CHAPTER 2
The Crown Feels Heavier at Thirty
DEVRAJ
The ballroom is drowning in gold light. Chandeliers drip crystals above our heads, refracting into hundreds of tiny suns that make the silk sarees shimmer and the jewels on turbans gleam. Laughter ricochets off the marble, a hundred voices weaving together into a single, polite roar.
They’re all here for me—or so they say.
I know better.
Businessmen with folded hands and rehearsed smiles.
Politicians with daughters conveniently “studying in London” who have suddenly decided Udaipur is charming this time of year.
Nobles who still cling to the title like it means something in this century.
They come bearing gifts, but every one of them is wrapped in expectation.
The Shekhawat name still carries weight.
Not because of me—never because of me—but because of my father.
He was one of the last kings who could walk into a marketplace and be greeted like an old friend.
When he died, the whole city fell silent.
Shopkeepers shut their stores. Men and women who had never met him wept as though they’d lost their own father. In many ways, they had.
I take a sip of the drink in my hand, the glass sweating in the warmth of the room. I can feel the smile on my face stiffening, the one I’ve worn all evening.
Since I became king, I’ve realized just how strong he was. He spent decades surrounded by people who wanted a piece of him, yet he never hardened. He carried their demands with grace, never letting the weight crush him.
I am nothing like that.
Sometimes I wish I could ask him how he did it—how he kept the loneliness from hollowing him out.
But the only answer I have is the silence of his absence.
Tonight should mean something. I’ve been waiting for this birthday for fifteen years, ever since the lawyer told me my father left a letter for me that I could only open when I turned thirty.
It’s been a shadow in the back of my mind ever since. And now, finally, I am thirty.
“Bhai-sa!” Sitara’s voice cuts through the noise like a bell.
She’s weaving through the crowd in a swirl of yellow silk, her smile bright enough to outshine the chandeliers. She’s always been like this—light in human form—but I know what’s beneath that smile, I can see the nervous flicker in her eyes that she tries to hide from everyone else.
“Happy birthday again,” she says, hugging me without worrying about royal decorum.
“Thank you, Tara,” I murmur.
Behind her, Vihaan appears, grinning like the human equivalent of a golden retriever. “And here I thought I was your favorite sibling,” he says.
“You’re not,” I reply easily. “Tara is.”
Vihaan clutches his chest as if wounded. “You wound me, bhai-sa.”
Veeraj arrives last, nursing a glass of something dark. His expression is as gruff as ever, but there’s a curve at the corner of his mouth. “At least you’re honest about your favoritism,” he mutters.
We stand together for a moment, a small island of familiarity in the sea of strangers.
I listen more than I speak, as always. Vihaan chatters about some polo match, Veeraj makes dry remarks, and Sitara teases them both.
I don’t join in much—I’m better at listening than talking—but I let the conversation flow around me, warm and easy.
Finally, I clear my throat. “I’m heading to my office. The three of you enjoy the party.”
Sitara’s brows knit together. “bhai-sa, it’s your birthday! You should be celebrating, not working!”
I reach out, patting her head like I used to when she was little. “You celebrate on my behalf, Tara.”
She sighs, but lets me go.
The corridors outside the ballroom are mercifully quiet. My footsteps echo off the high ceilings as I make my way to my chambers. The air here smells faintly of sandalwood and something older, like the sandstone walls themselves hold their own breath.
When I step inside my office, the lawyer is already waiting, seated on the leather chair opposite my desk. He rises immediately.
“I’m just here to deliver the letter,” he says. “Happy birthday, Raja-ji.”
He places a sealed envelope on the desk, bows slightly, and leaves without another word.
I sit down slowly. My fingers trace the edges of the paper, the wax seal stamped with our crest. My heart beats louder than it should.
For two decades, I’ve wondered what my father wanted to tell me that could only be said when I was thirty. Now I’m here, and I’m not sure I’m ready to know.
I break the seal.
The handwriting is his—strong but a little slanted, as if he never had the patience to write slowly. Or maybe he lacked time, which I understand now.
My dear Dev,
I hope this letter finds you well, my son.
If there was ever anyone who could be a better king than me, it is you.
I have always known that. You are thirty now, and you wear the crown with the steadiness I once only pretended to have.
But I also know the emptiness that sometimes sits behind the eyes of a king, the clawing urge to run from the weight on your head.
I carried it too. It never truly goes away, unless you share it with someone who can help you carry it.
That is why I wish for you to settle down—not because the kingdom needs a queen, but because you need a partner in this life. Someone who will see you not as a king, not as a Shekhawat, but as Devraj—my son.
I have no right to decide your happiness. I never truly knew what was best for myself; how could I ever claim to know what is best for you? But there is something I must tell you.
Her name is Meher Sharma. Years ago, I was in the city for an inspection.
It was a day like any other—until it wasn’t.
Some goons attacked, and they took down every one of my guards.
I was not the king that day; I was just a man who could have died in the street.
And then she came—an old woman, frail in body but fierce in spirit. She saved me, at great risk to herself.
When I offered her anything in return, she didn’t ask for gold or land. She asked for you. For your hand in marriage to her granddaughter. You were so little then—running through the palace corridors with your wooden sword and a stubborn look in your eyes. But I gave her my word.
It was not my decision to make, and for that, I apologize. If you do not wish to marry her, burn this letter and I will take the blame for breaking my promise. No one will speak your name in this matter.
But, my son—be happy. Be happy before you are a king. If it ever becomes too much, leave the throne. Walking away from power is not a weakness—it is the greatest strength.
I have watched Meher grow. She carries her own battles, her own weight, and still stands tall. I think… perhaps she could bring you the kind of peace the crown cannot give. But it is your choice. It will always be your choice.
Happy birthday, Devraj. I am sorry for leaving you too soon.
I am sorry for stealing your youth. I am sorry I did not stop your mother when she began to see you as a project instead of her son.
I have many regrets in this life, but I will never regret calling you my child.
You were, and will always be, the greatest honor of my life.
I hope you remember that.
With all my love,
Baapu-sa
I don’t realize I’m crying until a drop hits the paper, smudging the ink. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, swallowing hard.
“I will never let you down, Baapu-sa,” I say aloud, my voice rough.
I glance down at the name—Meher Sharma.
A humorless chuckle escapes me. “Your word is my word.” I set the letter on the desk, leaning back in my chair. “So I’ll marry this girl, because she is the last gift you’ve given me.”
And for the first time all evening, I feel something other than emptiness.