Chapter 4: Devotion, Dismissal, and Disaster

Back in the Maharaja's private quarters, I went straight back to bed.

The room was as grand as any five-star suite: carved rosewood bed, silk pillows, and outside, the koel was singing her heart out. I ignored everything and pulled the thick quilt over my head.

When I woke up at noon to eat,

The silver plates clinked as a maid served me piping hot puris, the aroma of ghee and cardamom filling the air. The aroma of spicy aloo and warm rotis reached me before I even opened my eyes. For a second, I almost thought I was back at home on a Sunday, with Ma calling, "Utho beta, nashta tayyar hai!"

Eunuch Gopal came to attend to me and reported

that Uncle Sharma was still kneeling outside the palace gates, begging for an audience.

He'd been kneeling since morning durbar, and was still there now.

He hadn’t had a drop of water, and ignored everyone trying to persuade him.

Just to see me once.

The loyalty—or stubbornness—of these old-timers! Gopal looked at me with concern, wiping sweat from his brow. The palace maid behind him whispered, "Such devotion, Maharaja! The gods must be watching."

I raised my eyebrows, a little surprised.

That's at least seven or eight hours of kneeling.

Truly made of iron—what a loyal minister.

But my modern brain couldn’t help but wonder—what would HR say if someone tried this in today’s offices? Probably viral on social media by now, #DedicationGoals.

I put down my spoon and hurried outside the palace.

The white marble burned underfoot. I shielded my eyes as I rushed down the steps, feeling the heavy, sticky weight of the afternoon heat—almost like Delhi in May.

Under the blazing sun, Uncle Sharma was sweating buckets in his suffocating white kurta-pyjama,

kneeling at the palace gates with his head bowed.

His old face was bright red from the sun, sweat pouring down like rain.

When he saw me, Uncle Sharma was overcome with emotion.

He trembled as he tried to get up and bow.

His lips quivered, and he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his trembling hand, voice cracking as he tried to greet me.

I shuffled awkwardly, scratching my neck, wishing I could just disappear behind the nearest pillar. Still, I quickly went over and helped him up.

For a moment, the other courtiers stared, then pretended not to see. Gopal hurried over with a brass lota of water, pressing it into Uncle Sharma’s hands.

Uncle Sharma gripped my hand tightly, tears streaming down his wrinkled face:

"Maharaja, yeh rajya ki bhavishya ka sawal hai! Kripya, dharm aur kartavya ko mat bhooliye…"

Before he could finish, he collapsed into my arms.

His head lolled, and I shouted for help. The nearby guard dropped his spear in panic, and two servants dashed forward, fanning Uncle Sharma furiously with a peacock feather.

Thankfully, Eunuch Gopal was quick and had someone bring water.

When Uncle Sharma slowly regained consciousness, I was deeply moved and immediately issued an order.

This loyal Uncle Sharma would be transferred out of the capital to Pune district, to serve as collector of Kaveripur.

I declared with royal gravitas, "Such dedication deserves a new post—one far from the capital, where the people need your wisdom."

"Thank you, Your Highness, for your great favour... Eh..."

The Minister of Rituals blinked, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

"Transferred... to the district... as collector..."

He stuttered, looking between me and Gopal, confusion written all over his tired face.

I nodded and patted his shoulder heavily:

"Beloved minister, a pillar of the state like you shouldn't be wasted in the capital.

You should go to a remote district and help me solve problems there."

I added, with a wide smile, "You will uplift the most neglected people, Uncle. Isn’t that the true path of a karyakarta?"

Uncle Sharma's face went pale, as if he wanted to protest.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at the dusty road out of the palace, as if already imagining his long journey.

I waved my hand dismissively and ordered him escorted away.

Gopal signaled to the guards, who gently lifted Uncle Sharma by his arms, murmuring, "Chaliye, huzoor." The old man’s slippers scraped quietly on the stones as he left.

Gopal and I exchanged a glance. His face was unreadable, eyes lingering just a moment longer than usual—a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. Palace intrigue, perhaps?

As Uncle Sharma’s figure disappeared down the sun-baked road, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just played right into someone else’s game.