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“Yes,” Samarth reported. “She is looking at writing an op-ed piece on oil-rigging in the Arabian Sea for her blog.”

“And did you take her to dinner?”

“She had to leave, or I would have taken her.”

Papa sighed. Samarth dutifully sat back, done with the interrogation.

“Where did she have to go?” Rajmata asked, knowing eyes honed on him. He pleaded with his eyes — “To her hotel.”

“She had somebody waiting for her there?”

“I don’t know.”

Her nostrils flared. How, he didn’t know, but she would often find loopholes in his stories. In this one, the loophole was glaring — she ‘had to go’ because he hadn’t offered until the last moment. If she had lingered, he would have had to take her out to eat.

This was his life now. Sabotaging his father’s attempts at setting him up with women — princesses, heiresses, common girls…

anybody with an XY chromosome. And lately, Rajmata had started seeing through his straightforward attempts at going with the flow and destroying the setup in his own simple way.

He would have to find newer, more creative tactics.

————————————————————

His throat was dry. And itchy. Samarth woke up groggy in the middle of the night and reached out to his bedside for the flask of water.

It felt heavy in his hand. He squinted, his fingers shaking around the handle as he poured water into the glass.

His arm spasmed and with a shrill crack the flask crashed to the ground.

He pushed the duvet off and jumped to his feet, reaching for the bedside lamp.

His knees buckled. His feet swayed. His shoulders felt weak.

Was it fever?

He didn’t feel cold.

Samarth jumped over the crushed glass and winced. Something pierced his sole. Where were his slippers?

He stumbled towards the bathroom and felt the ground come close to his cheek. He broke the fall with his hand and fell to the side. His eyes jolted open. He took deep breaths. What was this?

He sighed through his mouth, took more deep breaths, then slowly pushed to his feet. He had enough presence of mind to turn away from the bathroom and towards the door. He pulled it open, trying to hold himself steady on his two feet. The guard zapped to attention — “Rawal?”

“Rajmata ne bolavi lao.” [77]

“Rawal, tame padi jaso…” [78]

“Rajmata ne lao. Awaaj na karto.” [79]

Samarth did not shut the door. He took deep breaths, feeling his senses return to normal.

He recognised the symptoms from Sharan’s.

He knew the course of medication too. But he did not know where to start.

Papa would panic. He had always panicked when he had been sick as a child.

As an adult, he had luckily never fallen sick when in the palace. It had only ever been while travelling.

“Samarth?” Rajmata came running, covering her saree pallu around her shoulders. “What happened to you?”

He could barely keep his eyes open — “Papa didn’t wake up, no?”

“No. What’s wrong?” She took him by the arm and pushed him inside. Then stopped short. He followed her gaze down to the floor. Bloody footprints, water, glass pieces.

“You cut your foot?!” She screamed at him. He winced.

“Get somebody to clean this immediately. Put on the light,” she ordered behind her. Then slid out of her slippers and pushed them towards him. “Wear these.”

“They won’t fit,” he tried to smile but his head was pounding now. All the lights came on in his room and he felt his head vibrate from the inside out.

“Samarth, wear them and get on the bed. Don’t put pressure on your wound,” she forced his body forward.

On a normal day, he wouldn’t have squeezed his feet into them but he wasn’t in his senses. He slipped into her tight sliders and hobbled to his bed. A firm hand pushed him horizontal, pulled the sliders off and then his foot was in her lap.

“It’s not that bad, Rajmata… I called you because I feel woozy. Please give me Sharan’s medicine… and… ow!”

“You walked with this shard of glass and now you are oohing and aahing,” she reprimanded, holding something sharp and shiny in her fingers. “Your foot feels warm. Show me?” She slid up on his side and set her hand on his forehead, then on his cheek, then under his chin. Her face contorted.

“You had fever last night when you were in our chamber?”

He shook his head. It hurt to speak now.

“Just… medicine…”

“Rajmata?” Somebody called out to her. And she was gone.

Samarth shut his eyes, pulling the pillow from beside him and covering his eyes.

He did not care if the guards saw it or somebody else did.

He was in so many different kinds of pain that nothing mattered except sleep.

It would get him some relief since Rajmata wasn’t giving him Sharan’s medicine.

“Samarth?” Her soft voice got to him.

“Hmm?”

His pillow was pushed off his forehead and he squinted at her covering the brightest source of light. “Open your mouth.”

He opened his mouth and she pushed a pill in, cupping his head and nudging it up, only to place a glass of water to his lips. He was thirsty. He wanted to drink. But the water tasted like acid. His throat was burning. He swallowed the pill and pushed back.

“Drink more.”

He shook his head.

“You need to keep drinking water.”

“Later…” he croaked. Before he could reach for the pillow again she switched off the lights. He waited for the door to click shut but her hand landed on his forehead. It felt too cold. He began to turn away from it when an icy cloth replaced it.

“I am fine…”

“Then go to sleep.”