The grand hall of Vora Heights shimmered under a canopy of light and laughter. It was April 18, 1616, and Jai Vora's sixteenth birthday had transformed the sixth floor into a palace of joy. Eight hundred guests filled the marble expanse, their silk saris and brocade kurtas swirling like a kaleidoscope. Chandeliers of hand-blown glass cast golden halos across tables laden with silver platters: butter chicken steaming with ghee, saffron rice flecked with cashews, gulab jamun dripping rose syrup, and kulfi on sticks dusted with pistachio. The air buzzed with sitar melodies, tabla beats, and the clink of pomegranate wine in crystal goblets.
Jai stood at the heart of it all, sixteen and radiant in a midnight-blue sherwani stitched with silver thread. His smile lit the room as he greeted every well-wisher, his warmth drawing laughter like moths to a flame. Around him, his closest friends and allies formed a vibrant circle, their presence a testament to the empire they'd built together.
Vikram Singh, dashing in crimson brocade, clapped Jai's shoulder and roared, "To the king of Surat!" The hall echoed back, "To Jai!" Ram and Shashi, ever the strategists, raised their glasses with mischievous grins. Kali, the quartermaster with a laugh like thunder, toasted with a tankard of lassi. Kofi, the blacksmith, boomed a cheer that rattled the chandeliers. Amir, broad-shouldered and grinning, punched Jai's arm playfully. Sarita, Ravi, Manoj, and Annu stood close, their faces glowing with pride. Maya, graceful in emerald silk, offered a shy smile. Arjun, Rahil, and Sanjay flanked her, their quiet nods warm with loyalty. Dhruv, the rooftop scout, leaned against a pillar, flashing a rogue's wink. Nishil, the grizzled trainer, raised a goblet from the sidelines, his eyes twinkling.
The gifts poured in like a monsoon.
Kofi unveiled a foldable steel bicycle, its frame gleaming, pedals carved with tiny lions. "Ride faster than the wind, Jai!" he bellowed. Amir presented a curved tulwar with a sapphire pommel, its sharkskin scabbard catching the light. Sarita handed over an ivory-bound ledger, whispering, "Your profits for the next decade." Vikram topped them all, rolling out a miniature teak bicycle inlaid with ivory. "For the boy who taught nobles to fly," he laughed. Maya stepped forward, offering a black rose dipped in silver. "For you, always," she said softly. Arjun, Rahil, and Sanjay followed with a set of carved dice, each face etched with a Vora spice. Ram and Shashi gifted a map of northern India, trade routes inked in gold. Kali produced a brass compass engraved with Jai's initials. Ravi, Manoj, and Annu pooled their gift: a silver model of Vora Heights, every window a tiny gem. Dhruv tossed a leather pouch; inside, a collapsible spyglass. "For the king who sees everything," he grinned. Nishil placed a simple iron ring on Jai's finger. "For luck," he grunted, smiling.
Merchants pressed forward with daughters, a tradition now in its third year. Meera of Varanasi, seventeen, curtsied with a lotus-shaped fan. Zainab of Hyderabad, sixteen, offered a pearl abacus, her eyes sparkling. Tara of Surat, fifteen, played a note on a conch-shell flute, the sound pure as a bell. Jai accepted every gift, every rose, every verse, his laughter weaving the room into a tapestry of joy.
Leela, radiant on the dais, dabbed her eyes. Anil raised a goblet. "To my son—who builds dreams and still dances with his mother!" The crowd cheered. Servants wove through with trays of masala chai and jalebi, crisp and syrupy. The music shifted to a lively bhangra, and the floor erupted: merchants' daughters twirled, nobles stumbled, and Kofi led a conga line that snaked past the dessert table. Children raced Jai's miniature bicycle around the hall, shrieking with delight.
Near midnight, Jai slipped onto the balcony for air. The Tapti glittered below, lamps flickering like a thousand stars. Vikram joined him, two glasses of wine in hand. "Tomorrow, Ahmedabad," he said, grinning. "Your mansion, your factory, your legend." Jai clinked his glass. "Tonight, I'm just a boy with the best friends in India."
Behind them, the hall sang a Gujarati birthday anthem, voices soaring. Fireworks burst over the river—green, gold, crimson, each stamped with the Vora seal. Laughter spilled out, warm and boundless. Somewhere, a girl in pink tugged her father's sleeve. "Will Master Jai remember me?" The merchant chuckled. "Child, he'll remember us all."
Under the exploding sky, Jai Vora stood with his family—Vikram, Ram, Shashi, Kali, Kofi, Amir, Sarita, Ravi, Manoj, Annu, Maya, Arjun, Rahil, Sanjay, Dhruv, and Nishil—and felt the world sing his name.