The dining hall in Vikram Singh's Ahmedabad palace shimmered with the golden haze of afternoon light filtering through jali screens. Jasmine vines curled along the arches, their scent mingling with the rich aromas of biryani, paneer tikka, and freshly baked naan. The teak table groaned under silver dishes: bowls of creamy dahi, platters of golden jalebi, and a centerpiece of mango lassi in crystal goblets etched with the Vora seal. Jai Vora sat to Vikram's right, his indigo kurta catching the light, Shadow sprawled behind his chair like a black mountain, amber eyes half-closed but ever-watchful. Across from him, the girl in the saffron saree sat with perfect poise, her hands folded, gold border glinting against her skin.
Vikram Singh, resplendent in a crimson turban and brocade vest, broke into a broad grin. "Jai, allow me to present Isha Singh—my daughter, my pride, and occasionally my headache." His laugh boomed, warm and unguarded.
Jai inclined his head, weaving effortless grace. "An honor, Isha."
Vikram's voice softened, his eyes distant with memory. "She was barely toddling when her mother—my wife—passed. My sister, married to Amar Singh, the Maharana of Mewar, took her in. Raised her like her own in the Udaipur palaces. Isha grew up with marble halls and monsoon lakes, but blood calls blood. Last year, I sent her to London—six months with my cousin's family in Mayfair. She drank tea with lords, rode carriages through Hyde Park, and came back three weeks ago, fifteen years old, with a tongue full of English and a wardrobe full of Western clothes." He chuckled, shaking his head.
Isha's cheeks flushed, but her eyes flicked up—bright, curious, unafraid. She served Vikram a spoonful of dahi, then Jai, her movements smooth as a dancer's. Shadow's tail flicked once; she didn't flinch.
Vikram leaned toward her, voice teasing. "And this, beta, is Jai Vora. Owner of the Vora Trading Company—five cities, three thousand five hundred souls under his seal. Surat, Agra, Ahmedabad, Lucknow, Jaipur—factories that pack saffron faster than the sun rises, bicycles that outrun noble horses, glassware that shines in Jahangir's court. The boy who turned sixteen and built an empire most men couldn't dream of at sixty. The one I respect most in this world."
Isha's gaze lifted fully now, meeting Jai's for a heartbeat. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "Papa… I met him this morning. In the corridor." She hesitated, then pressed on. "Is he… from Britain?"
Vikram barked a laugh, nearly choking on his lassi. "Britain? Jai's never set foot outside India!"
Isha shook her head, stubborn as a monsoon. "It's impossible. His English—pure London. 'Good morning. He's my pet. No need to fear.' Not a trace of an Indian lilt. I heard it, Papa. Clear as Big Ben."
Vikram's eyebrow arched, his grin turning sly. "Well, Jai? Explain yourself."
Jai leaned back, a smile playing at his lips. The British accent of a past life—boardrooms in London, deals in New York—slipped out like a well-worn coat. "The East India Company speaks business in English. I didn't want to miss a single word—or a single coin. So I hired their best clerk as a tutor. Years of practice. The accent stuck, I suppose." A half-truth, polished to perfection.
Vikram slapped the table, silver clinking. "That's you, Jai! Always three moves ahead, learning their game before they deal the cards. Isha, mark this—talent like his doesn't grow on trees. You'll learn more from him than all your London dukes combined."
Isha's eyes widened, a spark of admiration flickering. She served another round of paneer, her saree shimmering as she moved. The conversation shifted—Vikram recounting Jai's paved roads, his factory villages, the way nobles now begged for Vora bicycles. Jai listened, nodding, his Wisdom mapping futures even as he savored the biryani's cardamom bite.
As the meal wound down, servants cleared plates, replacing them with kulfi on silver sticks, pistachio dust glittering like emeralds. Vikram leaned back, his gaze warm but deliberate.
"Isha, you're fifteen," he said, voice teasing but pointed. "Most girls your age are married before the monsoon rains. Parading in ghagras, learning to cook for a husband's family. But no—" he grinned at Jai—"this one sails to London, drinks tea with earls, rides in carriages, and comes back saying, 'I want to see the world first.'" He turned to Jai, eyes twinkling. "And you, birthday king—proposals pile higher than your spice silos. Daughters from Varanasi to Hyderabad, roses in your hands every banquet. Yet you dodge them all. Same mind, eh? The world's too big to settle young."
Jai raised his lassi, laughing. "Let's map the world before we chain it down."
Vikram's smile lingered, thoughtful, heavy with intent. He glanced at Isha, then back at Jai. "One day," he said softly, "we'll talk about settling. The right match can build empires as strong as factories."
Isha's fingers tightened on her goblet, but her eyes stayed steady. Shadow's tail flicked once, a low rumble vibrating through the floor. The jasmine thickened in the air, the kulfi melted untouched, and the unspoken hung between them like a promise yet to be inked.
The the dinner ended with, Vikram's gaze warm with purpose, Shadow's amber eyes unblinking, and Jai's mind already racing toward a future that might just include a girl who spoke with London's tongue and Mewar's grace.
From: Aurthor Nikhil T.
Subject: Please check out my new novel, Asura: The Hunter
Hello,
I've recently published my new novel, titled Asura: The Hunter.
I would appreciate it if you could give it a read.
Thank you very much for your time and consideration.
Best regards,
Nikhil T. (Author)