gestures, the way her hands rise, curl, fall like they were born knowing rhythm.
Her hair is loose, strands catching against her cheek only to fly back as she spins. There is no audience here, no need for grace or approval. And yet—she looks effortless. Regal.
I lean against the archway, unseen, my breath quieter than the rustle of leaves. I should walk away. It feels intrusive, standing here in the shadows, watching what was never meant for my eyes. But something in me refuses to move.
She looks at peace. More at peace than I have ever seen her, more than I will likely ever see her again in the daylight hours where expectation shackles her.
The weight she must carry—the whispers, the scrutiny, the impossible balance of being both commoner and queen—seems to dissolve the moment her feet strike the earth in rhythm. Dancing, it seems, is her freedom.
For ten minutes, I watch. My own thoughts quiet, the unrest of politics and duty dulling against the sound of her ghungroos. I wonder if this is what faith feels like—something unexplainable, something that doesn’t ask to be understood, only witnessed.
And then, as suddenly as it began, she stops. Her chest rises and falls, hands pressed together in the briefest pause of reverence. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her face soft, almost glowing under the dim garden lights.
I step back before she can notice me. This is hers, not mine to intrude upon. Some moments are too sacred to be broken by words.
So I walk away, the faint sound of ghungroos still echoing in my ears, lingering longer than any debate, longer than the hollow bow of a politician.
For the first time today, the tightness in my chest eases.
And all I can think of is how divine she looked, without even trying.