Tyaag

३

The throne creaked under the weight of his trepidations.

The gleam of the jewels in his pagadi obscured by the gloomy countenance of his face, as if a grave of fireflies adorned his head, instead of a silk turban.

The light emitting from the oil lamps perched in every corner of the fort dissipated the darkness of the night that spread like a veil over the state of Amer. 

The king remained untouched by the blaze of glory that illuminated his kingdom.

He was a slave to the kind of darkness that followed him like a second shadow. It clawed at his limbs, his mind, leaving him incapacitated and at the mercy of a puppeteer that he could neither see nor hear. He could only feel the strings tied up in his nerves. 

On some days, he was convinced that he wasn't in control of his movements because he would have no recollection of walking from his chambers to the courtyard.

On other days, the strings became limp and lifeless and so did his body.

On such days, he would spend the entirety of time in his chambers, with curtains drawn from dusk till dawn, refusing to see anyone.  

Raja Digvijay Singh hadn't been a marionette all his life. 

He had been a fierce warrior once. He had beheaded more enemies than he could count. He had defeated vicious, barbaric men who were capable of breaking a spine with their bare hands.

The only enemy he couldn't conquer was his own mind. 

At least, that's what the Vaid told him.

His queen had called healers from all over the region to understand what disease plagued her husband. None of them were able to find traces of any kind of affliction in his body. 

Until one of them glanced at the king with weary eyes and advised him not to carry the burden of the dead and buried, to not worry about the inevitable, for he had no control over when and how it would arrive, riding the chariot of doom. 

But the king worried ceaselessly. 

How could he not?

The rebellion was crumbling, alliances were breaking and the worst part was that his own brothers had decided to serve the enemy. 

He had seen enough death and bloodshed to know when it was time to yield his sword.

Tonight, as his kingdom rejoiced, floating in the nectar of oblivious glee, he couldn't help but drown in a sense of foreboding, awaiting his message-bearer as the dreadful shadows pulled at him, straining his nerves and heartstrings.

It didn't help that as the night settled in, the state of tranquility the feast had managed to acquire under the cloak of music and fine arts started dissipating, leaving the air buzzing with anticipation. 

He observed with weary eyes as his guests slowly started to lose interest in the fire performers and folk dancers.

Their peering eyes probed at the seams of the gold adorned rajgaddi that sat empty beside the king. A single question heavily laden on their tongue as they pretended to engage in polite chatter.

Where was their beloved Yuvraaj? 

The king had seen his son grow up in many ways, earning innumerable titles that he very much deserved.

To the younglings, he was a brave warrior.

To his people, a noble leader.

To him, he was a loyal son.