If it snowed in Jaipur

The sun had long risen, casting diffused rays through the ornate, latticed windows and bathing the huge room in a warm, nostalgic glow. Surrounding him were remnants of a lost era—heavy wooden cupboards with plain brown finish, and an array of vintage furniture that seemed almost out of place amidst his modern study materials strewn across an old teak writing desk. After spending the entire night poring over his notes and scribbling furiously, he had finally succumbed to exhaustion, only to wake up now, well past noon. Groggy and with a lingering sense of urgency about his unfinished studies, he trudged over to the small kitchenette in the corner to pour himself a cup of coffee, even though he was not particularly fond of it. The rich, bitter aroma filled the air, blending with the musty scent of the old haveli, as he hoped the caffeine might jolt him back into focus.

At that moment his phone rang. "Yeah? Oh you already reached. I'll be at the entrance in five minutes." Hanging up, he let out a small sigh. 

As he slipped on his shoes and ran a hand through his tousled hair, he could already hear her lively chatter in his mind, the way her voice would rise and fall with excitement. She was too loud for his autistic senses, her exuberance a sharp contrast to the calm he sought in his daily life. The anticipation of her arrival filled him with a familiar sense of unease. Somehow, she was always on time, especially at such occasions. He just knew her well enough to expect that. Her delight in the most mundane things annoyed him. He could feel exhausted in his head approaching the entrance.

He reached the entrance and saw her sitting outside, unperturbed by the oppressive Jaipur heat of June. There wasn't a speck of weariness on her face from the journey; instead, she alighted with excitement, brimming with the eagerness to explore and learn. How foolish, he thought, yet he couldn't help but find it endearing at the end.

The first thing they both shared was a glance—she grinning with heightened joy upon seeing him, and he acknowledging her enthusiasm with a minimal nod. Their differences were stark; her boundless energy contrasted sharply with his reserved demeanor, yet in that moment, they found a shared understanding, a momentary connection in the midst of their differences.

They exchanged a quick hug, her arms enveloping him in a brief, but warm embrace. He responded with a gentle pat on her back, his gestures always measured and controlled. Without a word, they turned and set out towards the reception room, the giganticness of the haveli enveloping them as they walked side by side.

He stood fairly tall, his presence commanding yet graceful. His pale skin contrasted sharply with the rich, vibrant hues of the ancient haveli around him. Wavy hair cascaded over his forehead, framing a face that carried the quiet dignity of his lineage. His voice was deep and resonant, a bass that could command attention without effort. Despite his height, his build was slender, giving him an almost ethereal quality, as if he belonged to a different time, a different era, where elegance and poise were paramount.

Roopanjan Kunwar Singh Chundawat, a Rajput from the illustrious Chundawat clan descending from Bikaner, walked through the ancient corridors of his ancestral haveli. His lineage, older than the haveli built by his grandfather, was a source of pride for many, but for Roopanjan, it was a distant echo. Uninterested and unaware of the intricacies of his heritage, he often critiqued the interpretation of "origins" as a mere caste practice, feeling disconnected from the weight of history that others revered.

Rajput identity is heavily predicated on the concept of lineage. Historically, the Rajputs trace their origins to ancient and medieval warrior clans, with many claiming descent from the sun, moon, or fire, reinforcing their divine and noble status. This sense of lineage has been meticulously preserved through generations, often recorded in genealogies and folklore. Roopanjan's disinterest in Rajput folklore was more than mere apathy; it was a conscious rejection of what he saw as the romanticization of a bygone era. To him, the glorified tales of valor and nobility were little more than a facade, masking the uncomfortable truths of an inherited identity that perpetuated a sense of superiority. This history, while rich in cultural narratives, had granted privileges and fostered a fragile sense of community that felt increasingly threatened by modern values of equality and progress.