The sun did not rise as it once had. It emerged slowly, heavily, as though even light mourned the inevitability of this morning, pressing itself upon the world like a sentence already passed.
It stood above the cremation ground with a fierce, unblinking eye, burning down upon a land already familiar with endings. The earth beneath was darkened by layers of memory, ash pressed into soil by decades of fire and farewell. This was a place where ambitions came to be reduced to breath and smoke, where men who once dreamed themselves Gandhi, Genghis Khan, Ashoka, Bhagat Singh, or simply decent fathers and forgotten sons, returned to a common truth. Some had become what they believed themselves to be. Others had become what they feared most. And many had arrived here having never understood what they truly were.
The crematorium lay open to the sky, its boundaries marked not by walls but by acceptance. Banyan trees stood nearby, their roots breaking stone with the patience of time, their leaves whispering prayers no priest could remember fully. The air was thick with incense, ghee, and the raw, metallic scent of burning wood. Sanskrit chants rose and fell, steady and ancient, spoken by voices that had learned to remain calm even when grief threatened to break the rhythm of breath.
Rudra stood still.
He stood before the fire, watching the final authority of his life surrender to flame, watching certainty itself unravel into smoke and ash.
Not merely a body, not merely flesh turning to flame, but a presence. A force. A man who had once filled rooms without raising his voice. A man whose silence had ruled more than his commands ever did. A man Rudra had feared, resisted, admired, and secretly hoped might one day soften into something closer to ordinary.
He had already watched his mother become ash.
That memory had never left him. It lived behind his eyes, returning without permission. The crackle of fire, the sudden lift of heat against skin, the way smoke had carried her upward as if the world itself was unwilling to keep her. After that day, something had been done to him. Something he had never found a name for. The Almighty, if such a thing existed, had cursed him with sight. Not visions of prophecy, not blessings of wisdom, but the burden of seeing the dead too clearly, of sensing what lingered after breath had abandoned the body.
And now, he was watching the last certainty of his life burn away.
Rudra did not cry.
Tears stood in his eyes, unmoving, heavy, like pond water disturbed by no stone. They reflected the fire, the sky, the chanting priests, the figures gathered around. He wondered, with a quiet terror that settled deep in his chest, whether he was meant to lose everything he ever loved. Whether this was the design of his life. To endure. To witness. To remain.
Jaydev had arranged everything.
The cremation had drawn names that carried weight across the state and beyond. Heritage families from Himachal and the plains below. Business magnates who had once shared tables and silence with Mr. Roy. Bureaucrats whose pens had shaped futures quietly. Politicians who spoke of legacy and service with carefully measured grief.
There were central ministers present as well, men whose faces were known from newspapers and radio addresses. Representatives sent with folded hands and rehearsed condolences from Delhi, carrying the gravity of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru's era in their posture and tone. The nation was still young, still deciding what kind of power it wished to become, and men like Mr. Roy had known how to speak to it in its uncertain language.
Vivek Mehta stood a little apart, his wife Jayanti beside him, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped tightly as if holding herself together. Vikram Bhatt was there too, his two trained bull dogs waiting obediently at a distance, their presence oddly grounding amid the smoke and prayer. Neighbours, associates, distant relatives, all moved with the cautious reverence reserved for the truly powerful dead.
And yet, Rudra sensed others.
Figures who had not been invited. Faces that did not belong to mourning but to observation. Men who watched not the fire but him. Their expressions unreadable, their interest quiet, their presence unsettling. They stood at the edges of the gathering like shadows that had learned how to breathe. It was impossible to say whether they were real or merely the residue of grief and exhaustion. In that place, the line felt thin.
As the rituals reached their end, the fire reduced itself to embers. The chants softened. The priests gestured gently, instructing him. Rudra stepped forward, his movements slow, deliberate. He collected the ashes of his father with care, as though each particle carried memory, authority, and unfinished words. The weight in his hands was far greater than it should have been.
Jaydev sat behind him, silent, then followed, performing the same act with the same precision he had applied to every duty of his life.
Rudra reached for a still-burning piece of wood.
Jaydev's hand closed over his shoulder immediately, firm, grounding, stopping him. For a moment, Rudra resisted, then something in him gave way. He turned and embraced Jaydev, his grip sudden, desperate, unfamiliar. He did not remember the last time he had held another human being this way. Perhaps he never had.
Jaydev did not speak. He stood there, allowing it, his presence steady. The pain did not leave Rudra, but it loosened its hold, just enough for him to breathe.
The Roy Mansion did not welcome him. It endured him, standing silent and immovable, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, unsure of who now had the right to command them.
He stood in his father's office, still wearing the clothes of mourning, the scent of ash and smoke clinging to him. The room was unchanged. The bookshelves stood heavy with knowledge and secrets. He moved toward them, his fingers tracing familiar spines. He took out a book, one he himself had written, born from nights haunted by the dead and days burdened by thought.
He remembered the publishing event. The letters he had sent. The call he had made. His father's refusal, not unkind, simply distant. Business meetings. Obligations. Achievements acknowledged but unattended.
A knock came.
Jaydev entered.
"Master Roy."
Rudra replaced the book on the shelf without looking at him.
"A representative from the National Secretariat has arrived. From Delhi."
Rudra moved to the window. Outside, a white Ambassador stood waiting, a red beacon resting on its roof like a restrained warning.
"Let him in."
The man who entered was young enough to belong to the new India yet careful enough to respect the old. He wore thin brown glasses, a plain white shirt pressed to perfection, and formal brown trousers that spoke of discipline rather than fashion. His name was T. T. Krishnamachari, and he carried the calm assurance of a man already familiar with power and its corridors.
"I convey my deepest condolences, Mr. Roy," he said, his tone measured, respectful. "Pandit ji was held in great regard. Your father's contribution to stability, especially during these years of transition, has not gone unnoticed."
Rudra inclined his head slightly. "Stability is often another word for silence," he replied.
Krishnamachari allowed himself a brief pause, then smiled faintly. "And silence, when managed correctly, is sometimes the greatest service to the nation. The Nehru family values continuity. Certain relationships… endure beyond individuals."
"I am not my father," Rudra said calmly.
"No," the man agreed. "But you inherit what he protected. Influence does not wait to be reintroduced."
Before the man could leave, Rudra insisted he take prasad. Tradition demanded it. The door closed behind the visitor with a soft finality.
Jaydev remained.
Rudra spoke then, his voice low, controlled, edged with a bitterness he did not attempt to hide. "They arrive before the ashes cool. They speak of legacy as if it were a ledger entry. Power does not mourn, Jaydev. It only reallocates."
Jaydev answered with the quiet certainty of a man who had survived many regimes. "Power survives by belief, Master Roy. By appearing necessary to those who claim to guide the nation. To stand apart is to invite erasure."
"So one must become useful," Rudra said, almost to himself.
"One must become acceptable," Jaydev replied gently.
Rudra lowered his head into his hands.
"I am an orphan," he said. "An orphan seated where I never wished to sit."
Jaydev's hand rested on his shoulder.
"It is not a seat," he said. "It is a throne. And thrones do not ask permission."
Rudra stood and left the room.
Jaydev watched him leave, realizing with a slow, unsettling clarity that grief had not broken the young man. It had honed him, like steel held too long in fire, preparing him for a future that would demand far more than mourning.