Chapter 5: The Pact of Prime Minister and King

Spring returned to Jaipur, bringing a faint chill. I met Vikram three miles out, garland in hand, drums and bugles blaring. That night, I wrapped a shawl around myself and carried two bottles of mahua to his bungalow—no ceremony, just gratitude.

The map of the North lay sprawled on his desk. I requested to go on campaign, but Vikram refused, shaking his head. "Abhi nahi, beta. Tumhara waqt ayega."

I changed the topic. "Prime Minister, why do you insist on the campaign?" Vikram’s eyes grew distant, haunted by memories of the late Maharaj and a lifetime of service. "The campaign—first, to repay the late Maharaj’s favour; second, to revive Rajputana. That’s all."

I pressed further, quoting Pandit Ramdas. He replied with the gravitas of an epic: "A scholar dies for his confidant. Knowing it cannot be done, yet doing it—only striving to the utmost until death. What is there to fear?" His voice trembled, emotion breaking through the mask of duty.

Vikram rarely drank, but that night he had four or five cups. "Reviving Rajputana is nothing more than ending this chaos and letting the people be fed and clothed," he whispered. He grasped my hand, pledging to capture Indraprastha for me before his time ran out.

As he drifted to sleep, I covered him with a thick shawl. "In this life, just be a steady and secure prime minister. The task of pacifying rebels and stabilising the land will be left to me." For the first time, the burden felt lighter. Sometimes, destiny is a river. All you can do is hold your boat steady, oars gripped tight.