Chapter 4: The Letter That Started A War
The letter, in the end, took three days and seven drafts. The first was too formal. The second too breezy. The third mentioned the PlayStation. The fourth, Mei absently informed him as she sharpened a pencil, was "objectively cringeworthy." Meera, his protocol secretary, had approved draft five as "suitably anodyne." But Rukmini, when he'd shown her, had simply torn it into neat quarters and dropped it into the shredder.
"Speak to her," she'd said, swirling her evening sherry. "Not to the concept of her."
The final version was short, handwritten on thick, cream-colored palace stationery. It thanked her for her courtesy and insight in Kabul. It referenced the success of the completed irrigation review panel, a fact he'd made a point to check. And it closed with a single question: "You clearly know more of Bedil than I managed to glean from a summary. If you were to recommend one poem of his to a beginner, which should it be?"
He’d sealed it, sent it through official channels, and tried to forget about it. The lack of an immediate reply was a persistent, low-grade static in his mind for the next month. He buried it under a punishing schedule of appearances Dev had personally curated: ribbon-cuttings at tech incubators, a whirlwind tour of drought-affected regions where his natural empathy played better than any prepared speech, a grueling week of military exercises where he surprised everyone, himself included, by finishing the five-kilometer desert run.
He was in his private gym, dripping sweat and fighting the urge to collapse onto the mat, when his personal secretary, Kabir, appeared in the doorway, a tablet held loosely in one hand. Kabir was a man of impeccable silence and preternatural timing.
"The CHUD 20 summit, Your Highness. Final attendee list has been published." Kabir's voice was as neutral as the grey walls. "Zagreb, next month. Climate, humanitarian cooperation, urban development. A secondary-level summit."
Amartya straightened up, wiping his face with a towel. "Are we going?"
"His Majesty and Her Majesty have conflicting obligations. The State Visit from Japan is scheduled for the same fortnight. It is non-negotiable."
A flicker of something, an idea, lit in Amartya’s gut. He kept his voice casual. "So India sends a lower-level delegation. A minister."
"Typically, yes." Kabir swiped on the tablet. "However, several member nations are sending younger royal or vice-presidential representation. It is being framed as a 'Next Generation' dialogue track alongside the main sessions." He looked up. "The Afghan delegation will be led by Princess Zahira Yaqoob. Her first solo international lead."
The static in Amartya’s mind dissolved into a clear, singular tone. He saw the garden fountain. Heard the swallowed laugh. Felt the cool, analytical weight of her gaze.
"Why wasn't I scheduled?" Amartya asked, walking towards the water cooler.
"Your schedule was deemed… full," Kabir said, a master of diplomatic understatement. "And the summit is of secondary strategic importance."
"Climate, humanitarian aid, urban planning," Amartya said, taking a long drink. "That's not secondary. That's the stuff people actually live with. Less mining rights, more… clean water." He turned, leaning against the cooler. "I should go."
Kabir blinked slowly. "Shall I propose it to the King's office?"
"No," Amartya said, a plan crystallizing. "I'll propose it."
He showered, changed into simple linen trousers and a kurta, and made his way to Dev and Rukmini's private apartments in the older wing of the palace. The air here was cooler, scented with old paper and the faint, lingering smoke of Dev’s evening cigar.
He found them on the jharokha balcony, the carved stone window overlooking the moonlit gardens. Dev was deep in a file, glasses perched on his nose. Rukmini was sketching idly in a large pad. A record player inside spun a slow, classical raag.
"Need a break from all that kinging?" Amartya announced his presence, leaning against the doorframe.
Dev looked up, a smile immediately softening his features. "Just the distraction I was hoping for. Come, sit. Tell me you've finally finished that military report."
"I have. It's as thrilling as you'd imagine." Amartya dropped into a cushioned wicker chair. "Actually, I was looking at the upcoming schedule. The CHUD summit in Zagreb."
Rukmini’s pencil paused. She didn’t look up from her sketch.
"Mmm," Dev murmured, flipping a page. "Minister of Environment is handling it.Solid man. Boring as watching marble cure, but solid."
"Maybe it needs someone less solid," Amartya ventured. "More… fluid. It's a next-gen summit, Kabir says. Lot of young leaders."
Now Dev looked at him, peering over his glasses."And?"
"And I'm a young leader. Arguably." Amartya grinned, employing the disarming, slightly roguish charm that usually worked on his brother. "I did alright in Kabul. This is similar, but lower stakes. Good practice. And it gets me out of the Japanese state visit dinners. You know I'll spill sake on the ambassador again."
"A compelling argument for our national interest," Dev said dryly, but he was listening. He closed the file.
"And it's the right image," Amartya pressed, leaning forward. "India invested, proactive on global challenges, not just bilateral scraps. Sentimental, but true."
Rukmini finally spoke, her voice a soft murmur in the dark. "Who else is going? From the younger set?"
Amartya kept his gaze on Dev. "Few European princes, the Scandinavian crown princess, the Thai vice-president's son…" He let the list hang for a beat. "And Afghanistan is sending Zahira. As their lead."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by the whisper of the sitar from inside. A slow, knowing smile spread across Dev’s face. He removed his glasses, polished them on his kurta, and looked at Rukmini. Her own lips were curled upwards, her eyes back on her sketch, as if she'd just added a particularly pleasing detail.
"I see," Dev said, drawing the words out. "So this is about… humanitarian cooperation."
"And urban development," Amartya added, fighting a smile of his own."And climate."
"Of course. All very pressing issues." Dev’s eyes twinkled. "And it would be the polite thing to do, given your… correspondence, to offer support to a fellow royal undertaking their first solo flight. A friendly face in the crowd."
"Exactly," Amartya said, pushing down the sudden, buoyant feeling in his chest. "It's just polite."
Rukmini laughed then, a soft, warm sound. "Oh, it is very polite, beta. Very chivalrous, even. To travel all the way to Croatia to be a friendly face." She looked at Dev. "The media would adore it. The narrative continues. And it gets him real, hands-on portfolio experience without you hovering."
Dev sighed, a performative, put-upon sound. "I suppose Minister Boring-As-Marble can accompany him as the adult in the room. And Meera will go to ensure he doesn't commit to building a new Kabul in the middle of the Adriatic." He pointed a finger at Amartya. "But you go prepared. You know the briefs. You lead the delegation. No coasting."
"No coasting," Amartya agreed, the thrill of it now buzzing in his veins. It was a yes. A strategic, politically convenient, family-sanctioned yes."Good." Dev reopened his file, a clear dismissal. "Now leave me to my kinging. And Amartya?"
"Yeah?"
"Do try to get a better photograph this time. One where you're both looking at the camera. It's better for the narrative." He couldn't keep the grin off his face.
Amartya stood, shaking his head in mock exasperation. He walked over and kissed Rukmini on the cheek."Happy?" he whispered.
Her hand came up to pat his. "Immensely."
As he left the balcony, the cool night air on his skin, he heard them begin to speak again, their voices low and intertwined.
"Zagreb in the spring," Rukmini murmured.
"Let's hope it's productive," Dev replied, the humor rich in his voice.
Amartya moved through the silent palace corridors, his steps quick and light. His mind was no longer on briefings or speeches. It was already across continents, in a European conference hall, searching for a pair of intelligent, guarded hazel eyes in a crowd. The letter had been a thread. This was a chance to pull it.