Chapter 1: Death in Rajpur Palace

I am Arjun, and I died in the old palace at Rajpur.

The air pressed in on me, thick with the musty scent of walls that had seen too much, and a sticky, stifling heat that clung like your kurta after a June power cut. My eyes fluttered open, and suddenly, I was right back on that same battered cot—head sunk into a pillow still tinged with camphor and attar. Uncle Dev was there, sitting before me, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes shining with a strange, unreadable light. He leaned forward, voice dropping low, like we were sharing some big secret behind the paan shop in Hazratganj.

A wave of panic hit me. I glanced down at my own hands, half-expecting them to be ghostly. Sweat prickled along my brow, trickling down my back, making my kurta stick to my skin. My heart thudded, each beat echoing louder than the tick of the wall clock.

"The CM has returned victorious. Even if you’re unwell, you must force yourself to enter the bungalow and offer congratulations," Uncle Dev advised, voice gentle in that practiced, almost weary way, like he’d said the same thing a hundred times to others before me.

But I could see the lie in his eyes—a slight twitch of his moustache, a flicker that gave him away. I remembered now: the CM was still away in the districts, dousing the fires of a riot. He hadn’t returned. Uncle Dev was baiting me.

The seconds seemed to drag, the old clock’s tick-tock growing louder, like it would expose my every thought.

When I stayed silent, Uncle Dev placed his heavy hand on my shoulder, his thumb pressing into my collarbone. It was meant to comfort, but all I felt was dread. His face was all concern—like a proper elder, the kind who’d offer you kheer with one hand and feed you to the wolves with the other. "Is your illness any better, beta?" he asked, his voice softening to a whisper.

My skin tingled with the memory of death. The cold sweat clung to me, my mind racing through the last time I’d felt that rope.

I had been personally recommended by Uncle Dev—the Cabinet Secretary himself. Everyone in the Secretariat knew it. The aroma of filter coffee and the distant clang of a pressure cooker from the kitchen always made me feel like I belonged in his house.

Uncle Dev was always extra kind to me. He’d bring me soan papdi during Diwali, insist I come for Sunday lunch, and even the help would whisper, "Arjun babu is like their own blood."

But now, I knew he was being forced by Didi—the Chief Minister’s wife. The way peons whispered in the corridors, the way everyone’s eyes darted away when I passed, it was clear: Didi’s word was law behind those walls.

If I could just keep up my act—pretend to be too sick to move, wait until the CM returned—surely he wouldn’t let his wife meddle so openly. Family and politics are always tangled here, but there are some lines even the boldest won’t cross.

I coughed, letting my voice rasp with fake weakness. "Uncle Dev, I really can’t get up. The CM is generous—he won’t blame me." I faked a weak smile, hoping my act would stick.

Uncle Dev looked relieved, like a weight had lifted. "Then rest, beta. I’ll go and report to the CM." He adjusted his glasses, patted my hand, and shuffled out, his slippers making that soft slap-slap on the mosaic tiles.

He left, but the air felt heavier than before, thick with things unsaid.

I let out a long breath and turned to the wall, tracing the cracks in the faded paint, praying for calm.

Last time, my death was wretched. I remembered the cold floor, the burning in my lungs, the echo of my own frantic gasps in that empty room.

My body ached all over, phantom pains from old wounds I hadn’t yet suffered. My limbs were heavy with dread.

I wanted only to rest. The ceiling fan above me groaned and spun, stirring the muggy air just enough to remind me I was alive.

Suddenly—a rope slipped around my neck, rough jute biting into my skin. For a split second, my eyes darted to the old calendar on the wall, the faded faces of forgotten politicians staring down. Outside, a chai-walla’s distant cry floated in, as if the world refused to pause for my death.

The pain was suffocating. I clawed at the rope, nails scraping desperately, but the world spun—faster, darker.

Uncle Dev leaned in, voice thick with tears and the tang of paan: "Why do you defy Didi, why..." His breath was hot against my ear, torn between sobs and bitter laughter.

I wanted to ask—what had I done to deserve this? But my voice failed, a gurgle in my throat.

This time, the darkness came quicker. At least the pain didn’t drag on.

The last thing I heard was Uncle Dev’s broken sob—then, only the silence of the old palace remained.