Chapter 2: Shadows and Schemes
In the Prime Minister’s bungalow, Vikram Mehra paced restlessly, knuckles tapping the rosewood desk—an old habit from busier days. The aroma of strong filter coffee sat untouched beside a stack of files. The ceiling fan hummed overhead, stirring only more unease.
The Yuvraj, Arjun, who had been preparing for his coronation, had suddenly cried out and collapsed. For three days and nights, he lay in a coma while every royal doctor and the family’s trusted hakim tried and failed to wake him. Tulsi leaves were laid on his brow, prayers chanted, but nothing stirred. The old aunties in the zenana whispered of evil eyes and black magic, their worry thick as the monsoon clouds.
Today, the attendants finally reported the Yuvraj had awoken—but something was not right. His mind seemed muddled, his words strange, his memory off. Vikram’s chest tightened. The late Maharaj had entrusted him with the orphan at Kaveripur—if anything happened to Arjun, how would he answer to Maharaj Rajendra in the afterlife?
He glanced at his WhatsApp, a nervous tic, before shutting his phone away. The clock on the wall ticked like a drumbeat, marking out a sleepless night. Vikram resolved, come what may, he would enter the palace and see the Yuvraj himself at dawn.
Meanwhile, Rohan—now Arjun—calmed himself and questioned his attendants, piecing together the truth. He had reincarnated as Arjun, Yuvraj of Rajputana.
My mind spun. Seventeen, royal blood, the future of a kingdom in my hands. This was nothing like my old life. But if fate had gifted me a second chance, I’d make sure the world remembered the name Ashok Dev—let neither North nor South rest easy.
The old pride swelled within me. If the gods had granted me this, I would not squander it like spilled chai. Looking at this youthful body, hope rose inside me. I let out a long, raw howl towards the sky—a cry that echoed through the marble courtyards and sent pigeons flying. Even the old caretaker nearly dropped his brass lota in shock.
The attendants, terrified, peeked from behind curtains. One whispered, "Bhoot-pret toh nahin hai na?" Another quickly lit an agarbatti at the threshold, wafting the smoke into the room for protection.
Embarrassed, I wiped away the bravado and composed myself. "Enough drama, let’s get to work. Someone bring the Prime Minister—jaldi!"
From this moment, I was Arjun. It was time to meet the legendary eternal Prime Minister I’d always admired from afar.