The sun rose over Rajgarh not as a simple dawn but as a celestial proclamation.
It gilded the domes of the palace in molten amber and set the marble corridors aflame with light.
From the sanctum of the eastern courtyard to the lofty jharokhas overlooking the city, the kingdom awakened with a reverence reserved only for days when destiny itself chose to walk the earth.
The palace, called Simhasana-Mahal, had seen centuries of kings, of wars, of alliances woven and broken like garlands at a coronation. Its banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the cool breeze, embroidered with the royal insignia of a coiled serpent guarding a lotus—the symbol of Rajgarh's enduring vigilance and grace. Today those banners seemed to breathe, alive with unspoken anticipation.
For today was the day of the Golden Durbar.
The courtyards filled with courtiers whose boots clanged on the carved stone, Brahmin priests whose chants resonated like the heartbeat of the earth, and noble ladies moving like painted lamps in the soft light.
Jewel-laden elephants stood outside the palace gates, draped in brocade; horsemen in scarlet pagdis formed disciplined rows along the central avenue. Drums rolled slow and thunderous—nagara, dhol, shehnai—an orchestra of empire.
Inside, the great throne room glowed like the inside of a sacred fire.
The throne itself, the Simhasana of Kshatriya Sovereignty, rose high on a dais of carved sandalwood, inlaid with gold filigree, resting on clawed lion feet.
Above it, a canopy embroidered with celestial constellations spread like the night sky captured and forced into obedience.
It had been brought long ago from the artisans of Jaipur, blessed in the temples of Ujjain, and sworn to uphold Dharma. No mortal sat upon it without the weight of the cosmos pressing upon his shoulders.
Today, however, a man sat upon it with the ease of one born to carry such weight.
Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj.
He was not young; time had etched faint lines across his brow, but his eyes remained the sharp, unwavering eyes of the hawk that ruled the skies. His moustache curled upward with pride befitting a scion of warriors, and his shoulders bore the royal shawl of gold-threaded silk. Across his chest hung the Rajtilak Mala, pearls interspersed with rubies that flushed like drops of blood. His sword, the ancient blade "Vajraketu", rested by his side, its hilt carved with verses from scripture.
He surveyed the durbar with calm dominion.
He had ruled through famine and festival, through the rising shadow of British power and the crumbling pride of lesser princes.
He had been courted by Company officers with smiles as cold as winter and had watched their railway tracks cut through his lands like iron scars.
He had been mocked by some, feared by many, and loved fiercely by his people. Above all, he had guarded his throne with raj-dharma—the sacred law of kings.
Behind the throne, arranged with celestial symmetry, stood the royal family.
The Queens:
On the left side, resplendent as twin constellations, were the two wives of the Maharaja.
The woman robed in emerald green, posture poised like a scripture etched in stone, was Maharani Aishvarya Devi, the Queen Regent. She had eyes that had measured kingdoms and minds alike, eyes that could quell generals and console children with the same glance.
A chain of emerald droplets rested upon her throat, but the true crown she wore was invisible—it was her authority.
Beside her stood the queen in rose-pink silk, delicate yet luminous like a lotus unfolding under moonlight—Maharani Lalima Devi, the Queen Consort. Her smile was softer, her heart quicker to tremble, yet none denied the grace that cascaded from her presence.
Her beauty was the talk of poets; her griefs, the whispers of corridors. She carried her joys openly, her sorrows inwardly, like hidden jewels.
Between these two pillars of the zenana stood their daughters.
The princess in crimson silk, wearing a maang-tikka that kissed her brow like a droplet of the sun, was Rajkumari Charumati, daughter of the Queen Consort. She held her hands clasped before her, fingers adorned with rings, her gaze bright yet contemplative, as though her heart already lived beyond palace walls, in stories and songs yet unwritten.
Beside her, draped in deep royal purple, stood Rajkumari Mrinalini, daughter of the Queen Regent, whose smile seldom reached her eyes.
She was the dream of scholars carved into flesh—keen, restrained, listening always more than speaking.
The court had learned to fear the still water of her silence.
Their sarees shimmered like river currents beneath palace lamps.
The Princes :
On the right side of the throne stood the princes—the future, the heirs, the storm and sun of Rajgarh's horizon.
First among them, clad in white ceremonial armour, was Yuvraj Aditya Pratap Singh, the eldest son, commander of the Maharaja's Armed Guard. White turban, silver embroidery, gaze like chilled steel. His back seemed hewn from mountain cliff; his duty was not worn but inhabited. His hands carried not softness but callus of sword-hilt and reins. Men called him "Simha-Suta"—son of the lion.
Adjacent, dressed in deep imperial purple, stood the Crown Prince, Rajkumar Samrat Veer Singh, the third-born yet the chosen heir—for destiny bows not to seniority alone, but to the strange arithmetic of fate.
His face bore both the tenderness of the poet and the resoluteness of the warrior. And it was he who, by marriage, bound kingdoms.
Last among the brothers, hardly yet a man but burning with promise, stood the youngest son—Rajkumar Aarav, in crimson kurta, eyes dancing with mischief even amidst solemnity.
He hid laughter behind folded hands, his spirit yet untamed like a colt in spring.
The Woman in Red
But it was the woman standing beside the purple-clad Crown Prince who stole the eye like a ruby catching firelight.
She was draped in vermillion silk, the red of sacred kumkum and spilled destiny. The sindoor streak upon her parted hair blazed like a banner of conquest and belonging. Around her neck fell layered gold necklaces; bangles kissed at her wrists like tiny bells of temple corridors. Her features were serene, almost demure, yet her gaze carried a depth like an unfathomable well.
She was Yuvrani Anushka Devi, princess of the royal house of Bengal, now wife of the Crown Prince of Rajgarh.
She bowed with grace so perfect it seemed rehearsed in seven lifetimes.
Within her eyes glimmered something the court had not yet learned to read.
Destiny did not whisper to her; it obeyed her.
The British Presence:
At the far edge of the hall, like frost at the margin of a warm lake, stood the British.
Company officials in pale uniforms, polished boots, and stiff collars. Their monocles gleamed like predatory eyes; their smiles were thin, their notebooks thicker than their souls. They were guests—so they said. Advisors—so they called themselves. Masters—so they intended to be.
One of them, the British Resident, leaned slightly toward another and murmured,
"Observe the pageantry, old chap. All peacocks and incense. Yet the claws are ours."
He did not notice the red-clad princess-wife glance his way with a smile delicate as silk and sharp as a dagger's edge.
The Durbar Begins
The royal herald strode forward and struck the marble floor thrice with the golden staff.
"Pranam to His High Majesty, Maharaja Virendra Dev Raj, Shadow of the Almighty, Keeper of the Sacred Line, Protector of Dharma, Sovereign of Rajgarh!"
The hall bowed like a wave kneeling to shore.
The Maharaja lifted his hand lightly—the lift of one finger capable of raising armies or sealing fates.
"Let the Durbar start," he said, his voice rolling like distant thunder.
Petitions were brought forward.
Farmers from the western fiefs bowed, turbans dusted with travel, pleading relief from the British tax officers who squeezed land like a serpent wresting its prey.
Merchants petitioned against monopoly on salt and indigo.
Brahmin scholars recited omens of celestial conjunctions foretelling upheaval.
The Maharaja listened.
The Queen Regent watched.
The Crown Prince learned.
The Bride in Red memorised.
Each voice was a thread in the tapestry she was already weaving.
Dialogue in the Old Court Tongue
A courtier rose, his voice trembling.
"Maharajadhiraj, the Company Sahibs have levied tax upon the very air we breathe. Our peasants eat dust and dreams. Grant us thy raj-kripa."
The Maharaja answered calmly,
"A king's first vow is not to his crown, but to the humble foot that walks his soil. Let relief be granted. Let the granaries be opened. Let not a mother weep for want of grain while I yet draw breath."
The court murmured approval.
The British Resident swallowed annoyance.
The Crown Prince leaned slightly toward his wife and whispered,
"He stands as Himalaya while the empire winds howl."
She replied gently,
"Himalayas change not, my lord. But glaciers move mountains."
He smiled, misunderstanding—he thought she spoke of poetry.
She spoke of conquest.
A Private Storm in Public Calm
Later, as offerings were laid before the idol of Ganapati Bappa, a moment of silence washed through the hall. Lamps flickered; incense curled like serpents ascending to the rafters. In that holy stillness, each member of the royal family faced their fate without yet fully seeing it.
The Queen Consort silently prayed:
Let my children live.
The Queen Regent prayed:
Let the throne endure.
The Crown Prince prayed:
Let me be worthy of both my kingdom and my beloved.
The Bride in Red did not pray.
She merely thought:
Let the world kneel.
The King Speaks of Britain
As the durbar neared its height, the Maharaja rose from the throne.
Gold flickered as the hall inhaled.
"Today," he proclaimed, "our land stands beneath a double sun—the radiant glory of our ancestors, and the harsh, unblinking fire of the foreign empire.
The British Raj calls itself protector, but a protector who binds wrists in the name of safety is but a gaoler painted in courtesy."
A ripple surged through the assembly.
The British Resident stiffened.
The Maharaja continued,
"Hear this, O my courtiers, my warriors, my sons and daughters born of this sacred dust. The throne of Rajgarh is not a stool kept beneath a foreign table. It is the Simhasana of Dharma. The lion bows to none."
His voice deepened, carrying beyond marble, beyond flesh, beyond years.
"There may come a time when chains shall rattle louder than temple bells. When the price of dignity is blood. If such an hour dawns, remember—better the pyre than the yoke."
The words struck the court like lightning.
Some trembled.
Some were ignited.
One woman in red smiled very faintly.
The Subtle Chessboard of Eyes
The Maharaja reseated himself. Advisers buzzed like bees around honey guarded by spears.
The Eldest Son rested his palm on the hilt of his blade, heart swelling with martial fire. He could already hear the future battles—hooves pounding the earth like war drums, sabres clashing under storm-bruised skies.
War did not frighten him; irrelevance did.
The Youngest Son watched wide-eyed, absorbing history like a sponge of silk scented with sandalwood.
The two princesses exchanged veiled glances, secrets sewn into their smiles.
The two queens thought the same thought, though they would never utter it aloud:
One day, only one branch of this tree shall remain.
The Crown Prince, however, saw something different.
He saw his wife's stillness.
Stillness not of peace, but of calculation.
He leaned toward her.
"My Rani," he whispered tenderly, "what stirs in thy heart?"
She bowed her head slightly.
"Only devotion—to thee, to our motherland, to the destiny yet veiled."
He touched her hand briefly, reassured.
Destiny smiled.
A Subtle Omen
A peacock screeched outside the durbar windows, its cry sharp as prophecy.
A lamp flickered.
A petal fell upon the King's throne.
A priest muttered beneath his breath, "The winds shift. The Goddess stirs."
No one yet saw how far that wind would carry them—through rebellion, through betrayal, through coronations in blood and love broken upon the altar of ambition.