Chapter 3: A Queen's Demand
The drone of the jet engines was a deep, constant hum, a vibration felt in the bones rather than heard. Outside the double-paned oval window, the world was an endless gradient of indigo and inky black, pricked with cold, distant stars. Below, the Persian Gulf was a sheet of dark glass.
In the main cabin, the mood was one of relieved fatigue. The signing ceremony had been a success, the joint statement suitably robust. The heavy, aromatic air of Baghdad, thick with promise and tension, had been replaced by the plane's sterile, climate-controlled coolness. Crystal glasses, half-empty with amber whiskey or pale wine, sat on a table of polished teak inlaid with the Ashoka Chakra. A dinner of roasted quail and saffron pulao had been cleared away, leaving only the lingering scent of garlic and herbs.
Dev leaned back in his cream leather seat, loosening his tie with a long sigh. "Productive," he said, to no one in particular. "The water-sharing framework alone..."
Rukmini, across from him, swirled the last of her pinot noir. She was looking towards the rear of the cabin, at the closed door to the private bedroom. "He slept through dinner. I checked on him. Out cold."
"He's nineteen. He can sleep on a bed of nails after a state visit," Dev chuckled, taking a sip. "He held his own, though. Did you see him with their agricultural minister? Quote-unquote boring subject, and he had the man laughing like an old friend."
"He has a gift." Rukmini's voice was quiet, measured. She finally turned her gaze to her husband. The soft cabin lights accentuated the fine lines of concern around her eyes."Dev."
"Hmm?"
"Zahira."
Dev's expression didn't change, but his posture imperceptibly stiffened. He set his glass down with a precise click. "What about her?"
"She was... different with him."
"She's young herself. Relatively. Perhaps she finds a younger person easier to talk to. Less formal."
Rukmini shook her head slowly. "It wasn't about ease. It was about fixation." She leaned forward, her forearms resting on the table. "The stables 'detour' she insisted on. The way she had the seating rearranged at every event so he was within arm's reach. At the garden luncheon, during the game, she took his arm. Not a brief touch, Dev. She held on. It was...proprietary."
A faint line appeared between Dev's brows. He replayed the moments: Zahira's laser focus at the airport, her constant, seeking glances in the car, the way her sophisticated banter would momentarily dissolve into something simpler, more direct, when Amartya spoke. "She's a powerful woman used to getting what she wants. She was being charming. Flirtatious, even. It's a style of diplomacy."
"This wasn't diplomacy." Rukmini's voice was firm, yet kept low, as if the sleeping boy behind the door might hear. "Diplomacy doesn't involve picking imaginary threads off a man's jacket. Diplomacy doesn't look at someone the way a cat looks at a single, perfect sunbeam. It was visceral."
Dev was silent for a long moment, the hum of the jet filling the space. He thought of Zahira—her fierce intelligence, her undeniable, almost intimidating beauty, her volatile pride. He thought of his brother, all sunny disposition and unassuming competence, sleeping innocently in the next room.
"I see it," he admitted finally, the words coming out reluctantly."I did notice. I chose to attribute it to her personality. She's intense about everything."
"This was a different category of intense."
"What are you suggesting, Rukmini?" he asked, his voice dropping to match hers. "That the Queen of Iraq has developed a... a schoolgirl crush on our baby brother?It's absurd. He's a child."
"Nineteen is not a child. And to a 27-year-old queen who likely spends her days with sycophants and ageing politicians, he probably seems like a fresh spring morning." She sighed, running a finger around the rim of her glass. "I'm not suggesting she's plotting to kidnap him. I'm saying her behaviour was marked. And anything marked, in our world, bears watching."
Dev stared out at the star-strewn blackness. "So what do we do? Formal complaint? 'Dear Queen Zahira, please cease looking at our prince with unnerving possessiveness'?"
A faint smile touched Rukmini's lips. "Don't be dramatic. We do nothing. For now."Nothing?"
"We observe. We are careful with invitations. We ensure he is never in a one-on-one situation with her at future multilateral events. We let time and distance do their work." She took a final sip of wine. "It's likely just a passing fascination. A spark ignited by his novelty. He's handsome, charming, and he treated her like a person, not just a title. That's a potent combination for someone in her position. But it will fade. It has to."
Dev nodded slowly, the knot of disquiet in his stomach loosening slightly. Rukmini's analysis was usually sound, her calm a balm to his own more reactive nature. "You're probably right. It was just... odd. Unsettling."
"Which is why we note it," Rukmini said, her tone shifting back to its practical, maternal warmth. "And we protect him from it, quietly. Without him ever needing to know. The last thing he needs is to feel self-conscious or awkward around a major head of state." She pushed her glass away. "He had a good trip. He learned, he contributed, he made a positive impression. That's what matters. The rest is just... atmospheric noise."
The intercom chimed softly, and a stewardess appeared. "Your Majesties, we will begin our descent into Delhi in approximately forty minutes. Would you like coffee?"
"Yes, please. Two," Dev said, the domestic normalcy of the request helping to ground him. The stewardess retreated.
Atmospheric noise. He wanted to believe that. He pictured Zahira's face in the garden, lit with genuine, triumphant joy at Amartya's throw. It had looked so pure in the moment. Perhaps Rukmini was right. Perhaps it was just a flare of unguarded feeling, soon to be buried under the weight of crowns and constitutions.
In the bedroom, Amartya stirred, shifting in the deep, plush bedding. He was dreaming, a fragmented, vivid dream of galloping on a powerful, dark Arabian horse through an endless rose garden. The scent was overwhelming. The rider keeping pace beside him, her cream silk scarf streaming behind her like a banner, turned and smiled. It wasn't a queen's smile. It was something simpler, hungrier.
He woke with a start, his heart thumping a strange rhythm against his ribs. The room was pitch black, the engine hum a constant. He could still smell the roses, or perhaps it was the sandalwood and bitter orange clinging to a memory.
He sat up, rubbing his face.Just a dream. The residue of an intense few days. He lay back down, staring at the dark ceiling, willing his pulse to slow. The feeling of her hand on his wrist in the sunlight, however, felt less and less like a dream, and more like a brand.
When he rejoined them in the main cabin, his hair slightly tousled, his cheerful mask back in place, they were sipping coffee and discussing the next day's schedule. Rukmini reached over and smoothed his collar.
"Good sleep, beta?"
"Like a rock, bhabi."
"Good." She smiled, her eyes soft. "We're almost home."