Chapter 4: Pillars of Desire
The air in Delhi tasted different. It was the familiar cocktail of dust, diesel, and monsoon-damp earth, undercut by the delicate perfume of night-blooming jasmine from the palace gardens. It should have felt like a homecoming, a return to the comforting, structured chaos of his life. It didn’t.
It felt like a decompression chamber. Everything was too sharp, too loud, yet eerily distant. The marble floors felt colder under his feet. The quiet of his rooms was oppressive.
Breakfast on the east veranda was the first test.
"More laddoos, beta?" Rukmini asked, pushing the silver platter toward him. "You barely touched your paratha."
"I'm just jet-lagged, Mom," Amartya said, forcing a smile. He hadn't slept. The memory of Zahira’s hand against his, the heat in her gaze just before Dev interrupted, played on a merciless loop behind his eyes. He kept smelling her scent—sandalwood and night air—in places it couldn't possibly be.
Dev, reading the morning intelligence brief on a tablet, looked up. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Funny kind of jet lag," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Seems to have started in a particular garden."
Amartya felt a flush creep up his neck. "Dev—"
"Oh, come now," Rukmini chimed in, her eyes sparkling. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We saw you two in the desert. Heads together like a pair of conspirators. And the swinging." She said the last word as if it were the title of a scandalous novel.
"You were watching?" Amartya groaned.
"Of course we were watching," Dev said, setting the tablet down. "It was the most entertaining part of the trip. You and the Desert Queen, slaying digital beasts. Very modern diplomacy."
"It wasn't diplomacy," Amartya protested, but the protest was weak. "She was stuck on a boss. I helped."
"It was something," Rukmini said, her tone softening into something more maternal, more perceptive. "She looked at you, beta. Not at the prince from India. At you. That’s… rare for someone in her position."
Dev nodded, the teasing glint giving way to a more serious, assessing look. "She's formidable. Complicated.Powerful. Good ally. Tricky… anything else." He left the statement hanging, a quiet acknowledgment of the line they were all tip-toeing around.
"Can we not do this?" Amartya pushed his plate away, a restless energy buzzing in his limbs. "She’s twenty-seven. She’s a queen. It was a fun trip. That’s it."
"Of course," Rukmini said, exchanging a glance with Dev that screamed they absolutely did not believe that was it. "Just a fun trip."
The teasing was a gentle pressure, but it kept the wound—or was it a seed?—open. He found himself drifting through his duties: a ribbon-cutting at a new tech incubator, a painfully dull meeting about heritage site restoration, a video call with university students. His voice, his famous diction, worked on autopilot. The charm felt like a costume he’d worn for years that suddenly didn’t fit right.
It was four days later, in Dev’s private study, that the anchor dropped.
The room smelled of old paper, polished teak, and Dev’s particular brand of citrus cologne. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the dancing dust motes. Amartya was supposed to be reviewing infrastructure proposals. Instead, his eyes were glued to his own tablet, to an encrypted diplomatic packet Dev had just forwarded.
Global Youth Sustainability & Humanitarian Dialogue (GYSH-D)
Venue: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Duration: 10 Days
His heart did a slow, heavy roll. His eyes scrolled past logistical details, security protocols, agendas filled with panels on climate finance and digital equity. Then he saw it. The confirmed heads of delegation.
There, between the Crown Prince of Norway and the Deputy Premier of Singapore, was a line that made the breath catch in his throat:
Iraq | H.E. Zahira al Abbas | Head of State & Delegation Lead
Rio. Ten days.With her.
A fierce, uncomplicated joy surged through him, so potent it was dizzying. It was immediately followed by a wave of anxiety that tightened his stomach. He looked up. Dev was watching him, a single eyebrow arched.
"You’ll be leading our delegation, obviously," Dev said, as if commenting on the weather. "Rukmini and I have the state visit to Japan that month. It’s perfect. You’re the face for this, anyway. The ‘youth’ part."
"I… yes. Of course," Amartya managed, his voice thankfully steady.
"Good," Dev said. He picked up a fountain pen, tapped it thoughtfully against the blotter. "It’s a serious platform. A chance to forge real connections, advocate for our clean water initiatives.Substantive work." He paused, the pen stilling. "And… a chance to see if a certain connection has any substance beyond a desert and a video game."
Amartya said nothing. The subtext hung in the sunlit air, thick and undeniable.
"Just be smart, beta," Dev added, his voice dropping to its kingly register. "Hearts are one thing. Crowns are another. They tangle in messy ways. You’ll both be on the world stage. Every glance, every conversation, will be noted."
"I understand."He did. And the understanding should have been a cold splash of reality. Instead, all he could feel was the reckless, thrumming anticipation.Rio. Ten days.
The following weeks took on a new, feverish rhythm. Preparation became an outlet for the nervous energy consuming him. He drilled on policy briefs until he could recite water recycling statistics in his sleep. He practiced his keynote address on sustainable urban design in front of mirrors and bored palace staff, shaping his voice until every sentence hummed with conviction.
But his focus kept fracturing. While his aides discussed carbon offset plans for their travel, he’d find himself wondering if Zahira preferred the beach or the city. During security briefings about motorcade routes in Rio, he’d imagine bumping into her at a coffee kiosk, casual, unexpected.
He started paying more attention to his appearance—a fact Rukmini noted with silent, amused smiles. He had new, lighter suits tailored for the Brazilian summer. He dug out his swimming trunks, then immediately ordered new ones.
One late night, he stood before his bedroom window, looking out over the sleeping gardens of the palace. Delhi sprawled beyond, a constellation of muted lights. He held his phone, his thumb hovering over his messages. He had her number. A simple, formal exchange between offices. He’d typed and deleted a dozen texts: ‘Saw the summit list. See you there.’ Too bland. ‘Ready to take on the real beasts in Rio?’ Too familiar. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the swing.’ A nuclear option.
He sent none of them. The silence became its own conversation, a taut wire strung across continents. The anticipation was a live thing, coiled inside him, equal parts terror and thrill.
The day before their flight, his packing almost complete, he stood in his walk-in closet. Nestled between folded linen shirts was a small, sand-scuffed canvas bag he hadn’t fully unpacked from Baghdad. He opened it. Inside, along with a spare charger and a notebook, was a single, intricately embroidered camel hair band. It was Zahira’s. She must have used it to tie back her hair in the desert jeep and it had gotten mixed in with his things.
He lifted it. It carried the faintest, ghostly trace of sandalwood.
He didn’t put it with the things to be returned. Instead, he wound it carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of his carry-on bag, a secret talisman against the unknown. A promise to himself. Rio wasn’t just a summit. It was a continuation of a sentence that had been brutally cut off. He was going to hear how it ended.
He zipped the bag closed. Outside, a monsoon shower began to fall, hammering against the palace windows, washing the world clean. The scent of wet earth flooded the room. He was ready.