Chapter 2: Shadows of Suspicion

Meanwhile, the third prince relished his brief moment in the sun. Having exposed his brother’s scheme, he rehearsed his words in front of the gilt-framed mirror, smoothing his hair with coconut oil, then checking his kurta buttons twice. He adjusted his sherwani collar, practicing the perfect respectful tilt of his head, hoping to win the Maharaja’s favour. But the old man’s eyes saw through every act. Suspicion had dug its claws deep: none of his sons, the Maharaja felt, could be trusted now. Each one, in their own way, was plotting for the throne. The courtiers murmured in the corridors, “Raja saab ka dil toot gaya hai, ab kisi pe bharosa nahi raha.”

From that day, the palace changed. The Maharaja grew wary and cold, his presence casting a long shadow over every gathering. The rivalry among the princes sharpened, twisting into something unpredictable. Family dinners became tense rituals—the dal growing cold in silver bowls, untouched as the princes stared at their plates, avoiding each other’s eyes. Only the clink of cutlery and the occasional cough disturbed the silence. Even Panditji, the old family priest, noticed the gloom; his prayers for peace in the palace grew more urgent, his voice straining to out-sing the faint, distant aarti from the temple. The summer heat pressed in, and tempers frayed. On some nights, when all seemed lost, the mournful notes of a shehnai drifted from the garden, as if the ghosts of happier times still lingered in the shadows.