Page 199 of A King's Oath

Samarth felt his bones rattle with something other than fever. It was laughter, because he craved a good scolding like Sharan’s. His eyes rose from the centre of his lap to her and the scolding looked closer than it had a second ago.

“Go take a bath. Can you stand or should I call Harsh?”

“No!” He recoiled in horror, stepping out of his bed and taking a moment to orient himself. He planted his feet wide and took some deep breaths.

“Cold bath,” she directed.

“Yes, Rajmata.”

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“Why areyoudoing this?” Samarth balked at her changing his bedsheet. He set his towel aside and pulled his T-shirt in place, striding to her.

“Go sit on your couch,” Rajmata directed, tucking the edge in.

“The staff will do it…”

“Nobody should see Rawal sick unless gravely necessary.”

“Rajmata?” Hira ben knocked on the door.

“Aavi jaao, Hira ben. Why are you knocking?” She called out. Hira ben entered with a platter of dried red chilies, lemon, salt crystals and a newspaper. Rajmata saw that and turned her eyes to him — “I said, go and sit down on your couch, Samarth.”

He obediently went and sat, pushing a hand through his wet hair. He kept it shorter now, unlike his boyish days.

“Adhda thayi gaya chho, Rawal,” [80]Hira ben grinned.

“Rajmata ne me ee aj kidhu.”[81]

“Be divas jhamadine pachha hata tyana tyana kari dais,”[82] Rajmata remarked changing his pillow covers.

Samarth observed Hira ben, her gait slower and her back bent as she set everything down on his coffee table and began packingthe ingredients in the newspaper. Now when he noticed her slow reflexes, he realised how age had caught up with her.

She set up the pack and picked it in her right hand.

He was familiar with the process, having been king long enough, having sat through many a najar sessions. But those were mere ceremonial rituals, done so after Diwali poojan, Ashwa poojan, or any other grand ceremony — a part of the traditions due to the king. This one was being actually done thinking there was some evil eye cloud over him.

But looking at the stern eyes of Rajmata behind and Hira ben’s faithful mumbles as she circled the pack of ingredients around him, Samarth kept his mouth shut.

“Thayi gayu have, Hira ben,”[83] he tried to joke with her as she continued circling the packet around his face, then his head, then his whole body. Her eyes widened at him.

“Not a word from you,” Rajmata threatened, folding his duvet. He snapped his mouth shut and Hira ben pursed her amused lips. She finished and tapped his head affectionately, like she used to when he was a child, like she never had since he had become Rawal. Then quietly collected everything and left.

“Can I go to the office today?” Samarth asked.

“When was the last time you ate?” She countered.

“Can I go to the office after I have eaten?”

“Good question. Let’s see how much you can eat. First drink this —“ she picked up another glass of water and pressed it into his hand. He sighed, sipping slowly. The taste of his minty toothpaste made the drink bearable but it still wasn’t a liquid he could down in litres.

“Why are you making that face?”

“What face?”

“Like you want to drink anything but that?”

He gulped, then confessed — “This tastes bad.”

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