Page 66

“This way, Your Highness,” the doctor led him down the sterile white hospital alley, the sun streaming in through the plush windows. Samarth couldn’t walk at normal speed. He wanted to run. His pulse was beating so fast it felt like Cherry tearing through his favourite forest road.

“What is the prognosis?” Samarth demanded, working to hide the tremor in his voice.

“His Highness was brought in severely hypothermic, moderately malnourished, and dehydrated, with early to mid-stage frostbite in the extremities — left-hand fingers, all toes, and left ear. Given their survival gear, he avoided immediate death by hypothermia, but the cold exposure over days would ’ ve taken a major toll,” the doctor described, striding down.

“He was disoriented, showed fatigue-induced delirium and his heart rate has been consistently low. Other vitals have now stabilised but there is mild renal strain. He is lucid now and will need a systematic rehabilitation to gain back muscle mass, weight and mental balance…”

Samarth stopped listening altogether when he pushed open the door to the room and his eyes fell on his father. His mouth dried at the sight. Ecstasy and fear.

“Is… he looks…” Samarth couldn’t even identify that this was his Papa.

He was halved away. His skin was white, waxy, like it was made of plastic; his eyes closed and his chest barely moving.

Samarth stepped forward and immediately touched the back of his hand.

It was warm. Not cold. That broke through his scary thoughts.

“It’s the frostbite and malnourishment, Your Highness,” the doctor pointed. “Give it a few weeks and he will look much better. I’ll see you back on my afternoon rounds.”

Samarth nodded, unable to look away from his Papa as the door clicked shut.

Papa was here. Papa was alive. Breathing.

A chuckle left his mouth as tears began to pour down his eyes.

He silenced the noises of both but let himself cry here, in solitude, in silence, without anybody seeing.

Papa kept sleeping and he kept crying, looking at the horizon of the sea from the window.

Like a child he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and cried quietly, rubbing his eyes dry and again crying.

A clearing of the throat brought his blurry eyes down to his father.

Papa was trying to focus on him, his eyes looking ancient with his face gone so gaunt.

Samarth wiped his eyes clean and took a deep breath.

Papa blinked for long moments, then frowned.

Samarth waited. The doctor had said he was delirious.

“Samarth?” He asked, his lips barely moving.

“Yes,” he whispered, laughing, sitting down on the bed in front of him. His father’s hand barely rose and Samarth clasped it in his own, keeping his fingers off the IV tube. Papa squeezed weakly. Samarth squeezed back, their eyes not moving from each other. Not even to blink.

Papa swallowed, and then a smile slowly bloomed across his lips. Even they were white. Scarily white.

“Sharan and Tara?”

“Both good. Everybody is fine. Everything is fine in Nawanagar.”

His hand tightened. Samarth added his other hand to soothe the skin of his knuckles. It was red, the knuckles split and dried. Papa didn’t even wince when his fingers touched them.

“Rawal?” Ajatshatru Kaka pushed open the door.

“Yes?” They both answered in unison, heads turned to the door.

“Rajmata wants to FaceTime,” he smiled, his eyes on Papa.

“Rawal?” Papa’s incredulous voice sounded. It was loud, like his old voice. Samarth turned his head in time to see Papa’s shock, surprise, smile and tears in the same breath. The tears didn’t flow, unlike his own that hadn’t stopped. Papa had better control over his emotions.

His chest rose and fell in deep breaths as he again stringed slow words — “You are Rawal?”

“Temporarily,” Samarth patted his hand. “Until your flight touches down on Nawanagar soil.”

Papa’s eyes fell shut and he sighed.

“Ajatshatru?”

“Ji, Bade Rawal?”

“Did Samarth’s Rajtilak take place?”

“Ji, Bade Rawal.”

His lips smiled, eyes still shut.

“Rajmata did it herself,” Ajatshatru Kaka added, making Papa’s smile freeze on his lips. A moment passed, and it widened. His eyes slowly opened and Samarth was taken aback by the spark in his eyes, as if he was back.

“Then that is not temporary, Rawal,” his Papa addressed him. Samarth remained silent. This was not the time for that conversation.

“Rajmata wants to FaceTime you, Bade Rawal.”

“Not like this,” he shook his head. “Get an audio call.”

Ajatshatru Kaka dialled her number on speaker phone and waited.

“Ajatshatru? Is he awake?”

“Hi, Tara,” Papa said in his clearest voice, accepting the mobile in his free hand. Samarth let go of his other hand and nodded at Ajatshatru Kaka.

“Sid…”

They closed the door behind them to that muffled sob.

————————————————————

“Stop the car, I’ll go on foot from here,” Papa ordered as their procession reached the crossroads outside the palace.

It was a procession that had kept multiplying at every signal, every junction, every crossroad on their way from the airport.

Their entourage of cars had been slowed down to a crawl with the masses of Nawanagar moving with them, craving a glimpse of their Rawal who had not only cheated death but saved his colleague in circumstances where a man couldn’t save his own life.

“Papa, you are not supposed to strain yourself,” Samarth protested.

“I am fine.”

Samarth eyed his father. The last five days in the hospital of Ushuaia might have brought his vitals, organ systems and mental activity to equilibrium, but his body was still weak, his weight way below an acceptable amount.

Even though he had gotten himself groomed before their flight and had donned his patent white kurta-pyjama, nobody could deny that he belonged inside a car and not on foot in the heat of a Nawanagar noon sun.

Before Samarth could protest though, he had thrown open his door and stepped out to wild cheers.

Chants of his name. Tears. Screams. He walked like he hadn’t been stumbling to the bathroom only last night, hands up and joined, waving, smiling.

Samarth quickly brought up his rear, scared he would hurt himself if he tipped over.

They travelled on foot for a few hundred metres and the palace gates finally came into view. Samarth breathed a sigh of relief. As they rounded the gates and walked into their palace, the chants cranked up to deafening behind them.

“Papa!”

That one voice seared through the rest and he saw Sharan running down the palace road, from between the archway of citizens and chaperones and guards. Maarani stood at the door, a beacon in brilliant gold.

“Papa…” Sharan knocked into their father’s stomach and Sharan braced himself behind him. But Papa absorbed the shock and banded his arms around Sharan’s little body, thumping his back.

“You took good care of Nawanagar, Kunwar,” he praised.

“I don’t want to take care of it alone again,” his small, muffled voice sounded from Papa’s stomach.

“Liar, where were you alone?” Samarth stepped around to him. “Now get in line.”

His small body vibrated as he laughed shyly, pulling back. They flanked their father’s sides and walked the rest of the way. Maarani welcomed them with rituals prescribed in their dynasty texts for a king coming home from battle. And rightly so.

“Bade Rawal Siddharth Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

They chanted.

“Bade Rawal Siddharth Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

The vibrations rose.

“Rajmata Tara Sinh Solanki ni — Jai!”

The chants multiplied.

These would have to change, Samarth made a mental note to himself as they lined up for the palace guard to salute them with Nawanagar’s anthem.

He had stepped up to hold a throne and its people in the gap between his father’s and his brother’s reign.

Now that that gap wouldn’t exist, he was free to step back.

And… he didn’t even dare bring her name to his mind, forget his lips.

Would this even be right? Keep doing this to her?

This hot and cold? With what face would he go to her again?

How would he tell her that in his worst time she had not been his priority but then ask her if he could be hers again…

Samarth was ashamed of the way he had treated her, of how brutally he had cut her off. That was the need of that hour. Today… god had played some cruel trick with him…

“Samarth,” Papa summoned.

“Yes, Rawal,” he stepped up the porch steps to where he stood with Maarani.

“Go and see that everybody is eating well,” he nudged his chin to the massive tents set up all around the palace grounds for lunch for all. In honour of Papa coming home, all of Nawanagar had such lunch tents set up every half a kilometre.

“Yes, Rawal.” He took three steps down and saw Sharan standing there, looking dreamily up at their father. Samarth stifled his own smile at that adorable expression. He would soon have to learn to control those transparent eyes.

“Come with me, Sharan.”

Instantly he got himself schooled and fell in step beside him, a whole court of chaperones and guards in a formation behind them.

“Bhai?” Sharan called out softly.

“Hmm?”

“I am very happy.”

“Me too.”

“I missed Papa.”

“I know.”

“But you were there too,” he caught his hand and leaned on his arm before straightening and walking like a little prince. Samarth’s palm remained warm from his touch all the way.

————————————————————

Papa’s return to Nawanagar was like the kingdom’s rebirth. For a few days after, everything felt new. Even the court and the office, even the business meetings and cricket matches at the club. Samarth accompanied him everywhere until Papa ordered him to go do ‘something else.’

“Like what?” He had asked.

“Your horses or something. Stop following me like I’ll fall over.”

“Oh but you will,” Maarani had taunted while passing them on her way to the garden. “Keep a watch on Papa.”