"Hm… maybe you don't remember, but Izaan had a scar under his right eye—like a half‑moon…"Ajit pointed, and sure enough there was a faint mark beneath Prakhar's right eye.
"So… is that proof enough that I'm Izaan?"Prakhar kept staring silently.
"I can feel it, man. Ten years ago, springtime, we first met near Umiam Lake—and that red jacket of yours…"Prakhar's eyes grew harder.
"Stop the nonsense," he said through clenched teeth.
"My little brother Shrey took an instant dislike to you, remember? He was so annoyed…" Ajit kept chuckling."And the next time at school you pretended you didn't even know him—really hurt his feelings."
Prakhar stayed silent.
"After that we met again and again, but it always felt like you were two different people. At school you acted like you didn't recognize us; yet by the lake you'd bring us your lunch—"
"I'm not interested in your rambling," Prakhar ground out.
"You still wear the same cologne," Ajit said, stepping very close. "You smell nice…"
"You're crossing a line," Prakhar snapped.
"Could cross more—you know my brother likes you," Ajit teased.
"That's a misunderstanding. He wants a charming prince," Prakhar said icily.
"Oh, so that bothered you?" Ajit searched his eyes.
"No—and it never will," Prakhar answered flatly.
"Which is why you went to soothe him—like a good husband." Ajit laughed; Prakhar's fists tightened.
"Lie all you want, but your eyes say you're Izaan. I never misread people. Shrey is comfortable with you because he knows you're his Champ."
Prakhar stared emptily, flicked ash, and muttered, "Dead men don't return. Izaan is dead."
Ajit blinked—first time Prakhar had revealed anything.
"Yet you're alive…"
"I never said I'm Izaan."
"But you—"
"My name is Prakhar Joshi. Better remember it."
"And mine's Ajit Thakur—remember that. I have a nasty habit of recognizing people."
"That habit isn't always right. What proof do you have I'm Izaan? If I called you Shah Rukh Khan, would you start believing it?"
"What about your brown eyes?" Ajit pressed.
"Millions have brown eyes—are they all Izaan?"
Ajit fell silent; he had no solid proof.
"It's late. You should sleep," Prakhar ended the lull.
"Hm." Ajit left the room.
Prakhar glanced at Diamond curled on the bed, crushed his cigarette, lay beside the dog, and stroked his head.
Next morning
Prakhar woke to Diamond's soft "kuu‑kuu." The dog was gone. He sprang up.
"Finally awake, my strong boy…" a voice sang from the balcony. Kunwar stepped inside, smiling, and sat on the couch.
Prakhar leapt from the bed, bowed with a hand to his chest. Kunwar moved closer; Prakhar's fists clenched.
"Your scent… awesome," Kunwar whispered.
"You shouldn't be here, Kunwar," Prakhar said, quiet but firm.
"And a mere bodyguard will tell me where I may go?" Kunwar placed Diamond—who'd been in his arms—onto the bed.
Prakhar gathered the pup; Diamond clung to him.
"I'm jealous of him," Kunwar laughed. "Honestly, I missed you. Couldn't help myself—love makes a man do crazy things."
For a while they sat in silence, Kunwar staring until Prakhar grew uneasy.
"You wished to say something?" Prakhar finally asked.
"Two days from now the university has a function. Raja Sahab will attend. Last time he was attacked—could happen again. You'll come—on his security detail."
"But my punishment—"
"Ban was only on returning to Udaipur, not on guarding Raja Sahab. And I trust no one more than you."
"Very well. I'll come."
"Better." Kunwar rose, stepped onto the balcony. Dawn light was just hinting over the horizon; cool wind ruffled his hair. He looked back once; Prakhar's gaze was on the floor. Then he vaulted over the railing and vanished.
Prakhar turned just in time to see the curtains fluttering in the empty space where Kunwar had been.
Two days later
The room was dim, a thin line of sunlight sneaking in under the curtains. Prakhar stood before the mirror wearing the heavy royal outfit Shrey had tried on a few days earlier. The black shirt, tie, and coat—embroidered in gold—caught every beam of light, as if a warrior from an old dynasty had stepped into the present.
He studied himself for a moment—smiled, yet the smile carried weight. Pride, yes, but today's duty outweighed it.
He opened a drawer, took out his sidearm, and calmly loaded bullets. Just then Diamond wrapped himself around his legs.
Prakhar's eyes softened for an instant. He lifted the pup, kissed the cold nose, and whispered,"Go to Shrey. I'll be back by night."
Diamond gazed up as if wanting to object—saying he wasn't alone.
Steeling himself, Prakhar set him down, grabbed pen and paper, scribbled a note, and slid it into Diamond's mouth.
"Go."One word—yet it said everything.
Diamond dipped his head and trotted out of the room.
Prakhar exhaled—as if forcing a weight from his chest. The hall was empty. He glanced once toward Shrey's door, then strode out of the house.
Inside the flat
Shrey and Pranay were locked in mortal combat on a video‑game console—laughter, taunts, pure chaos.
Diamond nudged the door open, a note between his teeth, and padded straight to Shrey.
"What's up, Hira‑Chandi? Come to hang with us? Did the sun rise in the west?" Shrey joked—half laughing, half curious.
Spotting the paper, he reached out."Why is your master passing letters under one roof?"
"Hold on, maybe it's a love letter." Pranay pounced.
"Hey, it's mine—give it back!"
"Relax, I'm just reading. I'm sure it's for you."
They unfolded the note. Prakhar's handwriting was as severe and direct as his face.
"Oh, your master's abandoned you, buddy," Shrey sighed.Diamond's ears drooped; he sat as if someone had taken his favorite toy.
"Hey, don't be sad. Your master might not worry about you, but I'm here." Shrey scooped him up and soothed him like a big brother accepting responsibility.
"Going to skip the college function now?" Pranay asked.
"I was, but I can't leave Hira‑Chandi alone. You go—I'll stay home."
"A heroic sacrifice."
"Shut it, pistachio‑brain."
"No respect for big bro…" Pranay muttered, but Shrey's eyes still twinkled with affection.
The University (fictional name)
City streets were quiet, but outside the university a storm of activity swirled. Twenty‑plus cars rolled up in sequence. Camera flashes, reporters shouting, security on alert—organized chaos.
As bodyguards poured from the first car, media were pushed back. From the next vehicle Prakhar emerged, his eyes razor‑sharp like a general on the eve of battle.
He scanned the crowd and opened the rear door. Raja Sahab stepped out—his stride steady with years of rule. In his Rajasthani attire he looked like a monarch from an epic.
Prakhar signaled; guards formed a cordon.
A few minutes later another convoy arrived—Kunwar climbed out. A faint smile, trademark grace, and that quiet inner fire. He glanced around once and walked inside.
The function had begun—students performing, applause ringing. Raja Sahab sat front‑row, Kunwar beside him, and Prakhar directly behind, eyes sweeping like a scanner—faces, gestures, crowd flow.
When his gaze rested on Raja Sahab, he saw peaceful pride: his son at his side, and a warrior‑shadow ever watchful.
After the programme ended Prakhar guided Raja Sahab through the throng to the car with flawless precision.
Kunwar's own guards waited. He emerged casually, and the campus seemed to tilt—girls and boys alike staring. His carefree smile said everything was mundane.
Kunwar flicked a glance toward Prakhar—who never once looked back. Something in that indifference made Kunwar chuckle softly as he slipped into his car.
Prakhar rode with Raja Sahab to the family villa. Once inside the gate, calm settled—no cameras, no noise.
As soon as Raja Sahab disappeared indoors, Prakhar tore open the coat buttons, yanked off his tie, and carried the coat in one hand—like shedding a suffocating shell.
People kept staring at the ornate clothes, and every glance scraped his nerves. He wanted solitude, not eyes following him.
He lengthened his stride.
Behind him drove Kunwar.
Kunwar, at the wheel, cigarette glowing, eyes fixed on Prakhar's back—reading a portrait. He saw the irritation, the frustration.
After trailing leisurely, Kunwar nudged the car closer.
Just then—
A car braked across Prakhar's path. He tried to ignore it, but one look at the driver—and his eyes widened.
That face… that man…as if a forgotten door in the dark had flung open.