Page 71 of A King's Oath

14. Birthday Calls

“Samarth!” His father’s happy bellow welcomed him as soon as he got out of the car and took one step towards the stairs leading up to the palace porch. Samarth forced his face into a smile and hoisted his backpack up on his shoulder. The last few months had been easy to live out. Harsh knew it. Nobody else cared. He had not had to smile or look a certain way. Now, Samarth glanced up as Papa came barrelling down, very unlike his usual Rawal-avatar. Even though he still wore his same white kurta-pyjama, the June sun making him glow, his father’s face glowed brighter.

The smile Samarth had forced to his mouth widened of its own accord. It couldn’t be that difficult. Papa was happy. He had never looked so happy.

“You are late,” Papa pressed his hand atop his head as he bent down to touch his feet. He wasn’t even halfway up when he was being hauled into his father’s body. This time his head reached over his shoulder, almost there.

“We got traffic at Ring Road.”

“Come on, let’s feed you first. Your white dhokla with no pepper is ready.”

“You act like I have come from some detention camp!” Samarth chuckled, walking with him into the palace. “That is Hira ben’s job.”

“I was the original flag-bearer of Feed-Samarth-Club. You were two and ate white dhokla with chhunda, sitting on top of the dining table with your legs spread and the bowl between them,” Papa circled his neck and gave it a shake.

“Fine!” Samarth rolled his eyes. “Wait, Papa… I’ll meet Dada Sarkar first.”

“He is asleep, beta.”

“At this time?”

“He had a bad cough.”

“What happened?” Samarth’s feet skidded to a halt.

“Nothing to worry about. The cold medicine has been knocking him out for the last two days. He is much better now.”

“How is Maarani?”

“Probably waiting for us at the dining table, come on.”

True to Papa’s word, Maarani was waiting at the dining table, the spread of breakfast already laid out, that promised white dhokla without pepper and a glass of chocolate milk placed conveniently by his plate.

“Hi, Samarth,” she stepped up from where she was serving chutneys on his and Papa’s plate.

“Jai Dwarkadhish, Maarani,” he folded his hands, walking faster and bending down to touch her feet. She paused, hesitated, then her hand came to his shoulder.

“Get up now, please,” she chuckled. “You’ve grown to touch your fathers’ shoulder.”

Papa came and stood shoulder to shoulder with him — “Is it? Check.”

Maarani’s hand came to his shoulder, then went to Papa’s.

“Sid!” She reprimanded. “Don’t go up on tiptoes! Stand straight.”

Samarth felt warm inside hearing his father’s chuckles reverberate. He grinned, pushing all the moroseness of the last few months away.

“Papa is the biggest cheater,” he informed Maarani.

“I agree!”

“Alright,” Papa grabbed him around the shoulder and nudged him towards his chair — “Enough. There’s plenty of time to gang up against me. Let’s eat. I have something for you both after.”

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“… so the second last chukker went on without any goals from either side,” Samarth relayed, telling them about his last tournament before he had come home.

“And did you end up scoring a point at least?” Papa asked, popping his last piece of toast into his mouth.

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