Somwhere in Calcutta...
The ceiling fan above the Raja’s bed creaked like a dying bird. The old man lay on a low wooden cot, his thin body sinking into the cotton mattress that had once been wrapped in silk. The mosquito net was torn at the edges, fluttering faintly in the humid Calcutta air. Once this room had smelled of sandalwood and roses. Now it smelled of damp, medicines, and decay.
“Once, this was mine…” he whispered to no one in particular. His voice was frail, little more than a breath. “All of it. Mine.”
His gaze drifted toward the high arched window. Beyond the glass, he could still see the marble courtyard — though now it was patrolled by red-coated British soldiers. The banners that had once carried the royal insignia of his house were gone. In their place hung the Union Ja
