36. THE AGENDA OF HEART
VEERAJ
The glass pavilion at the edge of the palace's old hunting lodge is tucked away between huge banyan trees. It feels peaceful, far from the palace and all its rules. A few copper lanterns cast a warm glow over the small table set for two.
I've attended hundreds of royal dinners in my life. None of them make me as nervous as sitting across from my wife. Because this time, I genuinely want to be here. Afterall I am the one who suggested this date.
Diya's in dark blue jeans and an emerald-green silk top. Her hair falls loosely over her shoulders, and the green makes her eyes stand out in the lantern light. The pale patches of vitiligo on her wrists aren't hidden at all.
She's beautiful. Comfortably, effortlessly beautiful. I probably stare a second too long before I notice she's completely focused on her phone.
Her eyebrows are pulled together in concentration as she scrolls through something and keeps tilting the screen away whenever I try to peek.
I lean back in my chair.
"Should I be worried?" I ask. "Is that our dinner menu or an interrogation file?"
She doesn't even look guilty. "It's an agenda."
"An . . . agenda?"
"Yes." She finally locks her phone and folds her hands together. "You said this date was so we get to know each other."
"I did."
"So we're getting to know each other properly."
I narrow my eyes. "What exactly does that mean?"
"It means," she says proudly, "I've prepared a list of questions."
I blink. "You made interview questions?"
She points a finger at me. "Yes, because if I leave the conversation to you, you'll answer everything with yes, no, maybe, or one thoughtful grunt."
"I don't grunt."
"You absolutely do. You have a conversational skill worse than a toddler somehow." I can't stop the laugh that escapes me.
She smiles to herself. "Good," she says, unlocking her phone again. "Now that we've established you're capable of laughing, we'll begin."
I shake my head. "Go on, interviewer."
She clears her throat dramatically. "Question one." She looks at me over the top of her phone. "What's the worst book you've ever finished?"
I don't even need to think. "A five-hundred-page manual on nineteenth-century irrigation law."
She stares. " . . . That's a real book?"
"It unfortunately is."
"And you finished all five hundred pages?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I don't leave things halfway."
I rest my elbows on the table. "If I commit to something, I finish it. Doesn't matter if it's difficult, boring, or exhausting."
She studies me quietly for a second. Then she types something into her notes. "Are you actually taking notes?"
"Obviously."
"What did you write?"
"Confidential."
"Trouble."
"No."
I sigh. "I've never regretted agreeing to a date more."
"You'll survive."
"I always do."
She grins before moving to the next question. "What makes you happiest?"
The question catches me off guard. I don't answer immediately.
Happiest? My mind instinctively searches for the practical answer.
A project completed before its deadline.
A successful negotiation. A policy that actually improves people's lives.
For years, I measured satisfaction in outcomes, not emotions.
Happiness was never something I stopped to define.
It was simply the brief silence after another responsibility was fulfilled.
But now . . . A different set of memories pushes their way forward before logic can stop them.
Diya laughing so hard she nearly spills her tea. The children racing toward us the moment we step into the NGO. Tiny hands tugging at my sleeves. Aadhya falling asleep on my shoulder. Watching my wife smile without looking over her shoulder, waiting for someone to take that happiness away.
Funny. None of those things can be measured on a report. And none of those I can mention to her.
Finally I say, "Fixing something."
She looks confused. "Machines?"
"Sometimes."
I nod slowly. "But not just machines."
"If something is broken, I can make it work again . . . I like that." I don't realise how much those words reveal until I see the look on her face.
She smiles softly. "That makes sense."
"What about you?"
"My answer?"
I nod.
She doesn't even think. "Helping people see their worth. I like when I can make someone realize they deserve the best." She shrugs. "It instantly fixes my mood."
I want to ask when does she think she can do that for herself, when will she realise she deserves the best too? But I restrain myself because she seems so into this and I actually want to hear her more.
She smiles, "And making children laugh. I could have the worst day of my life, but if one of those little monsters hugs me . . . " she chuckles softly, " . . . everything feels okay again."
I nod. "I know."
"You do?"
"I've seen it."
She looks strangely touched by that. She quickly clears her throat before reading the next question. "Oh, this one's important." She scrolls again.
I brace myself. "If someone annoys you . . . "
"They usually do."
" . . . what do you secretly wish you could say but don't?"
I look straight at her. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether it's you."
She narrows her eyes. "And if it's me?"
"I usually want to tell you to stop talking."
She gasps dramatically. "I knew it!"
"But . . . " I continue before she can interrupt. " . . . the room becomes strangely quiet whenever you actually stop."
She blinks. The smug smile disappears from her face. Her cheeks slowly turn pink. She coughs a bit and picks up her glass, gulping some water. "I wasn't emotionally prepared for that answer."
"I noticed."
She points at me again. "You're not allowed to flirt during official questioning."
"I wasn't."
"You absolutely were."
"I simply answered honestly."
She mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like menace. I smile into my glass. She scrolls further.
"Next question."
"What scares you?"
I don't answer immediately. The question settles somewhere deep in my chest, unexpectedly heavy.
Fear has never been something I've allowed myself to dwell on.
I grew up believing it was a weakness, something that clouded judgment and led to bad decisions.
Princes aren't supposed to fear. They prepare. They calculate. They endure.
For years, I convinced myself I had nothing to lose.
It was easier that way. But somewhere between late-night conversations, chaotic afternoons at the NGO, and a loud, stubborn woman who walked into my carefully ordered life and refused to leave it the way she found it .
. . That changed. Because the more people matter to you, the more terrifying the thought of losing them becomes.
I finally meet her eyes. "Losing people."
Her smile fades. "I've spent most of my life pretending I don't need anyone." I meet her eyes. "I'm starting to realise I was wrong."
She goes very quiet. She doesn't even type this answer down. Instead, she simply watches me.
After a few seconds she smiles gently. "My turn to answer?"
I nod. "The same thing. Losing people." She twists the ring on her finger absentmindedly.
"When you've spent your whole life being left behind . . . " She chuckles humorlessly, " . . . you start expecting everyone else to leave too." Without thinking, I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. She looks down at our hands before looking back at me.
"There are no plans to leave," I say quietly.
She doesn't answer. She just lets her fingers relax beneath mine. After a long silence, she suddenly brightens.
"One last question."
I raise an eyebrow. "Only one?"
"I have forty-three more."
I stare at her. " . . . Forty-three?"
"It's colour-coded."
I close my eyes for a second. "Trouble."
"What?"
"You made a colour-coded questionnaire?"
She smiles proudly. "There are categories."
I laugh again. "Should I be worried?"
"A little."
She leans forward, smiling. "So . . . What's one thing nobody knows about Veeraj Singh Shekhawat?"
My instinct is to dismiss the question. There isn't much to know about me. At least, that's what I've spent years making people believe. Publicly, I'm the prince who attends meetings, signs files, and speaks only when necessary. Most people assume that's all there is.
They don't see the details I quietly hold onto.
The names. The routines. The people who've spent decades keeping this palace running without ever asking for recognition.
"I remember every birthday of every employee who's worked in our palace for more than five years."
She blinks. " . . . Why?"
"Because no one else does."
For the first time that evening, she doesn't have a clever reply. She just looks at me. Really looks at me. Then she quietly locks her phone and slides it into her bag.
"No more questions?" I ask.
She smiles. "I don't think I need the list anymore."
"Tell me about you?” My eyes drifts over to the pale patches on her hands. She notices that.
“I am what they say, flawed, in their language.”
“There are no flaws sitting across from me.” Her breath stills. “You look like a painting someone had taken their time creating.” Her hand relaxes beneath mine.
The waiter arrives with dinner, but neither of us notices immediately. Somehow, somewhere between colour-coded questionnaires, terrible books, old dreams, and honest answers . . . This stops feeling like two strangers sharing a meal.
It starts feeling like the beginning of something real.