"January 27, 1998

I wonder with what mindset does a warrior step into a battlefield all armed, ready to fight for his nation by putting his life on the line? What thoughts run through his mind when he faces the army of enemies for the first time? How he remains focused? Does the fear of someone penetrating his armor keeps him alert or is it the rage that brings the worse out of him? Is it about survival or a rampage?

When I imagine myself in such a scenario, I decipher it depends on a person to person.

But one common thing that lives through every war is the armor of the warrior. It doesn't matter if the human survives, the metals live through ages, go through the process of extraction, melting, beating, and getting reshaped again to fit another body. Hundreds of small interlinking iron rings are held together by rivets so that the armor follows the counters of the body. A hooded coat, trousers, gloves, and shoes- all made to cover the entire body of the Knight.

With every battle, the armour returns home wearing chinks, broken and dented, singing the tale of the God who feeds on souls. The bloody spots on the once polished surface hold the secrets of demons that rode the horizon after the first body falls.

If you look through the lens of history, you would notice something similar about all these ruins that were left behind by the monarchs who once proudly marched the lands as Lords. The walls of these humongous structures- the forts, the palaces, the gardens, the minarets- all hold memories of rich culture and cruel invaders.

Some of these grandeurs still stand proud like a young bride because they have been cared for and passed safely throughout the ages, but the same cannot be said for the others, which got degraded and turned into a part of haunted folklore.

The Fort of Maharaja Suraj Vikramaditya Rana of a wealthy warrior clan that claims descent from Lakshmana (brother of Lord Rama), is a great example of the flourishing Suryavanshi Dynasty.

In 1705, when the Mughals erased the line between good and evil, a revolt broke in the sacred lands of Hindus. The faith of humble people was tested by ruining the symbol of their belief- the temples. The dignity of females was bounced in the society that worships the Goddess of doom- Mahakaali and Durga.

Trauma got instilled in scared minds.

Powerless, the people started sinning to overcome the ruthlessness of the uncivilized barbarians.

Widows were burned along with their dead husbands. Little girls were married off to wealthy households or sometimes older men who guaranteed their protection (even if they exploited naïve minds into closed rooms). These practices turned into a norm to save the women from the greedy hands of hungry wolves and a corrupted system. No parents wanted their daughters to be sold into a harem or forced into another religion.

This new organized religion- MADNESS, resulted in the rise of a lone Rana, who roared his complaint against the messy jurisdiction for the first time. Though the sadistic beasts had many Kings supporting them, none were able to silence the Rana. The prince of 16 was a force to reckon with.

He assembled what little army he had, collected the rebellions, robbers, cutthroats, and freedom fighters hidden in the forests, and challenged the authority which was sucking the rich essence of their soil, a system that drove innocent people to the brink of insanity.

Together, they fought for their sisters, daughter, and mothers. They fought in the name of their Gods. They raided the lands of culprits with the blessing of Doom. After 5 months, the never-ending war caught the attention of the Sultan. Impressed by the valor of the young Prince and saddened by the foolishness of his disciples that were inflicting pain, he honored the warrior clan and their cause. The Sultan gifted Prince Rana a large area over a hill, surrounded by fertile land and two rivers.

To keep the invaders outside and protect what was left of their people, Prince accepted the gift and contemplated building a unique and strategic position. It took him nearly 8 years and 2580 artisans to finish the project.

The Fort stands over the hill, 180 m (590.6 ft) in height, and spread over an area of 280 ha (691.9 acres) above the plains of the valley drained by the Holy River. The fort covers 65 historic structures, which include five palaces- Chitrakoot, Mayur, Aryavarte, Rajwada, and Chandra Mahal, 15 large temples, 20 large water bodies, 4 memorials, and 7 victory towers in the name of commanders who aided the prince during this venture.

For the next three centuries, over 10 generations of Rana resided in this splendid architecture, drunk in luxury and power, until my time came.

I was crowned thirty-five years ago, on January 11, 1963, after my father passed away from liver cirrhosis. We all saw it coming and prayed for it to happen soon. He wasn't an ideal man. Arrogant and cruel, he treated everyone outside the family as maggots. In the course of his 67 years, when the country was struggling under the rule of Britishers, he married four times to achieve a male heir. After 6 daughters and 5 stillborns, he finally got what he wanted from his fourth wife, Me. A son, an heir who will take his legacy forward. But I lived in shame for being the son of a womanizer, an alcoholic, and a wife beater. My oldest sister, who cared for me more like a son, once confessed how the bastard entered her room on the eve of her 16 birthday and forced himself on her. This made me hate him more.

At the age of 26, when I first sat on that golden throne, I didn't feel any different.

In the back of my mind, it was all a formality. I was aware of the tree of democracy slowly spreading its roots throughout the nation. Where my father was living on his privy purse (a payment made to the ruling families of erstwhile princely states as part of their agreements to first integrate with India in 1947 after the independence, and later to merge their states in 1949, thereby ending their ruling rights) and ancestry wealth, which hit rock bottom after marrying the six sisters into eligible and respected households, I planted my first step in the business world.

A construction company was established by selling some properties to the government and rich businessmen of that time.

I wouldn't lie, the starting years were difficult. We didn't have enough funds to take on bigger projects. I needed reliant manpower. After losing two big contracts, I was also losing hope, until she came into my life.

Sandhya Rathore.

She was a princess and had admired me for a long time. When the proposal came, I instantly said yes. Not to her but the dowry which will come with her. This wasn't morally correct. I was against this practice since the beginning but had paid it six times before to maintain the status of this hollow legacy. Sandhya was a beautiful woman, not only from the outside but inside. In the era where fairer skin was considered good-looking, she was a dusky princess with regal features. Her brown eyes were full of wonders. But within the first year of marriage, I realized how sharp her mind was. Her being a doctor in business and statistics helped me in rising from rags to riches.

We understood each other and became best friends, partners in both personal and professional life. She was the soul of the establishment we settled in later years and became the best. Both of us were carrier oriented and didn't want to be grounded until the need aroused. We wanted to fly, touch the skies, fall in love, and live a little before weighing ourselves with more responsibilities. Our love only increased.

A new chapter of life began when after 8 years of marriage, in the year 1966, Sandhya gave birth to our son- Raghuveer.

We couldn't be happier. He was the star of our eyes and the life of the household and had every maid run after him. So mischievous. A smart boy. He had his mother's brain...."

Suddenly, Gauri paused. Her eyes swept over the familiar name thrice before she looked up at her equally stunned father-in-law. The journal wasn't ordinary. It belonged to King Rajyavardhan Singh Rana, Raghuveer's father, and Yagya's grandfather. It held multiple entries of the same year Yagyavardhan was born. One thing was clear, the old man wasn't an avid writer for he would've done it throughout his lifetime and mentioned the important events in the journals of the years they happened. Rajyavardhan must have thought of doing it in the last days of his life.

Shrugging her shoulders, she began again.

"And four years later, in 1970 when Aaryan was born, Raghuveer found his best friend. The brothers were formidable together but were kittens in front of Sandhya. Whenever I would complain about the tricks they play around the staff, she simply brushed them off. Her boys were innocent. I wanted to laugh. A mother's love knows no bounds. Our family of four was going strong until tragedy struck that one night.

Raghuveer was 16 and had come home from London boarding school after a year. Sandhya was so excited. She had the entire Rajwada Palace cleaned twice and ordered a 1970 Plymouth Hemi 'Cuda Convertible for the young prince. Raghuveer had been begging her for the same model for 4 months. I remember the excitement and shine in my son's eyes. He could barely contain his happiness when saw his first car standing in front of the Rajwada Palace. He had cheered and shouted, twirled his mother high in the air, and kissed her cheek, expressing his sincere gratitude.

After having dinner, the mother and son decided to take the car on a drive. It was late in the evening. I should've said something when Raghuveer had asked to take it out of the fort and have ice cream from their favorite place. I should've objected as there was no moon in the sky that night. My beloved had kissed me on the lips and ruffled a curious and sleepy Aaryan's hair. He didn't seem as thrilled about the gift as his brother. He was more into weapons like me.

When the mother and son had left that night, I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. A servant girl slipped from the stairs and dropped the glasses brimming with milk, breaking them in the process. Anxiety instantly builds in my chest. After putting the younger one under sheets, I invested my time in watching weather reports. It was clear. Some peace returned to me, but the clock was ticking and they'd left 2 hours ago without any guards, against my concerns.

It was nighttime. Who would recognize them or possibly attack them?

The next four hours were the darkest hours of my life.

The phone in the living room erupted, further heightening my heartbeats. Red sirens started to ring in my brain when the other person on the line informed me about it. The tragedy ruined my family and changed everything.

As they were driving back towards the Rana Fort with my wife in the driver's seat, since she didn't trust Raghuveer with the wheel longer, out of nowhere, a band of Nilgai rush across them on the empty road. One of the dreaded antelope, about 288 kgs in weight collided with the bumper and fell on the windshield making Sandhya lose control of the vehicle. The car had fallen down the small valley. The love of my life was bleeding heavily but even in that vulnerable state, she thought of helping her son first. She dragged an unconscious Raghuveer out of the car and laid him against a tree. With whatever energy she had, she cried for help.

At the hospital, she died in my arms after making me promise to take care of the boys. I could only nod between those gut-wrenching sobs. I don't remember crying before, but that night, I forgot that deeply instilled stigma and let the dam break. The woman I loved was covered in blood, lying still and pale on a hospital bed to never return...."

Gauri shuts the journal instantly and wipes her tears. A few of her salty drops fell on the paper, smudging the ink. She looked at her father-in-law, who looked equally distraught. His eyes held moisture.

"I think, I shouldn't read any further. This was a bad idea, father." She whispered as tears dripped from her eyes. Standing from the couch, she slides the forgotten journal back in its place and steers the wheelchair outside in morose.

In place of cheering him, she has troubled a bedridden man more. Memories of that dark time must have freshened; the trauma must've returned. He was in that car accident and he had lost his mother that night.

She felt so bad for the happy family they used to be.

As they escaped the library and back into the bed chambers of the former King, two guards helped him into the large bed. Gauri watched mutely and called for a maid. It was time for lunch.