Chapter 3: Coronation and New Bonds

The palace hall shimmered with anticipation. Sunlight poured through jaali windows, painting delicate patterns across the marble floor. The coronation ceremony unfolded with all the pomp Jaipur could muster—marigold garlands draped over pillars, temple bells pealing, and the shankha’s echo ringing through every corridor. Vendors tossed extra gulal in the air, and even the stray dogs wore marigold garlands around their necks. Children ran through the gullies, shouting, "Naya Maharaj! Naya Maharaj!"

After the coronation, the palace finally settled into routine. The clatter of copper thalis, the soft murmur of the zenana, and the distant melody of morning bhajans returned to fill the air. People breathed easy for the first time in months.

But I refused to rest on the throne. I summoned local officials daily, quizzing them on hills, rivers, customs, people, and finances. Clerks shuffled in with ledgers, farmers brought gifts—jaggery, mangoes, coconuts—hoping the new king would notice them.

Vikram Mehra watched all this with growing suspicion. Was this truly the same Yuvraj who once gambled on cockfights and dog races? He pinched himself, convinced he must be dreaming. No matter—His Majesty was diligent, and if he kept the peace, perhaps Rajputana would flourish.

But peace never lasted long. One day, the doorman burst in, dishevelled and missing a chappal. "Prime Minister, something terrible has happened!"

Vikram’s eyes narrowed. "Arrey, kya hua? Tameez se bol."

"His Majesty was competing in horsemanship with General Kabir and fell—he’s fainted again!"

Vikram groaned, tossing his silk handkerchief over his shoulder and dashing off, muttering, "Bas, ek din shanti nahi milta."

In the main hall, the air was thick with embarrassment. I sat with my arm in a sling, face bruised and eyes askew. Kabir fidgeted, his moustache twitching. Vikram’s glare could melt steel.

I forced a sheepish grin, as if to say, "Baat toh badi nahi hai." Kabir shrugged helplessly. Vikram scolded us with the wisdom of a thousand palace elders, "Tum dono bilkul bachchon jaise ho gaye ho, samjhe?" Even as I nursed my wounds, I couldn’t resist teasing, "Prime Minister is right, revive Rajputana. When will we launch the campaign?"

Kabir nearly choked. Vikram dragged him out before we could cause more trouble. As soon as they were gone, I pulled at my sling, grinning to myself. "Summon the royal physician again," I called. The attendant raced off, dhoti flapping, to fetch the doctor for the third time that week.