35 - Fogs of chaos(S2)

(2002, Bhinai, Rajasthan)

The air was cold and stiff, everything around harsh and raucous.

The empty, narrow alleys of the palace looked weary, their once-vivid gold details and intricate flowery crannies worn away, like layers of snowfall dulling their former beauty. The view was ugly, lifeless, and today, it was more than ugly—it was cold as hell. The palace felt suddenly unwelcome, unlike other days.

But what lay ahead was colder and harsher than the biting atmosphere or the palace itself.

A young boy, barely stepping into his early twenties, walked cautiously through the dim corridors. He passed the dining area where a shabby chandelier hung, then followed the thin alleys that led deeper into the heart of the palace, toward the master bedroom.

His steps were guided by strange, weird voices emanating from the distant room.

His eyes were full of innocence and youthful energy, but there was fear beneath the surface. His charisma was that of a peony blossoming in a sacred field. Adulthood was beginning to shape him—his masculinity emerging in the form of a faint shadow beneath his neck and the slight definition in his arms.

Though still skinny, his muscles were growing steadily. But none of that mattered right now.

He was scared, Scared of the silence.

His innocent eyes darted nervously around him.

Why was the whole palace so hushed? Where had everyone gone? And what were those strange voices coming from his parents' room?

Was he caught? Was this about the girl? Had Baba Sa found out?

The thought made him shudder. A week ago, while at the hostel, he had bunked school, climbed the 10-foot wall, and sneaked out with other boys—all to catch a glimpse of her.

He knew the risk; if his father ever found out, he would become stricter than ever. But his heart craved those few fleeting moments. And for that, he had rebelled, just for a few minutes. After all, other fellow royal students had joined him—surely he could defend himself.

The best and worst of himself, he knew.

He followed the direction of the voices, his steps hesitant and faltering.

Then he stopped abruptly, now doubt gnawed at him.

"Did the headmaster report to Baba Sa?" he whispered to himself, rubbing the back of his head nervously. "No, he wouldn't. Right? Or... what if he did?" A blush crept over his cheeks as he thought of the girl.

"Okay, fine," he muttered to himself, embarrassed. "I'll tell Baba Sa it was only one time."

His thoughts spiraled into denial, then doubt. Why would his father scold everyone else? Was this about him?

He paused again, mumbling, "or Is it because of last Saturday?" His fingers instinctively rubbed the silk fabric he had tucked into his pocket.

"If it is about that, then it's my fault," he muttered, his voice tinged with guilt. He straightened his posture, puffing his chest slightly, mimicking the resolve of a grown man.

"No one else should be blamed for what I did," he whispered, steeling himself. Pushing aside his hesitation, he walked briskly toward the room.

But then, he shivered.

He remembered how cold and unforgiving his father could be when it came to discipline. No matter how old he became, in front of his father, he could never fake strength. His father could always see straight through him, into his soul.

His teeth chattered.

He knew, even though he was his father's most beloved child, spoiled by affection and indulgence, when it came to mistakes, his father punished him harshly. And these days, his father's mood hadn't been good. Whatever punishment awaited him would likely be worse than ever.

Shaking off his doubts, he took a deep breath, puffing his chest again with what penny little strength he could muster.

He reached the room.

But just as he stepped over the threshold, his feet froze. His breath hitched as his eyes locked onto something—or someone—that made his blood run colder than the air around him.

It felt like venom had bitten into his throat, choking him deadly.

And all of this was not because of the fear of witnessing his father's wrath but, quite the opposite, his father's disastrous, completely fallen-apart condition.

It was cold.

It was so cold—not just for one moment, but for all.

So this is what lay ahead, colder meant... He ran inside the room, seeing a group of servants circling around the arch of the bed.

He dropped the lantern he was holding.

Every servant present turned around and made way for him.

What he saw scared him to death—his father, his Baba Sa, tied to the grand chandelier of the room. The servants were struggling to take their employer's lifeless corpse down, but the queen kept stopping them from touching him, crying miserably.

Some of the staff were running around, calling for emergency help or looking for someone to take charge, helplessly and hopelessly.

He moved backward frantically. "No, no... this must be a dream," he whispered to himself. "It couldn't be real, of course." His veins stretched, and a tight, nervous smile stretched and crept onto his face, accompanied by soft chuckles. "I'm dreaming, right? This isn't real—it can't be."

But if it was a dream, shame consumed him. How could he even think of something so horrible, even in his sleep?

His back hit the large door, the cold metal pressing against him.

He flinched.

The icy sensation spread through his veins like a dark poison all over again.

And that's when he knew. This wasn't a dream. This was reality.

His body announced it to him, his senses screaming—he suddenly felt terribly ill and numb, shattered, like something inside him had broken into pieces. What was it? That was a question for later. For now, the sound of breaking within him was so unbearable that, for a moment, he felt deaf.

He shivered and forced a nervous smile.

"Baba..." he called out with hope, but no answer came from his father.

"Baba Sa... can you hear me?" He tilted his head at an angle to get a better look at his father.

Even though he hated seeing his father so weak, he suppressed his emotions, forcing himself not to crumble.

He called again in a convincingly gentle tone, as if his father was only sleeping in this uncomfortable position and he didn't want to disturb his peace.

"Why are you playing around all alone, Baba? Come down, let's talk together first..."

But did his father care, even a little, for the wishes of his only child?

Did it matter?

He stayed still, ignoring the desperate pleas of his only heir.

The boy swiftly clutched the fabric of his clothes tightly—then even tighter. His hands trembled as he released the grip, and the silk fabric from his trouser pocket slipped and dropped to the ground, fluttering softly.

And so did his father's lifeless body, as the rope was cut.

The body fell from the chandelier, rolling and hitting the bare floor before coming to rest, showing no signs of life—no discomfort, no pain. It just lay there calmly, the neck still tied with the rope, dark bluish bruises visible around it.

"Baba... Sa," he shouted, his voice trembling with shock and fear.

"Baba! Baba! Baaaaaba!"

He ran toward his father, taking large, frantic steps.

"Just stay here, Yuvraj! Don't go there!" one of the employees exclaimed, rushing forward to hold him back.

"I said leave me! He is my father!" the boy cried, struggling against the servant. "Do you even understand the consequences of stopping me? We are royal! What authority do you have to block my path? Do you realize what you've done? You will surely be punished for this! Now, leave my way!"

The young man tried to free himself, using all his strength.

He bawled loudly, "Baba..."

"We are still royal!" the broken soul of the young man cried out, his voice desperate and weary. "Baba, please, let me go to him."

"Baba! Dad, get up!" he roared, his voice raw and bloody. "What did you do, Dad? Why?" he cried in the saddest agony.

By now, the air in the room had changed. It was the coldest it had ever been. Could he accept the suffocating change? Could anyone live with this sudden absence of warmth—the familiar air of his world now vanished in vain?

What vanished more than anything was his youth—the daring, carefree spirit of the boy now lost forever.

"Kaka, he needs to be taught. Will you teach him how to behave?"

"We are having an important discussion, and he keeps interrupting us. Ever since I returned from school, he's been acting like he can talk back to me—to us! Does he think we are the same, huh? That we're equals? If I talk nicely, does he think we're on the same level? He needs to remember his place! He is just a servant, while I am his master. My Baba took him in to serve us—right?"

He spat in anger, "You're just an employee!" He thrashed harder, trying with all his strength to free himself from the servant holding him back.

The old man in his mid-60s, whom the boy called Kaka Sa, approached with a sorrowful, grief-stricken look. His hands were folded respectfully in the most aristocratic manner.

"I apologize, Yuvraj," Kaka Sa said, his voice soft but firm. "But you must go now. Your... your father..." He stopped himself, carefully choosing his words. "Your father would not have wanted this behavior. You must pack your things and leave with us. We need to go... leave Rani Sa and your father to... handle what must be handled."

"No! I'm not going anywhere!" the boy snapped. "You're all the same. The same—just the same!"

Kaka Sa looked down with grief-stricken, pitying eyes, as if mourning the child's innocence.

Yuvraj shoved away the man holding him and ran to his father's lifeless body.

The air began to grow colder than ever, as though the glaciers of the north were melting—hell itself seemed to embrace the room.

Perhaps it was time for the boy to accept the harsh truth of life. But wasn't he too young for such truths? Who could know what God was planning when deciding that now was the moment to hurl cold reality in his face—reality he could never have imagined?

For when had good things ever lasted? Goodness was always fleeting, meant to be taken away.

Grief and pain—they were the only constants.

He couldn't tell if it was the cold January air that made his father's body so icy or if it was his own shivering disbelief. Was this just a grand prank?

Tears streamed down his face as he pleaded, "Baba is feeling cold, Kaka. Bring something for him. Bring... more clothes."

But the old man stayed still. Yuvraj turned his attention back to his father, his young mind unable to comprehend the truth before him.

Was the time finally here? Was it all over? Had God's charity already run dry?

Or was this all a foul play by someone? He had overheard a conversation just days ago, eavesdropping on his father.

"I think I can explain, but please don't seize the palace," his father's voice had been shaky, desperate. "It would be such a big insult for us. What will I tell the others? My employees? What explanation can I give them? Please, sir, you're more experienced—you'll understand my situation."

he had watched from behind the door as his father nervously paced by the table, the coiled telephone cord wrapped around his fingers as he pressed the receiver to his ear.

"What do you mean there's no other option? No, there must be another way!" his father begged. "Sir, I'm pleading with you! The minister is already at my throat, threatening us—please, show some kindness. Sir... sir..."

The line had gone dead, and the telephone slipped from his father's hand. He sank into the chair at his desk, his hands running through his hair before his head collapsed into them.

he had never seen his father cry before, never seen him so defeated, so... pathetic.

"Sir, please," his father had murmured, his voice barely audible. "I have a family. They've done nothing to deserve the aftermath of... of this."

The man he had idolized—the person he aspired to become, the person he thought was invincible—was now unrecognizable. The man who had once had all the riches, the pride, the power... was broken.

It was a moment that shattered his fragile belief in everything his father stood for.

The boy—still just seventeen—tried hard to hide his tears, trying too hard to fake his composure, to not show how maniacal he truly felt But beneath the facade was a scared, fragile boy, unprepared for his next destiny.

Where would he take his not-so-old mother, who still had her youth left? Behind her, she was just as scared as he was. In fact, her eyes showed even more fear—more abandonment—haunted/anxious by the uncertainty of what lay ahead for them.

Maybe it was because she was more experienced in such situations, knowing that they had nowhere to go and no one to turn to for help. She had no relatives to rely on, no enemies to confront, and no other refuge. What would they do? She was just a naive woman trapped by the secrets her husband had kept. She must have been more shocked than him at how her spouse had betrayed her.

The harsh reality must loomed over her—how widows were judged, how society looked down upon the poor. Would she even be able to digest it? Yet it was true that she had once been a part of the same mocking society. Perhaps, at one time, she had joined in, laughing at the misfortunes of others, making mockery of their bad luck without a care.

Maybe it was because no color is ever a pure prescription of pigment as we perceive it.

She must have made her own dark mistakes, ones that had dulled her future.

But was this too big a karma to bear?

To have everything taken away from her, or were they just innocent victims of life's capricious cruelty?

He was feeling a lot of disgust, a lot of abandonment, a lot of pain. He wanted to cry, scared, as if his sun had been stolen from him. Even if at times it burned him or overwhelmed him with its heat, it always protected him from the cold—the cold of lonely nights. Now, it was gone. Perhaps it wasn't just the sun but also its presence and looming effect.

Now the whole universe, the whole planet, was left to fight against chaos. Chaos of a kind that hadn't even fully revealed itself yet. How many secrets had his father hidden? How much had he carried on his back? What steps had been taken because of those secrets, and how many parts of reality had been twisted because of them? How much of this could he handle? How much could he even uncover? How many dark truths could he stop from rising to the surface?

And what, in the end, was the conclusion of all this? Was there even a hint of light, or was there an even darker night waiting for him—one worse than this?

Was there any shoulder he could lean on, or was he all alone? Alone to bear the weight the world had thrown onto a single pair of shoulders, shoulders that had never been trained or prepared for an apocalypse of this scale. Was this his version of Chernobyl, unfolding in the most disastrous way possible? His tender bones had been nurtured to live delicately, but the next chapter of his life wasn't a delicate road. It was a path paved with the crude aesthetics of an altered realm.

He must have been a foolish boy, still in the bloom of youth, his first love tugging at his heartstrings, making his boyhood dreams seem endless. But now, it was all over. For the time being, chasing love felt like the most stupid and wasteful act. To live for love or to follow the principles of love was no longer an option.

Now, he must live to survive.

He must.

And he must.

Maybe the enemies were more powerful than them.

"Maa Sa, at least listen to me... He will wake up, right? Maa Sa, why don't you speak?" he pleaded, his voice trembling. But his mother just stared at his father in utter despair, an abnormal silence enveloping her. Moments ago, she had been crying uncontrollably. Now, she didn't even shed a tear or say a word. She just sat there, holding his father's lifeless body close.

"Maa Sa, why don't you listen?" he tried again, his desperation growing. He shook her gently, but after several attempts, she didn't respond or even look at him. The palace staff hesitated to approach her, unsure of what to do, but when they finally tried to pull her away, she didn't utter a single word.

"Baba, my mother... your wife, she's not speaking," he said, turning to his father's still body as though it could answer him. Tears streamed down his face as concern for his mother deepened. "Please, do something, Dad. Make her speak! I can't lose her too. Please wake up; everything will be okay. Just wake up!"

He knelt before his mother, tears choking his words. "Maa, look at me. Your son needs you." But she didn't move. Instead, she leaned closer to her husband's body and rested her head on him as though sleeping.

In his mounting frustration and heartbreak, the boy ran to the window. Beneath the arch of traditional, colorful glass, he began pounding against it. "Someone call a doctor! Doctor!" he shouted into the void outside.

His voice was raw with rage, his actions frantic.

But his mother remained eerily calm. Her face betrayed no emotion as she got up and walked away, carrying a plate for her usual morning rituals.

"Maa Sa... a-are you okay?" he asked, hesitating.

She didn't hear him. Or perhaps she ignored him. She walked on, as if nothing had happened.

"Maa! Baba is dead! Which god are you going to thank for this cruelty?"

"Shh! You can't speak like that," she said sharply, her voice steady but detached, as though reprimanding him for spilling water rather than confronting death itself.

The staff rushed to him. "Yuvraj, your hand is bleeding! Let's get it dressed!" they said, panicking at the sight of the shattered glass and his bloodied hand.

But his mother didn't react. She just cast one more glance at his father before retreating into her quiet chaos.

The boy's cries grew louder, his voice filled with pain and anger. Why won't she look at me? Everyone cares, but not her... Is she punishing me for something? I'm all she has left, and yet she won't even acknowledge me.

His grief overwhelmed him as he crawled toward his father's body, clutching it tightly. "It's because of the enemies. First, they took my father. Now, I've lost my mother too," he whispered, his tears soaking into his father's cold, unmoving chest.

"Enemies," he muttered through gritted teeth, his rage building. His cries turned to choked sobs as he buried his face in his father's embrace one last time. "Enemies," he repeated, louder this time, his voice shaking.

The word consumed him, echoing in his mind like a dark chant.

His once-bright eyes, filled with youthful innocence, dulled with each repetition. Slowly, the emotions in his heart—the love, the joy—began to wither, buried beneath the weight of hatred and despair.

"Enemies," he said again, slamming his head against his father's lifeless body. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through him, but he didn't care. Broken shards of glass littered the floor around him, digging into his skin as if punishing him further.

Blood poured from the fresh cuts on his face, covering the floor in crimson. His mother finally rushed to him, panicked.

"No, no! Raja Sa won't like this! Blood in his palace—he'll scold us when he wakes up," she said, her voice frantic as she began wiping the blood from the floor. "You should behave, Yuvraj. You're not a child anymore. I can't always take your side!"

Her words stung more than the cuts on his face. He cried in pain and agony as the staff struggled to restrain him. His cheek and flesh near his eye were sliced deeply, pieces of glass still embedded in his skin. They dragged him away, but he resisted with all his might, refusing to leave his mother alone in her grief.

While others visibly dragged him out of the room, his thoughts lingered on the still, lifeless body turning blue, succumbing to decay.

Yes, we are in this condition because of our enemies, he thought bitterly. I won't let them breathe the air of peace. The day I become capable, I will wreak havoc in their lives, turn their palaces into barren deserts no one dares to visit.

His resolve hardened. They stole my home, my happiness, my love—I'll snatch the very core element of their lives, leave them with pain so profound even hell would reject them. Revenge was brewing fiercely in his young heart.

As they forced him into the car, he struggled, biting a hand that tried to restrain him. He grabbed the steering wheel, yanking it wildly, sending the car speeding out of control. The vehicle lost balance, swerving dangerously.

"No! Kaka Sa!" he screamed in panic. "Kaka Sa!"