Samar stood before a gathering of schoolchildren, their bright eyes fixed on him as he spoke, his voice weaving a tapestry of hope and conviction. The air hummed with their quiet attention, every word sinking deep into their young hearts.
He began, his tone steady and resonant.
“A country doesn’t run on the strength of one person alone. It rises when we all join hands. Education is the truest jewel—more precious than gold or silver. When your daughters learn, that’s when our nation truly grows. We’ve touched the moon, but if our girls remain uneducated, locked within four walls, what’s the worth of our triumphs? A small lamp—a diyaa—can light up an entire home. In the same way, an educated woman can illuminate not just her family but all of society. All she needs is a hand to guide her, someone to pull her from shadows into light. Darkness can’t chase away darkness—only light can. Hate can’t erase hate—only love can.”
The children erupted in applause, their clapping a joyful melody that filled the courtyard. Samar paused, letting the sound wash over him, then continued with a fire in his voice.
“Today, our government is launching a scheme for every girl in Rajasthan—Jeevanjyoti Yojna. Under this, education for girls aged 6 to 18 will be free and compulsory. Alongside their studies, they’ll receive scholarships, healthcare, and support for their all-around growth. As the education minister of this state, I’m overjoyed—no girl will be denied an education now. She will learn, step forward, and shape her own future.”
The applause swelled again, a tide of admiration rising from the crowd, their hands clapping in rhythm with their dreams.
●□●■●□●
Later, as Samar walked away from the school, an assistant trailed behind, his voice bubbling with praise.
“Ranaji, today you’ve captured the hearts of these children too. Your name echoes on every child’s lips across Rajasthan. You’re becoming a legend among the youth—especially the girls—and at such a young age!”
Samar’s face remained a mask of ice, his eyes sharp and unyielding.
“If you’re done with this flattery, can we talk about something useful?” he snapped, a thread of anger weaving through his words.
The assistant faltered, his enthusiasm crumbling under Samar’s cold stare. “S-sorry,” he mumbled, bowing his head in quiet shame.
●□●■●□●
That evening, a senior politician approached Samar, his tone warm but measured.
“Samar, you carry a great weight on your shoulders. You’re doing wonders in the field of education. I’m certain you’ll…”
Samar cut him off, his voice a blade slicing through the air. “Kakosa (Uncle),” he said, addressing the man as uncle,
“let me make this crystal clear. My sights are set higher. Being education minister is just a five-year chapter. Dadamaharaj dreams of me in the CM’s chair—and that’s where I’m headed. Remember this: in the next election, I want no one standing against me. A few years from now, I’ll be the Chief Minister of this state. That’s my promise.”
His jaw tightened, his words laced with a fierce resolve that left no room for doubt.
“Y-yes, absolutely,” the older man stammered, his voice trembling under the weight of Samar’s intensity.
Samar smirked, rolling a paperweight between his fingers with a casual menace.
“You’re my elder, a trusted friend of Dadamaharaj, but I see through you too. He once told me something I’ll never forget—in politics, there are no friends, not even your own shadow. I trust you catch my meaning.”
The politician fumbled, his composure unraveling. “Oh, my son, I was only…”
“It’s too late, you may go now.” Samar interrupted, his tone final. He lifted his glass, downed his wine in one swift gulp, and strode away, leaving the man in the wake of his quiet storm.
●□●■●□●
At Rajgardh
Samar entered his chamber, utterly exhausted. His daily routine was relentless—meetings, village visits, press conferences, and an unforgiving schedule that left him drained. Sinking into the armchair, he removed his glasses and rested his head back, closing his eyes for a brief respite.
His phone screen kept lighting up with notifications of tomorrow’s schedule, but he ignored them. Right now, he wanted nothing but silence.
A few minutes later, the soft chime of anklets reached his ears. He stirred slightly in his half-asleep state.
"Aap khana rakh dijiye, hum thodi der mein kha lenge," he murmured without opening his eyes.
*"Keep the food, I'll eat in a while."
The girl silently nodded and carefully placed the tray on a nearby table. Without a word, she left, closing the door behind her.
The silence of the night was soon broken by the sharp ring of his phone. With a hint of irritation, he picked it up.
Samar cut him off. "Abhinav, tomorrow I have an important meeting. You know this. Do not, under any circumstances, add anything to my schedule. No changes. And make sure that today’s meeting remains undisclosed. I don’t want any media interference. Understood?"
"Yes, Ranasa."Abhinav’s voice was obedient and careful.
Samar placed the phone on the side table and went to freshen up.
After a shower, he dressed in his usual formal wear and finally felt some relief. Sitting at his dining table, he began eating—every bite calculated, his diet carefully monitored. But as he reached for a glass of water, his eyes caught a small folded note placed on the tray.
Curious, he opened it.
"Thank you, Hukum."
For a moment, he simply stared at the words. Confused. Intrigued.
"Who could have written this?" he wondered. A rare smile tugged at his lips.
" Nice Handwriting. "
He traced the elegant handwriting with his thumb, something he rarely did. But just as quickly as the smile appeared, it faded into a smirk. Silently, he finished his meal, checked his emails, and lay down to sleep.
Tonight felt different. He had no idea that his life was about to change forever.
●□●■●□●
Samar woke at six, just like every day. His routine was disciplined—gym, yoga, and a strict schedule he never missed.
After his morning shower, he found his freshly ironed white kurta-pajama placed neatly on the bed. He put it on, adjusted the cuffs, and was about to leave when he heard a soft, hesitant voice.
"H… Hukum, kya hum andar aa jayein?"
"H… Hukum, may I come in?"
"Hmm," he responded, fastening his wristwatch.
A young girl stepped inside and placed his polished shoes near the chair.
"Pranam, Hukum." She folded her hands in respect, her head bowed low.
As she turned to leave, Samar spoke.
"Rukiye."
"Wait."
She froze.
Her fingers twisted nervously, her heart pounding. He had never stopped her before. Had she made a mistake? Was she about to be punished?
Samar stepped closer. "Did you write that note last night?" His arms were crossed as he studied her.
Beneath her veil, she trembled. The air-conditioned room was cold, yet she was sweating.
Slowly, she nodded, barely moving her head.
Samar’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing.
"And why?"
She remained silent. Her body trembled, fear gripping her. She believed she had committed a crime.
His voice turned cold. "Take off your ghunghat."
Her breath hitched. Her hands shook violently. Tears welled up, spilling down her cheeks. Was this it? Was this her end?
"I said, take it off. Now." His tone was firm.
She stood frozen, crying silently.
Samar took a step forward. She instinctively stepped back.
" Wahi ruk jayein, jahan aap khadi hai. "
"Stop where you are standing.
His voice cut through the air.
She sobbed harder.
He moved closer, his fingers brushing the edge of her veil. With steady hands, he lifted it away.
And then… everything stopped.
Samar stood there, stunned.
For the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words.
He had seen countless faces, but never had he looked at someone like this. She was young—perhaps still in her teens.
Her skin was fair, smooth as silk. Her large, doe-like eyes glistened with fear, her long black hair cascading down to her hips. Her cheeks, though flushed from crying, had a soft chubbiness to them. And her lips—pink, trembling, delicate.
Even in this vulnerable, tear-streaked state, she was breathtaking.
Samar, the man who never spared a glance at the palace maids, was staring. Lost.
For a moment, the air between them stood still.
Then, as if waking from a dream, he composed himself. The cold mask returned to his face.
She didn’t dare meet his gaze. She had served in the palace for years, always hidden behind a veil. Perhaps he had seen her before, but he had never truly looked at her.
He wasn’t like other kings. His mind was always set on his ambitions—his goals. He didn’t have time for distractions. His only dream was to claim the Chief Minister’s seat, to honor his grandfather’s legacy.
And for that… he would do anything.
( Nandini aka Dhara Singh )
In the grand tapestry of Rajgardh, Samar Pratap Singh was a thread of iron—unbending, unbreakable, and forged by ambition. For him, anything meant exactly that: no price was too high, not even a life, if it brought him closer to his dream. Since he was a boy, his heart had been set on one thing—power—and he’d chase it by any means, fair or foul. Girls? They were never part of his world. From childhood, he’d turned away from them, keeping his distance, his interest never sparked. They were, to him, a needless distraction.
His royal blood shaped him this way. In the palace, women held no value beyond two roles: fleeting amusement or a crown to wear as wife or Maharani. Outside, the family might preach about lifting women up, but inside these walls, the truth was cold and cruel. For hundreds of years, this had been their way—a brutal, unchanging law passed down through the ages. Rajgardh Mahal, born 900 years ago under the fierce hand of Rana Khajaan Singh, stood as one of India’s mightiest empires. He was a king of courage, a legend—but the palace he built hid shadows no one dared to name.
Generations came and went, yet the royal mind stayed the same, locked in its old, dark ways. Historians and writers penned books about Rajgardh, piecing together tales—some true, some whispers on the wind. But the real story? Only the kings and these ancient walls knew it. Their history gleamed like gold in the eyes of the world, from Rana Khajaan Singh to Samar himself, each ruler adding a shining chapter. Still, what happened behind closed doors remained a mystery, a secret world outsiders could only guess at through rumors. The truth was theirs alone, guarded fiercely.
To peek inside was to invite death. Royal secrets were poison—not just for the curious, but for the people, the praja, they ruled. Time marched on—centuries, years, days—technology changed, the world grew new, but some rules, some dark corners, refused to budge. Daasis, the palace maids, were nothing more than toys to them—used up and tossed aside. It wasn’t strange or new; it was their life, their habit, a pattern echoed in palaces everywhere. Only the kings and places shifted; the heart of it never did.
Samar carried his own hidden storm. The world saw a golden prince—a kind, noble leader—but inside, he was something else entirely. A monster, a devil, cloaked in shadow. Alcohol flowed through him, drugs dulled his edges, his moods swung wild and fierce. He was controlling, angry, every dark thing you could name. Yet, strangely, he’d never touched a woman. A virgin still, for reasons even he couldn’t pin down.
His ambition burned too bright for that. He saw love, or lust, as traps—cracks in the perfect mask he wore for the world. A stain on his image could ruin everything, and his enemies were always watching, ready to lure him into scandal. But Samar was sharp, too clever to fall. He built walls around himself, kept women far away, surrounded himself with men he could trust. Every step, every person near him, was checked and double-checked—his life a fortress against betrayal. Because for Samar, the throne wasn’t just a dream—it was his destiny, and he’d carve his path to it, no matter the cost.
Samar’s world was a fortress, and every detail of his life rested in the hands of his trusted assistants. Nothing—no one—came close until it had been sifted through, examined, and deemed safe. His enemies lurked in every corner, shadows waiting to strike, so he lived with eyes wide open, alert to every whisper, every move. Rana Jaswant Singh, a steady hand and loyal heart, stood as his shield. He knew the game too well—kings and politicians were magnets for scandal and deceit, their lives a tightrope over a pit of rumors and traps. Jaswant Singh guarded Samar like a treasure, knowing the weight he carried for Rajgardh’s future.
In the vast sprawl of Rajgardh Palace, Samar claimed a floor all his own—a sanctuary carved out for the Maharana. Only the most faithful servants could step foot there, and even then, only after passing strict checks. A biometric thumb scanner barred the way, a silent sentinel ensuring no stranger slipped through. Jaswant Singh had handpicked the staff—young ones to sweep and polish, keeping the space pristine, and older souls, steeped in royal ways, to tend to Samar’s needs. Each face was a known one, each hand trusted.
The old cooks, their hands wrinkled with time and wisdom, crafted his meals with care. But every bite was tested first, tasted by another before it reached his lips. Poison had come for him before—enemies slipping death into his food, hoping to snuff out his flame. Jaswant Singh never forgot those close calls. He watched over Samar like a father, his heart heavy with the knowledge of how much Rajgardh needed him—how much rested on this one man’s shoulders. In a world of betrayal, Jaswant Singh was Samar’s anchor, holding tight to keep him safe, to keep him alive.
Back in the quiet of his room, Samar hadn’t shaken off the strange spell that held him. He stood there, still caught in a storm of thoughts, his eyes fixed on the trembling girl before him.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice hard, though he fought to keep his anger in check.
She quivered, tears spilling down her face, her body shaking like a leaf in the wind.
“If you don’t understand English,” he said, raising his voice just a little, “I’ll ask again in Hindi—Aapka naam kya hai?”
She flinched at the sound, stepping back as if his words could strike her. “D… Dh… Dhara,” she whispered, her voice so small it barely broke through her fear. Somehow, she found the strength to say it.
Her name hit him like a soft breeze—Dhara. It felt special, different, a sound he’d never heard quite like that. He let it roll quietly on his tongue, tasting it, but quickly pulled himself back, hiding the flicker of wonder behind his usual wall.
“I asked you something,” he said, his tone turning sharp again, the real Samar rising. “Why did you write that note?”
Dhara stood there, feeling bare and defenseless, certain that punishment loomed over her like a dark cloud. Her heart raced, terrified of what he might do.
“Every second of mine is valuable,” he snapped, folding his hands behind his back. “Answer me and go.”
“H… Hu… Hukum,” she stammered, her voice trembling with every word, “I wrote the note because you came to school on Teacher’s Day. You gave a beautiful speech and started a new plan for girls to study.” Fear choked her, but the truth spilled out, pure and simple.
Her shaky words, wrapped in that innocent honesty, touched him. A small smile crept onto his face, soft and rare, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
“You could’ve told me last night,” he said, his voice stern again. “Why slip away without a word?”
“H… Hukum,” she replied, tears glistening in her eyes, “we’re not allowed to speak to you. I’m just a servant here.” Her fear was a quiet cry, her place in his world so small she barely dared to breathe it.
For a moment, Samar stood silent, caught between the iron of his rules and the fragile truth in her voice. Her words lingered, stirring something deep—a crack in the armor he’d worn so long.
●□●■●□●
"You knew the rules, then why did you break them?" Samar’s voice was sharp, laced with quiet anger. His piercing gaze remained fixed on her trembling figure.
"Your first mistake was telling your friends about Rajgardh. That alone was risky, but you went even further—you told them you work in the palace. Worse… you told them you serve me. You know that’s forbidden. No one outside these walls is supposed to know who works for us. No one. Yet, you chose to ignore that rule."
His words struck like whips, each syllable filled with authority. Dhara stood frozen, her head bowed, hands clutching the edge of her veil.
"And your second mistake…"His voice dipped lower, colder.
"You placed that note on my tray without permission. Did you even think about what could have happened if someone else had found it? Do you realize the danger you put yourself in? If anyone had suspected you, do you think they would have listened to your explanation? Do you have any idea what they could have done to you?"
Dhara shuddered. She knew. She had witnessed the punishments before.
Samar exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if trying to contain his frustration.
"Today, you’ve broken two rules of this palace. That alone is enough to earn you punishment." His voice was controlled, but the weight of his words made Dhara's knees weak.
Tears spilled from her eyes as she dropped to her knees, folding her hands before him.
"H-Hukum… please," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"Forgive me… please. Let this be my first and last mistake. I swear, I will never do this again."
Her head remained bowed, tears falling onto the cold marble floor as she pleaded. "Please, Hukum… don’t punish me."
Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the raw fear and desperation in it echoed through the silent chamber.
●□●■●□●
Please read Chapter 2 carefully. This story is not just a typical tale of a king and his servent, nor is it merely a simple exchange of power and submission. If you think so, let me clarify—you are entirely mistaken. There is much more to this story than meets the eye.
So, don't judge it too soon or skip the next update.
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