Page 162 of A King's Oath

“Oh my gawwwd! Indian mother-in-law. Go now! I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Raje.”

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The court of Nawanagar smelled faintly of sandalwood and parchment. Even with the palace's new air conditioning quietly humming behind carved jharokhas, the scent of ink, oldpaper, and polished wood was inescapable. The Durbar Hall, with its high ceiling and scalloped arches, held centuries of conversations in its bones — some whispered, some roared.

Samarth sat on the seat to the right of the throne. Not quite the gaadi, but close enough to feel the weight of it. Rawal had tasked him with occupying it and taking the place of acting-Rawal in his absence.

“These acting-Rawal stints don’t mean that I will ever sit on the thr…”

“I know, Samarth. I know. Sharan is young. Do you want me to make him helm court in my absence?”

“No, Rawal.”

After that, every time Rawal was away, Samarth had taken to holding court. This was his third time, and would be his longest stint, considering Rawal wouldn’t return for another week yet.

"Kunwar," came the voice of a wiry man in his fifties, turban slipping back with each pleading gesture.“Mein aa jameen mara lhoy thi jothi chhe. Kripa karo, Kunwar, aa hotal naa banwa dyo. Hu huh karish nitar?”[67]

A younger, immaculate man, stepped forward —“Aa jameen legally maari chhe, Kunwar. Mara Papa e lease par aapeli, daan noti aapi.”[68]

Samarth didn’t sigh. Royals didn’t sigh in public. But he did blink a little longer than necessary before looking to the court secretary — his father’s Diwan. “This one belongs to the revenue division, not the royal court.”

The court secretary nodded. Samarth turned back to the old farmer.“Tame badha kagadiya District Magistrate ne pochadido. Aano chukado e lavse. Agar emne amara layak kayi madyu, toh aapde paachu a layine aavta athwadiye bessu.”[69]

The farmer folded both his hands and touched them to his forehead. He moved on.

An elderly woman came next, asking for help in restoring a collapsed well near her village. Samarth leaned forward. “Panchayat paase funds nathi?”[70]

“MLA na bhai na godown man wapri mukyu, Kunwar,[71]” she said flatly.

Samarth’s mouth tightened.

He signalled the court scribe. “Get the Jal Shakti Department’s report. If there’s been misappropriation, flag it for the DM and CC the state office. In the meantime —” he paused “—send her village two tankers daily till repairs are approved. From our side.”

A murmur of appreciation rose. Samarth didn’t look up from the docket. He had inherited his grandmother’s habit of scribbling annotations in the margins of reports. He remembered her doing that a lot whenever his father brought reports to her. Right now, his own reports were full of underlines, question marks, and exasperated comments in blue ink. Just like hers.

The session continued. And he did not leave even when the clock struck one. It was his grandfather’s legacy that his father had continued — no getting off for lunch until the last petitioner to have been admitted before noon is seen to. Samarth too waited, in spite of knowing there were special guests in the palace today.

A local artist seeking space to exhibit. A dispute over temple donations. A young woman requesting legal aid after being evicted unfairly. Samarth listened, questioned, disbursed solutions, referred where needed, redirected when asked.

For every two issues, one was sent to the district administration. It was bureaucracy — slow, imperfect — but necessary.

And yet, even in this dull, droning carousel of governance, he sat straight, alert, princely. Not out of pride. Out of duty.

Because soon he wouldn’t be able to sit here on a regular basis. He would give it all that he had while he could.

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Samarth undid his cuffs and rolled his shirt sleeves as he left the court, veering towards Chandi Haveli.

“Rawal Maan Sinh Devgadh and Rani saheb are here?” He asked the usher as he passed the palace’s main entrance.

“Yes, Kunwar.”

Samarth nodded, a smile automatically stretching his mouth. His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out to check, half-expecting the girl who could not keep mum from the moment she woke up. Even if it was over text.

AVA

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