I returned to my house in Jaipur about ten days later the incident. After knowing that my brother was safe and didn't have serious injuries, I left the Shekhawats with just a warning, killing 13 of their men, each one for the scars my brother's body bore. Blood for blood is a principle in the underworld, and if they want to live the rest of their life peacefully, they dare not to come across my family, ever. As the CM's son and our company's CFO, I may maintain a low profile to in such things in order to avoid unnecessary attentions and scandals, but being a member, or better say the leader of underworld's one of the most feared organizations, I know better how to shut these people.
Right now, I'm having breakfast with my ridiculously big and loud family. The aroma of freshly made aloo parathas and filter coffee filled the Rathore family dining hall. Long glass windows cast slants of morning sunlight onto the polished mahogany table where the we gathered for our meals together.
"Bhai," Yuvaan spoke, "Dad said that you are going to a short business trip again, this time Paris?" (Brother)
"Hmm. It's just a four- day business. I would be back soon. Tell me if you need anything."
"You should rest bhai." Aarya, rolling her brown eyes dramatically. "You are the CFO, not company itself that you work tirelessly. Even Yuvaan bhai rests at intervals, follow him sometimes. We are here to handle VASR. Aap zyada hi tension lete ho." (You take unnecessary tension everytime)
"This is my rest, Aarya. Your brother loves to work, and we have an empire to enlarge and protect. I'm just giving my share, bachche. United and together, it's faster to achieve." (Kiddo)
Abhiraj Rathore, the towering presence at the table and the current Chief Minister of Rajasthan, and also my father, cleared his throat.
"Shivaay."
The room fell into disciplined silence.
He asked about a recent law amendment discussion, and I, like a loyal general, explained the nuances calmly, his answers precise, clipped, but respectful.
Outside, the city buzzed — a different battlefield.
Inside the walls of Rathore Mansion, Shivaay Rathore was the silent strategist, the unshaken shadow of the CM, his beloved father himself.
With that, I left for the company's main office. 'VASR' highlighted in bold, meaning day and even my mom's initials. Vasudha Abhiraj Singh Rathore.
The half day went in meetings and it was around 2 when I had a breath, preparing to eat. Food is never meant to be skipped. I am definitely not someone who would miss it even if the world was to meet its end in the next seconds. My phone echoed in my pocket and I reached out for it. Dhairya
"The Sun must have risen from the west, the mighty SSR picked up my call in one go."
"Shut up Dhairya, you better have a good reason to disturb my lunch."
"What's in the lunch?"
"Chaap." And I regret it the moment I said it.
Dhairya began, not before a dramatic gasp. "Chaap? Badi maa ne banayi thi? Mere bina? Shivaay tu toh dushman nikla. Badi maa ke haath ki chaap bina mujhe khilaye? Tu bhool gaya college ke din jab maine apne hisse ki bhi tujhe di thi, just because you lost a football match. You bloody traitor."
(Chaap, Badi maa made it? Without me? Shivaay you have turned out as an enemy. You are having that without having me tasting it? Have you forgotten when in the college, I gave you my own share just because you lost a football match?)
And people, that's the Education Minister of the state of Uttar Pradesh, crying over a trival matter.
I leaned back on my chair, forgetting the lovely soyabean chaap, a rare smile touching my lips. I had asked him to tell why had he called me, again. But there was a pause of almost five seconds. Does he drink, occasionally?
"Kya hua Dhairya, ab bol bhi? Kis school ne phir se 10th ke paper leak kar diye?"
(What happened Dhairya, now even speak? Which school leaked the 10th class paper again?)
He huffed. " Paper leak nahi... invitation. CSR university has a celebration for the 100th 'World Journalism Day'. As the Education Minister of UP, I am inviting you as the Chief Guest, personally."
(No paper leak..)
"Why me? It's Dad who's the CM and Yuvaan the CEO. I have got no reasons to be there as the Chief Guest. Invite one of them, ain't no way I am coming."
"Seriously bhai, economics has eaten your already useless brain. As the eldest grandchild of Chanda Singh Rathore, you should be the one present. We are inviting someone from the Rathore's and you are the only one idle at the moment. I've already contacted the family, they want you to come, citing Shivaay Singh Rathore as the best choice for this. Vo kya kehe rahe the, haan 'Usey iss bahane thoda aaram bhi mil jayega'. So without any options, be here by tonight. It's just a four-hour drive."
(What were they saying, yeah , he'll get some rest this way.)
Seriously these people, they are too much sometimes. But the trap was set, Dhairya knew the only way to drag this Shivaay into a public celebration was to corner him with family pressure. And he had done just that. But coming to think of it, I could meet my buddy, what more is there to question. "Fine."
Dhairya and I have been friends since sixth grade. As the children of two well-known politicians, we grew up around each other, even attending the same university. Our bond is more of brothers and less of friends. Now, he's a minister in his father's government, though Uncle Nirvaan died a few months ago, and I'm the power behind my father's throne and VASR. Since my childhood, I never wanted to have a publicly dominating power, rather I thrived to be the secret ace of that power. My grandfather taught me this lesson, the one who are behind that curtain are the real powerful ones.
Two weeks went by like air. My exams were over and I am done with all my necessary educational qualifications to be a journalist. Currently what has me engaged is an opening speech on journalism for the celebration tomorrow. Ofcourse I'm prepared, but that unwanted nervousness just kicks in randomly. The Education Minister himself will listen to my speech. I better perform well. Mr. Dhairya, our minister values education and its presentation to the world to a very serious extent.
"Relax Hanitra," my old habit of talking to myself, "You are going to be journalist, an investigative above that. Aise daregi to kya kaam hoga? Just relax and breath." (It's done if you are afraid this early.)
"Oho! Ye ladki Bhi. Sab achcha hoga, tu Hanitra hai, vo jisme agar kuch hai to vo hai confidence. Don't stress yourself much and stop roaming around like a ghost, your education minister is not even too strict."
Kasim baba, the one who raised me.
(O God this girl! Everything will be fine. You are Hanitra, the one who has confidence above anything.)
I was just six when the orphanage van accidently left me at the Taj, all thanks to that monument that attracted me towards itself, I was lost inside the tomb area, the one that was available to the visitors to see and of course, admire. It was him who adopted me, and now I stand here, with him in our own house, bought from our money. It was hard in the beginning, to work at a young age for a better future, but my Kanha was always there, in the time of those suffocating darkness.
"That man is no joke baba. Mistakes have no place near a minister like Dhairya Rajawat. Once a small school in Kanpur had made a data error and he personally suspended the entire board for a month, to set an example. If I made so much a mistake, infront of all those guests, he will bury me there."
He just shook his head, continuing his chopping and muttering something about useless tension expertise of mine. But I pay no attention.
For now, I focus on tomorrow and give a final rehearsal. Guess dinner can be sidelined for now, my speech first. Once again, I read the final draft but still found myself re-writing a few sentences. Perfection, Tara, perfection.
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