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I was instructed to wear the traditional Rajputana attire for the public distribution and Pooja, a grand celebration that marks Mrityunjay's birthday every year. Despite his protests, the palace always buzzed with preparations, decorated lovingly under instructions by Maa, who seemed to ignore his constant pleas for simplicity.
The palace, resplendent in shades of red-his favorite color-was adorned with fresh roses, luxurious red carpets, and majestic drapes.
Curiosity led me to the window. I parted the curtains, peering at the sprawling garden below. On the right side, tables were being set up for the public distribution that would begin in a few hours. Banners displayed Mrityunjay's coronation portrait. Beneath the image, words were inscribed, though from this distance, they were difficult to read. Boxes, neatly stacked on tables, awaited their turn in the ceremony.
To the left, Jayveer Uncle roamed around the food stalls, overseeing every detail with practiced precision. He had returned from Rajasthan just this morning, and Maa, in her wisdom, had already briefed him about the Randhir-Kaushika incident. His reaction? A tight, unreadable expression. Still, he'd suggested Randhir consult his father and hire a capable lawyer.
My observations were interrupted by the heavy creak of the grand entrance doors. A sleek black Mercedes glided in, commanding attention. From it stepped a woman, her elegant demeanor and stately movements hinting at prominence. She exchanged polite greetings with Uncle, her pallu draped gracefully over her shoulder.
And then I saw him.
Anirudh emerged from the car, tossing his keys to the staff with practiced nonchalance. He stood behind the woman-likely his bua, judging by their quiet rapport.
"Kya dekh rahi ho?" Mrityunjay's voice, rich and familiar, jolted me from my musings.
I spun around and froze. His appearance rendered me momentarily speechless before I burst into uncontrollable laughter. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't hold back, doubling over onto a nearby cushion.
He frowned, his surprise etched into the arch of his brows. "Why are you laughing like this?"
Through gasps of laughter, I managed to ask, "Why did you shave your beard?"
"Because... I wanted a change," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation. After a pause, he added, "Don't you like it?"
The sincerity in his question only fueled my laughter. "Agar uble (boiled) hue ande ki moochhe hoti toh wo bilkul tumhari tarah dikhte," I quipped between giggles.
His frown deepened as he rushed to the dressing table, examining his reflection with an exaggerated seriousness.
"Itne bure bhi nahi lag rahe hum," he muttered defensively, rolling his mustache.
"Ache bhi nahi lag rahe," I countered, wiping tears of laughter from my eyes.
He shot me a sideways glare through the mirror. "Tumhe ache lagte bhi kab hai hum?"
