Chapter 1: Awakening in Jaipur

The world came back to Rohan slowly, with the lingering scent of sandalwood incense twining with the earthy air drifting in from the open courtyard. Sunlight slanted through the jaali windows, painting latticework patterns across the marble floor. Somewhere, a koel sang its plaintive song, and the far-off rattle of a bullock cart drifted up from the cobbled street. Rohan blinked, his mind fogged by sleep, the crisp bedsheet clinging to his skin in the early Jaipur heat. For a moment, everything was wrong—his hands too slender, the bed unfamiliar, the air heavy with a regal hush.

He sat up abruptly, heart pounding. His first instinct was to reach for the rudraksha bead he always wore around his neck, but his hand found only smooth, unfamiliar skin. "Bhagwan, yeh kya ho gaya?" he muttered, pinching his forearm sharply. The pain was real. He whispered a shaky prayer, the words tumbling out by force of habit: "Om Namah Shivaya."

"Where is the Yuvraj?"

A nervous attendant, dressed in spotless white dhoti, appeared at the door, hands folded, voice quivering as though expecting a scolding. "Maharaj, aap hi toh Yuvraj hain." The formality in the address struck Rohan as surreal, the weight of the words pressing down on him. Was he really being called 'Maharaj'?

His thoughts scrambled. Rajeev was supposed to be by his side—why did his voice sound so strange? Rohan stumbled to the brass mirror perched atop a carved table. His reflection stared back: a sharp jawline, arrogant eyes not his own, and thick, coiled hair that bore no resemblance to the one he remembered. He pressed his fingers to his jaw, tracing the new lines, then ran a fingertip over his unfamiliar nose. Hesitantly, he whispered, testing the resonance, "Kaun hoon main?" The voice was different, deeper, tinged with a royal accent.

Uncle Sharma’s words echoed in his mind—Anand’s medicine could bring the dead back to life. But this felt like rebirth, not resurrection. Was this janam punarjanam, the stories whispered by grandmothers at dusk? Maybe this was karma’s design—a new role for an old soul.

His head throbbed, as if a hundred temple bells rang at once. The old tales of wandering spirits and rebirth fluttered through his memory. He forced himself to breathe, steady and slow. Whatever the gods intended, he needed to understand who he was now.

His heart raced, thudding like temple drums. He tried to recall the old prayers for clarity, chanting under his breath: "Om Namah Shivaya." The rhythm calmed him, if only for a moment.

"Is my father well?"

The attendant hesitated, bowing lower. "The late Maharaj passed away in Kaveripur, huzoor."

"And my elder brother?"

A deeper bow. "He was ordered to death by the late Maharaj, Maharaj."

Rohan wiped sweat from his brow, a nervous smile flickering. At least the family politics weren’t impossibly tangled. In India, family and politics always ran together—this new life was no different.

He dismissed the attendants and helpers with a wave. All he wanted was a little peace and quiet, a moment to think in this borrowed skin.

The marble floor was cool beneath his feet as he shooed them away. "Bas, ho gaya. Abhi jao, mujhe akele chhod do," he said, voice firmer than he felt.

One attendant lingered at the door, peering in anxiously as if unsure whether to leave the new Yuvraj alone. Another quickly lit an agarbatti at the threshold, murmuring a prayer for protection before finally retreating.