Sitapur, 1855 — The Ball
The young prince headed towards the southern wing of the grand hall, offering only curt nods to generals and royals. Their eyes sparkled with pride, their mouths ready with tales of his triumphs — but Arav Rathore had no interest in glory tonight.
His mind, his breath, his very soul were fixed on a chamber above. A room carved in memory and silence.
His heart beat like a war drum in his chest as he neared the staircase. The clink of his boots echoed on marble, chasing the shadows behind him. Without pause, he turned the silver doorknob. It clicked open — a familiar sound, one that stirred a fifteen-year-old ache in his chest.
He stepped in.
There, in the golden hush of lamplight, Rani Devi stood — her back to him, facing the wall. She hadn't turned, yet he could feel the storm in her chest. Even from behind, he saw the faint tremble of her shoulders, the stiff lift of her chin, the soft glint of tears traced into the shape of her nose — delicate, flushed, and dignified.
She stood before a massive painting, its frame thick with sun-gold wood carved in curling lotus vines, crowned with a crest of Sitapur's sigil — a lion guarding a lotus flame. The wall itself was marble-veined, decorated with intricate Rajputana jaali patterns that let soft moonlight filter through in geometric patches.
In the portrait, Maharaja Prithviraj Rathore stood tall, draped in a crimson angarkha embroidered with zari peacocks and a long velvet cloak dusted with tiny emeralds. Beside him, Rani Devi sat regally on a throne shaped like a golden peacock, its feathers set with rare sapphire, tourmaline, and uncut diamonds — a gift once brought from Kabul. Her saree was a marvel — Kota silk dyed in deep rani pink, with silver vines blooming across it, draped in the Marwari style, a single pleat cascading down like a waterfall of woven starlight.
Her hand rested on the head of a little boy — no older than seven — standing proudly at her side in a navy blue sherwani with golden cuffs, his tiny scabbard tied firmly at his waist. The boy's face was radiant — the steel of his father's gaze, and the light of his mother's soul. In that image, they looked not just like a family, but like a pantheon of warriors guarding their Sitapur — Rama, Sita, and their lion-hearted prince.
Before the painting stood a cuboidal glass pedestal, within which lay a sword — half-wrapped in velvet red silk, its hilt shaped like a roaring lion's head. The blade had a serrated back edge, built not only to strike but to break another sword if parried. Ancient Sanskrit script was engraved along the fuller — words that spoke of legacy, of fire, of blood-earned honour.
A single word escaped the young warrior's lips — a whisper that cracked like thunder through the stillness "Maa." mother
He crossed the distance between them in three long strides.
At the echo of that word — faint, yet sweet as sandalwood — the Queen turned.
As he had guessed, her eyes were moist, but now he saw what he hadn't expected: a blinding spark of pride and an ocean of relief.
Pride — that her son had returned not just with victory, but as the heir of a legacy that had kept Sitapur free from the grasp of the East India Company — one of the last few kingdoms alongside Firozpur still untouched.
Relief — that her only son, the child born of her deepest prayers, the one she had sent away from her heart for his own good, had come home.
She took a shaky step forward. Her trembling fingers touched his hair, then his face, as though afraid that if she exhaled, he might vanish."mera shahzada " My prince
Arav lowered his head, touched her feet — and then, without hesitation, pulled her into his arms.
They shed no loud tears, only silent ones, tracing old wounds in new warmth.
Finally, the Queen spoke, her voice breaking like brittle glass "Badi der kar di ghar wapas aanay mein, beta…" Her vulnerability cracked the air. "You took so long to return home, my son"
"Wapas toh aa gaya hoon na?" But I have come back now,haven't I?
Arav replied softly, anchoring her trembling form against him.
He looked around the room — the sword, the painting, the scent of jasmine and old memories.
"In pandrah saal mein… bas do-teen baar toh dekha hai tumhe," Inthese fifteen years… I only saw you two or three times," she whispered, not accusingly, but like a child telling a story to the wind.
she whispered, not accusingly, but like a child telling a story to the wind.
"Tum kabhi yahan nahi aaye…" You never came back here…"He smiled slightly, tilting his forehead to hers."Woh bhi mujhe hi milne padhta tha." Even then, I had to come meet you…" She gave him a half-hearted slap on the shoulder, a mother's gesture that spoke more love than a hundred poems.
His mother started complaining as if if wasn't her idea to send her only son abroad to Europe,so that he could get better education and knowledge about the weapons EIC used against them from which they were in every possible manner unaware.
And in that moment, Rani Devi of Sitapur was no longer a queen of politics and titles — but simply, a mother.
And Arav Rathore, heir of the throne and warrior of the people — was simply her child.