CHAPTER 44
Not a Joke?
DEVRAJ
The letter lies open on my lap. The ink has smudged in places, as though her hand trembled while writing. Or maybe she cried. I imagine her bent over this paper, lips pressed tight, her heart breaking with every word.
And now, mine is breaking with every word I read.
I am not leaving you. I can never leave you, Raja-sa.
But all I have brought into your life is trouble. I have only made you work harder, I have only given people reasons to whisper your name in ugly ways. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve me. You are made for the crown, Raja-sa. Don’t let someone like me take it away from you.
I feel so privileged to have known you. You are, quite literally, the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I will always cherish you and the memories we created together.
Do you remember our first meeting? You told me I was yours.
Now I want to tell you—I will always be yours.
But from far away. Far enough that I don’t get in your way, far enough that no one can question you because of me.
I hate when you have to answer for me, when you have to defend me. You should not have to.
My mother used to say I was a stubborn child.
Too rigid. Too full of pride. I think she was right.
When it comes to you, I feel that same stubborn pride—you are my husband, and you will always be.
But I am not worthy of being a queen, of sitting next to someone so dignified…
so divine. I will forever worship you, Raja-sa.
I realized a few days ago that I have fallen for you.
That is why this is so difficult. If I had no heart, if I felt nothing, maybe leaving would be easy.
But you are the first person who has ever truly been mine.
And selfishly, I wanted to stay. But when I looked at you—at your shoulders, at the weight you carry every day—I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t be selfish like that.
I am not running away. I am giving you what you deserve: freedom. You told me once you don’t have it. But you are wrong, Raja-sa. You can have it. You can have whatever you want, you just have to try harder, push harder. Be you. Be Devraj.
Because before you are a king, before you are a ruler, you are a man. And that man… that man is wonderful. That man is who I love. Not the crown. Not the throne. Just you. Only you. Always you.
Don’t look for me. You must not. I give you permission to marry again, but if it is possible… keep me in your heart for a little while. Just a little while. I would like that.
Thank you, Raja-sa. For being you with me. For caring. For letting me belong to you, if only for six months. They were the best six months of my life.
Love,
Your wife,
Meher
The letter shakes in my hands. The edges crumple from the way my fingers grip it too tight. I’ve read it three times, four, maybe more—I don’t even know anymore. Every word blurs, then sharpens, then blurs again behind the wetness in my eyes.
I am sitting on the floor of her room. Not the chair, not the bed—the floor, my knees digging into the carpet, my body bent over like I’ve been struck down.
The silence here is deafening, louder than any crowd, louder than the thunder of applause or the drone of court speeches.
Her absence screams at me from every corner.
Her scent lingers, faint, on the pillow, in the folds of the curtains. But she is not here. She is really gone.
I searched. God knows I searched. Every corridor, every garden path, the temple, the royal school. I even checked the kitchens like some desperate fool. She isn’t anywhere. The guards say she left quietly, alone. No one stopped her. No one thought they should.
This is not some joke. Not some childish tantrum. She has truly gone.
My Meher.
Gone.
I press the letter to my chest, bend my head, and I break.
The sob tears out of me raw and helpless.
My shoulders shake. My chest feels like it is caving in.
I do not care if a servant walks by the door, if someone hears me, if tomorrow the whole of Jodhpur whispers that their king cried on the floor like a lost child.
Let them whisper. Let them roar. I do not care.
I do not want the crown. I do not want the throne. I do not want the carefully measured respect or the hollow power. Without her, it means nothing. Nothing.
Why did she not understand? I told her. I told her I would take care of everything. That she need not carry this guilt, this weight of whispers and disapproval. That I would shield her. That I wanted her. Always.
Why couldn’t she see?
Does she not know that I can only be Devraj with her? That the man she wants me to be—the one without the crown, without the endless duties—that man only exists in her presence? Without her, I am just a machine. A puppet draped in gold, reciting what others expect.
She says she wants to give me freedom. Foolish woman.
Stubborn woman. Does she not understand that my freedom is her?
My freedom is her laughter echoing through the palace, her small hand curled into mine at night, her eyes softening when she looks at me like I am something more than a king.
She is my freedom. She is my everything.
And now she is gone.
“I love you too, Meher,” I whisper, my voice cracking as the tears fall harder. My palms press against the letter like it can carry my words back to her. “I love you, too. You are my whole heart, my whole world. Why would you leave me?”
The question hangs in the silence, heavy, unanswerable.
I remember her smile, shy and quick, the way she tilted her head when she argued with me.
I remember the first time I kissed her, how she trembled but didn’t pull away.
I remember her laughter with the children, the stubborn tilt of her chin when she called me Maharaj just to tease me.
Every memory burns now, too bright, too cruel.
I drag a hand over my face, smearing tears across my skin. The paper trembles in my lap. My knees ache from kneeling so long, but I cannot move. If I move, if I stand, it will mean admitting this room is empty of her. It will mean she is not just gone for an hour or two. She is gone.
But then—through the hollow of my grief, a spark catches. Small, faint, but alive.
This once, Meher, I will not respect your decision.
You have asked me not to look for you. But I am not made to obey this. Not when it comes to you. Not when you are the air in my lungs.
This once, I will be selfish. This once, I will not care about your stubborn pride.
I wipe my face with rough hands, swallowing back another sob. My jaw tightens. My tears still fall, but beneath them, something steadier rises.
I will look for you. Even if I have to search through every street in Rajasthan, through every train station, every corner of this country, every atom of this universe—I will not stop.
I will only rest when I find you, Rani-sa.
You cannot take yourself away from me.
Not you. Not ever.