CHAPTER 21
Under the Same Sky
DEVRAJ
The terrace is quiet tonight.
It’s a kind of quiet I don’t get to experience often in this palace—where walls have ears, where corridors echo with footsteps, and where silence usually means something is waiting to ambush you. But here, above it all, I can pretend for a while that I am not Maharaj Devraj Singh Shekhawat.
The air is cool, crisp almost, carrying the faint scent of clematis from the gardens below. I lean my elbows against the stone railing of the jharokha and tilt my head back, searching.
The stars are fewer now.
When I was a boy, Baapu-sa would bring me up here.
Back then, the night sky used to spill with stars, countless and shimmering, like scattered jewels on black velvet.
He’d point them out to me—the constellations, the myths behind them.
He’d laugh when I mixed them up, or when I insisted that a cluster of stars formed a horse when clearly it was supposed to be a hunter.
“See, Devraj,” he once told me, placing his large, warm hand on my small shoulder, “when the world feels too heavy, look up. The stars remind us there’s always more beyond our troubles. They’ve been here long before us and they will be here long after. We are but travelers beneath them.”
I believed him then. I still do.
But tonight, looking up at the sparse sky, I wonder if the stars have given up on us too.
A sound breaks my reverie—the faint, unmistakable chime of payal.
I turn, half expecting I’m imagining it. But she’s there.
Meher.
She steps into the terrace light, and for a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
She’s dressed simply, her dupatta draped carelessly over her shoulders, her hair loose and tumbling down her back in waves that shimmer under the faint moonlight.
Her anklets are delicate, catching with every hesitant step she takes.
Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she explains softly. Her voice doesn’t disturb the silence—it blends into it, like it belongs here.
“Same,” I admit, a small smile tugging at my lips.
Without thinking, I extend my hand toward her. An invitation. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll refuse. But then, slowly, carefully, she places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool, her grip light, yet I feel the weight of trust in that touch.
I guide her toward the jharokha. We stand side by side, leaning against the stone railing, looking up at the same sky.
“They used to be brighter,” I murmur, almost to myself.
“The stars?” she asks.
I nod. “There used to be so many when I was younger. I would come up here with Baapu-sa. He always knew the names, the stories. He believed the sky was a map of all we needed to know.”
Her face softens, eyes flickering with curiosity. “And do you believe that too?”
I smile faintly, looking up. “I want to. But it’s harder now. Everything has changed. The stars feel… farther away.”
The wind shifts, tugging at her dupatta, making her shiver slightly. I notice the way her arms fold across her chest, a small involuntary movement. Without thinking, I slip out of my coat and drape it gently over her shoulders.
She glances at me, surprised. I don’t explain, and she doesn’t protest.
For a while, we just stand there. The night stretches on, endless. The silence between us isn’t heavy. It’s… easy.
And maybe that’s why I say it.
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born a king.”
The words leave me quietly, almost like a confession to the sky. I don’t dare look at her, afraid of what her eyes might reflect back at me. Instead, I keep my gaze fixed upward, where a single stubborn star glimmers faintly.
“People think I’m free,” I continue, my voice steady but softer now. “They look at me and imagine I have everything—that I can do anything, be anything. But the truth is, freedom is the one thing I don’t have. I give it to others, Meher, but I have none for myself.”
The thought should make me bitter. It usually does. But tonight, saying it aloud feels less like a wound and more like a release.
Then, I feel warmth. Her hand. Sliding gently into mine.
I glance down. She isn’t looking at me; her eyes are fixed firmly ahead, on the horizon. As though her touch is enough to tell me everything she cannot bring herself to say.
And strangely, it is.
Her palm is small, her fingers curling lightly against mine, but the comfort it brings is disproportionate. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m not carrying all of this alone.
“My Baapu-sa…” I begin, voice faltering.
“I miss him. Every day. He made things feel… lighter. Even when they weren’t.
” I chuckle softly, shaking my head. “Now, even with a family around me, I don’t feel that warmth.
Not really. Maa-sa… I don’t even remember the last time I called her that.
I don’t feel like her son, Meher. I feel like a pawn.
A way for her to extend her reach. I still try, like a fool, to win something from her—approval, love, whatever it is. But I fail miserably. Every time.”
“You don’t.”
Her voice is soft but steady. I look down at her, surprised. She’s staring straight ahead, lips pressed in a faint smile.
“You don’t fail, Raja-sa,” she repeats. “You’ve started earning something far more important. The people’s love.”
I frown, skeptical. But she goes on, squeezing my palm gently.
“The other day, I heard children whispering about how their parents felt… relieved. That at least the Maharaj seemed to be on their side. That they finally trusted you. You are gaining their trust, slowly. That is worth more than your mother’s approval.”
Her words wash over me, and for the first time in days, I smile without forcing it. “Thanks to you,” I murmur.
She quickly looks away, her cheeks faintly flushed.
The wind picks up again, rustling the leaves below, carrying with it a silence that feels… loaded. Then she whispers something so quietly I almost miss it.
“Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born at all.”
My head snaps toward her, my chest tightening. Breathless. “Why?”
She chuckles softly, but her eyes glisten as she stares into the night.
“If I were to die right now… no one would care.” Her voice cracks slightly, but she keeps it steady.
“I’ve spent my entire life resenting life.
” She smiles sadly, the wind causes her hair to blow; she looks beautifully…
broken. “Did you know,” she says, her eyes closed now, “I have got not a single call from my father, not a single word of… anything, after I left. You gave him everything, Raja-sa. Everything he ever wanted. He doesn’t need me anymore.
” She smiles—a fragile, heartbreaking smile. “So thank you for that.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I want to comfort her, but words fail me.
“I have no one who would mourn for me,” she whispers, almost to herself. Then she lets out a shaky laugh. “Not a single soul.”
Something inside me shatters.
“Are you forgetting me?” The words escape me before I realize I’ve spoken them. My voice is low, rough.
She laughs softly, almost bitterly. “Why would you mourn for me? You could always remarry. Your mother would finally be happy.”
I don’t think. I don’t stop myself. I turn to her fully, my hands reaching out. Gently but firmly, I turn her face toward mine, and before I can second-guess, I pull her into my arms.
Her body stiffens in surprise, but I don’t let go. My chin rests against her hair, the scent of her—jasmine and something uniquely hers—flooding me.
“I would mourn for you, Meher,” I whisper into her hair. The words tremble with a truth I didn’t know I carried.
“Why,” she whispers.
“I made it clear on day one, Meher.” I run my hand through her hair. “I am yours, and I will always be.”
The promise feels different tonight. Not because of my Baapu-sa. Not because of duty. But because I want to be hers.
Because I cannot imagine not seeing her. Not hearing her. Not knowing her.
“I would care, Meher,” I repeat, holding her tighter.
Her arms stay at her sides, unmoving. But I feel the damp warmth of her tears seeping into my kurta. The faintest sniffle against my chest.
She doesn’t hug me back, but she doesn’t pull away either. And maybe this—this stillness, this fragile acceptance—is what she needs.
And maybe it’s what I need, too.
To let her know she means more to me than either of us realized. To admit that I don’t have the answers. Only this—her, here, in my arms under a sky that suddenly feels less empty.