Marine Drive, Mumbai – 7:42 PM
I'm sitting on the parapet with a street-vendor cutting chai in one hand and a leash in the other.
Fluffy (the real one, no crown, no red eyes) is busy chasing pigeons that are twice his size.
His fur has gone almost completely white at the muzzle now, but he still runs like a puppy when he smells vada-pav.
A little girl in pigtails (same face we never forgot) walks up with her mother.
"Uncle, aapka dog kitna cute hai!"
Fluffy freezes mid-bark, stares at the girl for three full seconds, then runs straight to her and puts his head in her lap.
The girl giggles.
"Aap iska naam kya rakha?"
I smile.
"Fluffy Oberoi."
She laughs. "Bohot ameer wala naam hai!"
I shrug. "Woh toh hai."
The mother thanks me and they leave.
Fluffy watches them go, tail wagging slowly.
He comes back, sits beside me, and rests his head on my knee like he's done every single evening for the last twelve months.
No butler.
No helicopter.
No 42 billion staring over my shoulder.
Just a small 2BHK in Dadar that I bought cash.
Mom cooks butter chicken on Sundays.
Rohan topped his school (Fluffy sits under his study table for "moral support").
Dad waters the tulsi plant on the balcony and argues with Fluffy about cricket scores.
The empire still exists.
I manage it from a laptop on the dining table.
Money flows in faster than we can count.
But every extra rupee goes into one account:
"Fluffy's Quiet Garden Foundation"
(animal shelters, old-age homes, and scholarships for kids who lost parents early).
Fluffy never wears a collar anymore.
Just a simple red thread around his neck that the little girl tied the day we brought him home.
Sometimes, when no one's looking, I still call him "Master".
He pretends not to hear… but his tail thumps twice.
Tonight the sky is orange-pink, same colour as the cherry blossoms that covered the palace driveway exactly one year ago.
Fluffy looks up at the sunset, then at me.
His eyes are normal brown now.
But for one second, just one… I swear I see a faint red sparkle.
He licks my hand once.
Message received, old friend.
I scratch behind his ears.
"Chale ghar? Mom ne chicken banaya hai."
He stands up slowly, stretches, and starts walking toward the car.
I follow.
No throne.
No rules.
No contract.
Just a boy and his dog going home for dinner.
And somewhere far away, in a forgotten vault seven levels below the sea…
an empty synthetic shell wearing a ruby crown waits patiently.
Just in case the world ever needs
needs
Fluffy Oberoi
again.
**The End… for now.**