1553 CE
It was not like he had never seen a damp cold room in a modest village. It was just that he had never called it home. The thirteen-year-old boy eyed his mother, trying to read her face. She seemed satisfied with the arrangements as she thanked the mysterious man who left after bowing. When he left, his mother started moving the things, unpacking the little they had with them. A thousand questions ran in his mind. Could they not go back home to Chittor? Why did they even leave Jalore? It was not like Rao Akshayraj Songara ever told his daughter to leave. But was she the kind to burden her father with her worries? He eyed his mother again. This time she had started cleaning the floor. The sight disturbed him a little. He had never seen his mother do such chores back home in Chittorgarh and never imagined the chief queen of Mewar would ever need to. She did not look upset at all. Perhaps she was good at hiding it but he was not. He had explicitly mentioned his disappointment that they had not heard from his father even after months. Forget an apology, he did not even care where they were. But here they were. All because of him.
He was aware that his parents had their differences. Their marriage like all others around him was that of alliance and convenience. But the problem was that his mother was not like the rest of his Rani Mahal. Unlike the other queens, she was not one to agree to his father’s ludicrous hobbies and habits that had always been the root cause of disruption in their marriage. But things have now taken a turn for the worse. His mother had accused his favourite queen of trying to poison the heir apparent. That was a huge accusation without any proof of the matter. In turn, the palace judged her jealousy and insecurity. Jivanta Bai Songara was not a queen to take that to her stride and stay quiet. Instead, she let her husband know she was leaving home until she found it safe for her son to come back again. The prince cursed his inexperience as he had hoped it would be weeks in Jalore before his father summoned them back. The silence was louder than any of the accusations hurled at his mother. He wondered if she thought he was incapable of protecting himself. If she thought so, she was wrong. He was the best student in his Gurukul nonetheless. He would protect his people, his motherland and his mother. He could manage himself. Perhaps he had grunted involuntarily and that made his mother stop and look up at him. He looked away at the empty damp wall as he stood by the threshold. She left the broom and adjusted her ghunghat over her head.
“I know what you are thinking, Partap.” Her voice was warm yet distant. “I don’t doubt your capabilities when it comes to enemies.” He looked up as his lips parted slightly trying to protest. No Ranima, I was not…
“But you are too young to understand that sometimes the biggest betrayals come from the closest people. People who claim to love you, respect you, honour you.” She stopped, perhaps because she was afraid her voice would tremble. He narrowed his brows at his mother as worry swept across his face.
“I know what you decide is for my best, Ranima.” He shook his head.
“But?” She asked as he looked away. “Say it, Kunwarsa. I taught you to be truthful.”
“But… we can’t live like this. We are not commoners. We cannot hide in a village on the borders and wait for something to happen.” He shrugged. “Perhaps we should write to Daajiraj and…” He stopped because his mother had once again picked up the broom.
“You swore on me not to do that…” Jivanta Bai was stern.
“I did but…” He knew his mother was in pain. Partap inhaled inwardly. If marriages are like this… why do bards write about love?
“Trust me, Kunwar Partap. When God tests us with tough times, there is always his will at play. Something good will come out of it. He will reward us for our hardships. That is what Meera Ma used to say.”
He had heard his mother say this a million times. Every time there was an enemy at the door, when they had to leave Kumbhalgarh, when his father lost half of Chittor or when he went to Gurukul; when he had his first bruises and scars… and now. What good could come out of this?
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