Chapter One: The King’s Dilemma

It was no ordinary bedroom.

It was a realm of indulgence—vast and opulent, as though luxury itself had chosen this space to reside. The sprawling suite seemed carved for royalty. Heavy curtains framed the tall glass doors leading to a private balcony, where sunlight spilled like liquid gold onto marble floors. Beyond lay a serene swimming pool, its sapphire water shimmering under the gentle morning breeze.

At the heart of this majestic space stood a colossal king-sized bed, its velvet sheets still rumpled from the previous night—whispering secrets of passion and stolen breaths.

Upon the plush mattress, a little boy stood, his tiny feet sinking into its softness. His black curls were an adorable mess, his wide, curious eyes sparkling with mischief as he bounced lightly, the folds of his tiny kurta swishing around his chubby knees.

“Dada…” His voice chimed like a bell—innocent, yet carrying that cunning curiosity only children could master.

Standing nearby, a man towered like a god carved from granite—broad-shouldered and imposing in a sleek black three-piece suit. Every inch of him radiated power, wealth, and authority. The Lahariya pagdi adorning his head was perfectly wrapped, a symbol of the ancient royal bloodline flowing in his veins. His emerald eyes—cold yet captivating—flicked down to the boy as he tightened the knot of the miniature turban on his son’s head.

“Yes, my champ?” he said, his deep voice carrying a sharp edge softened by reluctant patience.

The boy grinned, clapping his little hands together. “Dada… how did you meet my mom? And… how did Chinu Didi come before me?”

The man’s fingers stilled midair. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face. His jaw tightened as memories—wild, beautiful, and dangerously raw—lurched in his chest like a storm.

His emerald eyes wandered—unwillingly—to the far side of the room.

There, she stood.

The Queen.

The storm to his fire.

She was draping a dupatta over their daughter’s tiny shoulders, her fingers graceful and precise. A plain cotton saree clung to her curves, her black bindi perfectly centered on her forehead. She looked up at him just then, and in that fleeting second, their gazes locked.

Her eyes—fiery yet soft—held his with a knowing intensity. Her lips curved faintly, a secret smile dancing there as though she could read every unspoken word clawing at his soul.

“Tell him,” her gaze seemed to command.

He inhaled sharply. How could he? How could he tell their innocent son that story? Theirs wasn’t some sugar-spun fairytale. It had been a battlefield. A dangerous dance of love and hate, passion and destruction.

In his mind, the memories tore through like flames—

A silken saree ripped apart, desperate hands clawing at skin, breathless gasps in the dark, and her voice—a mixture of rage and surrender—as she moaned under his merciless love.

No… That story wasn’t for young ears.

Not yet.

Rudrakshi’s soft voice broke through his turmoil.

She had come closer, her dupatta brushing his arm as she leaned into him, her delicate elbow resting playfully on his shoulder. “Tell him about his parents’ legendary love story,” she whispered in his ear, her voice dripping with amusement. “Till then, I’ll go take my bath.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “Lasya,” he hissed under his breath, horrified, “this is not fair. How could you do this to me? You and I both know I’m not the only one responsible for this… legendary mess you’re so proud of!”

Rudrakshi only smiled—sweetly, mischievously—her lower lip dimpling on the right side. Not on her cheek, no. Her dimple graced her lips like a secret mark from the gods, and it made him ache in ways he could never admit aloud.

“You can do it, man. You can man!” she teased, blinking her doe eyes at him innocently. “All the best.”

Before he could protest further, she began walking towards the bathroom. Halfway there, she stopped and turned gracefully, her fingers brushing against the shimmering fabric of two royally embroidered poshaks laid out on the sofa.

“Red…” she said, lifting her left hand, her brows arching in a silent question. “Or emerald?”

He exhaled sharply, the weight of her question momentarily pulling him from his son’s inquiry.

“Red is your colour, Lasya,” he replied after a pause, his voice dropping an octave.

She smiled brighter—her face lighting up like a thousand diyas—and said sweetly, “Then emerald it is.”

With that, she sashayed into the bathroom, leaving the red poshak behind and her husband shaking his head.

He rolled his eyes, yet his lips curved despite himself. That was Rudrakshi—his breath, his peace, his storm, his chubby panda, his ardhangini.

And now… he had to tell their son the story of how fire met fire and burned the whole world down.

“Dada… tell me fast!”

The little boy’s eager voice rang through the vast chamber, his tiny fists curled impatiently. His wide, sparkling eyes stared at his father, willing him to speak.

Before Ishaan could reply, a softer, melodic voice joined in—sweet as a temple bell.

“Baba Sa… humein bhi toh jaan’na hai. Maa Sa already told us so much about you, but we want to hear how you both became…”

Their daughter stood at the doorway, dressed in a delicate Rajasthani lehenga, the vibrant fabrics swirling around her slender frame. A thin, golden chain adorned her forehead, and her soft, kohl-lined eyes glimmered with the same polite grace that melted his heart every time.

Ishaan exhaled.

How could he possibly say no to her? She was his breath, his calm in the storm—the daughter he could never deny. Unlike her brother, who was a tempest in human form, constantly leaving chaos in his wake, their daughter was the embodiment of tranquility and poise.

If left alone in the palace’s sacred pooja ghar, Ishaan had no doubt his son would have been found playing with the idols of the gods themselves. But his daughter? She was the light in his world—the gentleness that kept his own raging spirit tethered.

“Alright, alright…” he said finally, ruffling his son’s curls and offering his daughter a faint smile. “I’ll tell you.”

But deep within, he knew.

This wasn’t a story for innocent ears—not truly. What their children craved was a tale of sweetness and poetry. But what really unfolded between him and Rudrakshi had been nothing short of a war. A battlefield of love and hate. Of fire meeting fire.

So, dear reader… if you wish to know how it all began—how a queen and a king clashed and conquered each other in the name of love—step softly into their world. For beyond this point, the story is not meant for young hearts. It is meant for you.

The story begins in the sun-scorched deserts of Rajasthan, where the proud Suryavanshi family—heirs of the once-mighty rulers of Mewar—still held their ground. Though the grand partition of the royal states had reduced their dominion, their legacy, discipline, and prestige remained unshaken. To this day, their name commanded bows of reverence and whispers of awe.

But in this noble house, a shadow loomed.

Maharaja Raghuveer Suryavanshi and his queen, Maithili, had spent twelve long years in the echoing halls of their palace without the laughter of a child. In their world of gilded tradition, the crown’s future was always passed to the son of the eldest heir.

Yet there was only one child in the family—

Aarambhika Suryavanshi, the daughter of Raghuveer’s younger brother, Omkar, and his wife, Aakarshani.

It wasn’t that a girl could not inherit the throne—the Suryavanshis prided themselves on never discriminating between sons and daughters. But even so, they couldn’t bring themselves to weigh down little Aarambhika’s tender shoulders with the heavy burden of succession. If destiny called her to another house in marriage, how could she carry forward her ancestral responsibilities?

And so, prayers were whispered in quiet chambers. Offerings were made in ancient temples. And every evening, Raghuveer’s palms burned as he held the sacred fire in his cupped hands, begging Mahadev for a miracle.

They said the gods may be slow to act, but when they answered, they gave nothing short of the extraordinary.

The air outside the hospital’s operation theatre was thick with tension.

Maharaja Raghuveer’s emerald eyes—so unyielding in court—now shone with barely contained dread. Beads of sweat lined his forehead as he paced back and forth, the weight of a thousand generations pressing on his shoulders.

Omkar, ever the calm one, placed a reassuring hand on his elder brother’s arm. But even he couldn’t mask the worry clouding his features.

And then—

A sound.

A cry.

A newborn’s cry sliced through the silence like the first monsoon rain on parched earth.

Raghuveer froze. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

And then the doors swung open.

The nurse appeared, her arms cradling a bundle so small it could have fit in the Maharaja’s palm.

“Congratulations, Raja Sa,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “A son. A prince has been born to the Suryavanshi throne.”

The air erupted in cheers. Omkar and Aakarshani clasped each other in joyous relief. Aarambhika, barely five years old, ran to her Tauji and clutched his leg with wide-eyed excitement.

“Tauji! Tell me! Did I get a little sister? Or a little brother?”

Raghuveer scooped her into his arms, tears streaming unchecked down his regal face. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he murmured, “Princess… a brother ”. She becomes overjoyed

The doors opened again, and the doctor approached, removing her gloves.

“Your Highness,” she said gently, “the queen is safe, though she lost much blood. But she fought through. Both mother and child are out of danger.”

Raghuveer let out a shaky breath, bowing his head in gratitude. “Mahadev ki kripa…” he whispered.

And so, in the twilight of that fateful day, the palace’s ancient corridors rang with the sound of drums and conch shells. Sweetmeats were distributed. A grand havan was prepared for the newborn’s naamkaran sanskar.

When the sacred syllable “ई” was chosen, Maharaja Raghuveer and Maharani Maithili exchanged a meaningful glance.

With a steady voice, Raghuveer declared:

“His name shall be Ishaan Raghuveer Suryavanshi.”

A year later…

Far away in a modest hospital in Udaipur, another child entered the world with a soft cry.

In a small, sunlit room, Gauri Tripathi lay exhausted, her husband Rudra clasping her hand with anxious devotion. The family rejoiced at the birth of a girl—a beautiful baby girl.

But as hours passed, concern clouded their happiness.

The newborn cried softly but refused to open her eyes. The doctors kept her under careful observation, assuring the family that some babies simply took their time to adjust to the light of this world.

And then, as dusk settled, the air in the hospital shifted.

It wasn’t just a breeze—it was a ripple of power.

For at that very moment, Maharaja Raghuveer, Maharani Maithili, and little Ishaan arrived at the hospital. They had come to donate a wing in Ishaan’s name, ensuring better care for mothers and children.

As the queen walked through the corridors, her son nestled in her arms, all who passed them bowed deeply. But little Ishaan’s curious eyes drifted to the newborn cradled in the nurse’s arms.

He wriggled in his mother’s hold, reaching out, babbling as though he recognized her.

“Shhh, Ishaan,” Maithili murmured, trying to soothe him.

But the boy was relentless. As the nurse passed by, Ishaan leaned forward and—clumsy yet determined—pressed a kiss on the newborn girl’s nose.

( Author - Bachpan Se Hi tharki nikala, lattu hai apni biwi per)

A gasp escaped the nurse.

And then… a miracle.

The baby girl’s eyes fluttered open. Dark, glistening orbs stared up at Ishaan as though the universe itself had bound them together.

Two souls.

Two worlds.

Entwined by fate.

To be continued.....

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