Chapter 1: Even the Pigeons Know

In Rajasthan, even the pigeons on the palace dome know about the Maharaja’s three sons.

Here, gossip floats on the hot breeze, and when it comes to the royal family, every chai-wala and rickshaw-wala from the bazaar to the palace gates has a story. At the corner tea stall, as the chai-wala pours extra adrak into a glass, a rickshaw-wala wipes sweat from his brow and calls out, “Arrey, did you hear what Rohan bhaiya did last night?” Everyone leans in, eager for the latest tale. Even the palace guards pass time on night shift debating the strengths and weaknesses of the princes.

The eldest is the lion-hearted, the second sharp as a blade, and the third? Well, he’s the one everyone calls mediocre.

Rohan bhaiya’s wrestling and leopard stories are retold with pride by the guards. Ishaan bhaiya’s cleverness is measured in the knowing smiles from the pundits. And me? I’m only mentioned when someone wants to make their lazy son feel better, or when the kitchen staff need a good laugh.

It’s my fate to be that so-called useless third son everyone talks about.

Some blame my stars, others my mother’s luck. But whenever I hear ‘useless one’ whispered, I just smile to myself. In a royal household, invisibility is its own kind of superpower.

Who wants to be second? Everyone’s scrambling for the throne, but nobody fights for the silver medal at the school sports day—your photo’s in the paper, but who really remembers it?

Let them laugh! As long as I have my evening jalebi and a peaceful nap, they can chase their glory. I’ll chase the mango kulfi cart instead.

Chanakya said: plan before you act, know when to stop, and you’ll come out ahead.

Wah, Chanakya ji! He had it right. Sit quietly, watch the tamasha, and only step in when the time is ripe. My secret weapons? Patience—and the knack for disappearing just when things get messy.