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“Good boy, Moti,” he swung his leg out of the stirrup and jumped down from the saddle. “Let’s get some water into you.”

“Let me take him, Rawal,” his Stable Master offered.

“It’s alright, Chander... Are they all new boys?” He nudged his chin to the practise pen in the distance. Half a dozen horses and half a dozen young boys atop them.

“Yes, Rawal. This afternoon the vet had visited so their practise session was pushed to evening. Coach says to permanently shift it to evening.”

“No. They must learn to ride up and down under the hottest sun. Tell Coach I said so, word for word.”

He led Moti to the trough of water, Chander following him. His horse’s mouth plunged into the trough and he drank thirstily.

“How is the school going otherwise?”

“Everything is running smoothly, Rawal. There were issues with a few boys’ fees but…”

“What issue?”

“Late payments.”

“How late?”

“Not much, 2-3 weeks. Our payment schedule is for the end of the month and most people’s salaries are rundown by that time. Many of these boys are working weekdays and learning here on weekends…”

Samarth glanced from his horse to his Stable Master.

“Were these boys troubled for their late dues?”

He squirmed, then shrugged with a sheepish smile, his hands out.

“Why?”

“Urgent funds were needed…”

“Alright,” Samarth turned to him. “The school maintenance is paid by the palace, correct?”

“Yes, Rawal.”

“Then what do you need urgent funds for?”

“The manager takes care of it. I just know because the boys talk…”

“Ask the manager to appear in court tomorrow. And reiterate this to the staff here — fees from the boys are not your source of income. The school is funded and run by the palace. The fees charged to these boys are nominal; and charged in the first place so that they realise the value of this sport.”

“Yes, Rawal.”

“If anything like this happens again — escalate to me first. If a payment is late, do not trouble them. If they can’t make a payment and it is genuine, write it off without making any noise.”

“Yes, Rawal.”

Moti came up for air and snorted. Samarth smiled, patting his neck — “There you go. Time for a snack.”

“Rawal,” his Prime Minister voiced from behind him. Samarth handed off Moti’s reigns to Chander and turned. The sun was setting in the rocky hills behind him, the tree cover drying in the parched air of early September.

“Rajmata called.”

Samarth chuckled, dusting his hands off horse hair and pollen. The season was going into that time when riding long hours produced zero sweat. “What is Sharan’s newest shenanigan?”

Vishwajeet smiled — “Dinner with you, Rawal.”

He shook his head and held out his hand.

Vishwajeet handed over his mobile and stepped back.

He was forty-eight and already a grandfather, looked younger though.

Ajatshatru Kaka had moved on as Bade Rawal’s Private Secretary a few years ago, and as per Bade Rawal’s direction, Samarth had chosen his new Prime Minister.

The Council of Ministers was also halfway revamped.

Up until now, he was happy with his choices.

Proud even. Vishwajeet was a toughened alpha with flexible work hours.

Unlike Ajatshatru Kaka, he would grab his iPad and work from the sidelines of a stable too — case in point, this evening.

“Didn’t you have a meeting with the textile investors?” Samarth inquired, pulling up Rajmata’s contact.

“Done,” he held his iPad up.

“You know you don’t have to always work close to me, Vishwajeet. You could have stayed back in the palace.”

“I like the open spaces.”

“Sometimes you talk like Harsh. Speaking of, where is he?”

“He went back to town. Something about restoring a Royal Enfield Bullet.”

Samarth pressed Call — “Our friend is gone for two nights then.”

As he turned around and walked towards the pen where the boys were practising, Vishwajeet stepped back. The ringer went on.

“Samarth!” Rajmata picked up in that half-hassled voice. “Please tell me you are coming home for dinner.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I told Sharan before leaving.”

“That little liar,” her temper flew. “He is going to turn my hair white in just one week of his sickness.”

Samarth bit back a smile — “Let me guess — he said he will have dinner with me?”

Rajmata sighed.

“I’ll be home in an hour.”

“No need. You stay and finish your plans. No need to pander to him. If he wants to act like a baby, I’ll show him a baby.”

“He is recovering, Rajmata. It’s alright.”

“No way. I’ll take care of him. You enjoy your ride. It’s been ages since you went to the school. How is Moti doing there? Is he happy?”

“He gets young riders on his back, of course he is happy! He was born to be a training horse.”

“And you let him go,” she accused. “You loved him like a baby and you let him go.”

“He is happy here. And I get to come and see him whenever I can.”

“Make it a routine now. Your last polo match was three months ago. You don’t ride much in the palace anymore. Start going to the school every evening like Papa runs away to his club.”

Samarth smiled — “I wish.”

“What’s keeping you so busy? Actually, hang on… come back home and we will talk tonight. Don’t waste your evening there chitchatting with me.”

“Done,” Samarth glanced up at the horses storming past him with young boys on their backs. At different ages — from pre-teens to mid-20s. All eyes on him. He waved and they waved like a livewire had shot through them.

“Rawal!” One of them left the reigns and held up his folded hands.

“Is that a fangirl?”

“It’s a fanboy,” he clarified. “Barely 13.”

“Ok, ok, I am not Papa. Remember.”

“You can be worse than him when you want to be.”

“I am only the messenger.”

“Lies, Rajmata, lies.”

“You come home, then we’ll talk.”

“Bye,” he laughed.

————————————————————

“Hi, baby,” he tickled under his chin. Sharan’s arm pushed out to whack him away. Samarth jumped back, laughing as he rounded the bed and settled on the other side. Papa was already lying back on his pillow, phone in hand, glasses on, scrolling like his life depended on those ‘Reels.’

“You told Mummy to give me mashed curd and rice?” Sharan got on his elbows, rolling his long body across the bed. Samarth grabbed his neck and shoved his face down into the pillow — “You lied to Mummy about having dinner with me?”

“I am recovering, Bhai! Don’t tattle…” he groaned into the bedding. Papa’s reel volume went up.

“Papa, volume!” They both called out in unison.

“Your volume as well,” Papa shot back.

“Where is Rajmata?” Samarth glanced around. The AC was on full blast, his father’s room was chilled, it was after 10 and their time to talk in his bed. His father’s reel volume though was only controlled by her.

“She went to get his milk.”

“In a bottle?” Samarth sputtered. Sharan tried to head-butt his lap but he held his skull back. At 18, he was full-grown and stronger than him. But right now he was recovering from an intense week of dengue and hence flopped down.

“If he does not start drinking his fluids and eating his food like a responsible adult then that’s my next course of action,” Rajmata walked in, a glass of yellow milk in her hand.

Samarth gagged but kept his reaction to himself.

He could have milk separately and haldi separately but not together.

Listening to the croak from the bedding, he knew Sharan shared his sentiment.

“Drink,” Rajmata pulled him up by the back of his collar. “And do not dare talk in circles with me again.”

“Tattletale,” Sharan muttered, gulping the milk.

“Doodh coldrink, bile, vomit, cockroach…” Samarth began to recount and he gagged.

“Samarth!” Rajmata scolded. Papa laughed.

It was only after Sharan gagged his way through his milk that Rajmata finally rounded the bed and settled in front of him, on her own pillow backrest. She looked tired, and a little sleepy.

Sharan had made her dance to his tunes all week.

Even so, she sat up straight and asked what she always asked —

“What’s new then, boys?”

“I am so sick!” Sharan fell back on the bed.

“It’ll pass,” Rajmata retorted sternly. She wasn’t as stern five days ago when Sharan was groaning with fever and Dengue was detected.

Their kingdom had been in its grip and they had gotten out guidelines to curb the outbreak along with rolling out a massive drive to cover all open water sources after a splendid monsoon.

“Papa, did you speak to the IMA President? Can we officially roll out malaria quinine for dengue?”

Papa locked his phone shut instantly, his eyes going sharp. He ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair — “He cannot let us do so officially, but we can spread the word out unofficially. Some research has shown it can be a secondary treatment for dengue.”

“It is affordable, and the council of doctors I spoke to swore by its effect in quickly inhibiting dengue virus replication.”

Papa sat up straight — “We cannot make official statements to that effect but yes, it can be a drug to control and manage dengue.”

“Then I’ll speak to Dr. Vora. Have him roll it out.”

“Bring one home for this one too,” Rajmata quipped, glancing at Sharan.

“I told him not to wade into the lake. And still he went. All last week he kept going! See what happened now?! It’s a breeding ground for mosquitoes in this season…

You too, Samarth — did you wear your riding boots and cover everything while riding today? ”

“There are no open sources of water around the school, Rajmata. Relax.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Try and go riding by day, not by evening.”

“Where’s the time?”

“Go early in the morning.”

“He is an adult, Tara. He will manage. Stop nagging the children now — one is a fresh adult and the other is ready to get married.”

There we go again.

“My favourite topic!” Sharan sat up in bed, all fever and sickness forgotten.

“What happened with Orissa’s princess?” Papa inquired casually, and very tactlessly. “Did you show her our oil drilling rig?”