The early morning sun spilled over the palace gardens, casting its golden warmth over the stone pathways and delicate flowers. The soft hum of palace life had already begun—the clinking of pots from the kitchens, the rhythmic sweeping of the courtyards, and the murmured exchanges of servants carrying out their morning duties.
From the balcony of his chamber, Virendra gazed over the kingdom, his eyes focused on the distant streets where the first rays of light painted the stone buildings in hues of amber. His hands rested lightly on the balcony's ornate railing, but his mind was elsewhere, burdened by the thoughts of unseen struggles.
It had been several weeks since the nobles had paid handsomely for electricity in their estates, unknowingly funding the very education of the commoners they had sought to suppress. The money had flowed steadily into the treasury, allowing the queen to expand the learning halls, hire more tutors, and procure teaching materials.
However, the reality was not as simple as he had anticipated.
---
Despite the newly built schools, barely a handful of commoners came forward to learn.
Virendra's brows furrowed as he sat in the courtyard, listening to the reports from the royal overseers who managed the education initiative.
"Even with free education, the turnout is pitifully low, Your Highness," said Manav, a senior administrator overseeing the schools. His weathered face bore a look of frustration. "The halls remain half-empty—at best. The commoners seem… uninterested."
Virendra's brows drew together slightly.
"Uninterested?" he asked, his voice calm but with a sharp edge of curiosity.
The overseer shook his head, clearly dismayed.
"They believe it is too costly," Manav explained. "They fear they will lose valuable hours from their work, which means less income for their families. Even when we assure them that the lessons are free, they hesitate. The few who come… often leave after a week or two."
A deep frown creased Virendra's forehead.
"How many attend regularly?" he asked.
Manav sighed heavily, the disappointment in his eyes evident.
"Perhaps… thirty or forty," he admitted. "Out of a kingdom of thousands."
Virendra leaned back in his chair, his arms lightly crossed as he processed the information. The issue was clear. The commoners did not trust the offer, fearing hidden costs or wasted time. The very people he hoped to uplift were reluctant to take the first step.
For a long moment, he remained silent, his sharp eyes glimmering with thought.
---
That evening, the royal family gathered in the main hall for dinner. The long marble table was adorned with silver platters of food, and the light from the crystal chandeliers illuminated the chamber in a warm, golden glow.
As servants poured wine and served dishes, Queen Yashodhara's eyes lingered on her son, noticing the distant expression on his face.
"You're troubled," she remarked calmly, her voice smooth but discerning.
Virendra, still cutting his meat, glanced at his mother.
"Only slightly," he admitted, his tone unreadable.
Beside him, Jayvarma arched a brow, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"Only slightly?" Jay teased lightly. "You've barely said three words since we sat down. For you, that's practically brooding."
Devsena, sitting opposite Virendra, smirked faintly at her older brother's jest.
"Are the scholars driving you mad already?" she asked, her eyes gleaming mischievously.
Virendra's lips quirked faintly in response, but the humor in his siblings' remarks couldn't fully lift his mood.
He set his fork down, leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting lightly on the table.
"The learning halls are nearly empty," he said bluntly, addressing the table.
His mother's expression hardened slightly, her eyes glimmering with sharp interest.
"Empty?" she asked, her tone cool but watchful.
Virendra nodded once, his eyes calm but thoughtful.
"Even with free education, the commoners are hesitant," he explained. "They fear it will cost them their livelihood—or that they'll gain nothing from it."
Yashodhara's fingers drummed lightly against her goblet, her eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation.
"And what do you propose?" she asked smoothly, her tone regal and even.
Virendra's eyes sharpened, his voice steady.
"We need to change the way we offer education," he said firmly. "We need to adapt to their needs, not expect them to conform to ours."
---
The next morning, Virendra stood in the central learning hall, surrounded by the few commoners who had come seeking education. He observed them quietly, noting their rough, calloused hands—the signs of hard labor.
The men and women sat stiffly, clearly uneasy in the new environment. Their eyes were wary, and some fidgeted anxiously, unused to being indoors during daylight hours.
Virendra stepped forward, his voice low but clear.
"Why do you hesitate?" he asked softly, addressing them directly.
An older man with a lined face and weathered hands stepped forward, clearly speaking on behalf of the group.
"We cannot afford to leave our work for this, Prince," he admitted bluntly, his voice rough from years of labor. "Our families depend on us. We cannot spend hours in these halls when we should be earning our bread."
Virendra's lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded slowly, understanding their reasoning.
After a moment of silent contemplation, he turned to Manav, who stood nearby.
"How long are the classes?" Virendra asked calmly.
"Two to three hours," Manav replied. "Every morning and evening."
Virendra's gaze narrowed thoughtfully, his mind working quickly.
Finally, he turned back to the commoners.
"And what if the lessons were shorter?" he asked. "An hour, perhaps—even less."
The commoners exchanged uncertain glances, clearly intrigued but still wary.
"And what if," Virendra added smoothly, "the education came to you, instead of you coming here?"
The older man's eyes narrowed slightly, confused.
"What do you mean, my prince?"
Virendra's eyes gleamed faintly, his voice firm and deliberate.
"We will send instructors to your villages, to teach you in the evenings—after your work is done," he said evenly.
There was a brief, stunned silence as the commoners stared at him, clearly caught off guard by the offer.
Virendra's voice was calm but resolute, his eyes unwavering.
"You will not lose your labor," he continued. "You will not lose wages. And you will gain knowledge, for yourselves and your children."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, the older man's eyes softened slightly, his expression shifting from caution to slow consideration.
"If that is the case…" he said slowly, his voice still heavy with skepticism but with a glimmer of hope, "then perhaps we can try."
A wave of murmurs spread through the small crowd. One by one, the commoners began to nod in agreement, their faces still hesitant but marked by curiosity.
Virendra's lips curved faintly, but his eyes remained sharp and calculating.
The first step had been taken.
---
The morning sun had barely crept over the horizon, casting its soft golden light over the kingdom, when Virendra rode out from the palace gates. The rhythmic clatter of his horse's hooves echoed softly against the stone-paved roads as he made his way to the outskirts. The air was crisp, still holding the lingering chill of the night, but it was clear the day would be warm.
As he passed through the villages, his sharp eyes scanned the streets, watching the subtle changes that had begun to take root.
It had been four months since he implemented the idea of sending instructors to the villages in the evenings. What had initially been met with skepticism and hesitation was now gaining momentum.
---
As Virendra reached the village square, he dismounted and handed his reins to one of the palace guards accompanying him. His boots crunched softly against the dirt as he walked toward the small makeshift learning area under a large banyan tree.
To his quiet satisfaction, he saw a group of commoners gathered around a scholar who stood before them, holding a wooden slate marked with neat, precise symbols.
The instructor was teaching the villagers how to read and write, his voice steady and patient.
"Again," the instructor called out, pointing at the symbol. "Read it aloud."
The villagers repeated the word in unison, some still hesitant, their tongues clumsy with the unfamiliar shapes and sounds, but there was determination in their voices.
Nearby, a young woman in a simple, earth-toned sari clutched a piece of parchment, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the letters with her fingertips. Her brow furrowed with focus as she slowly mouthed the words, her lips moving silently, but her eyes gleamed with pride at her newfound ability.
Virendra's lips curved faintly, a small but genuine smile.
As he walked through the village, he noticed more and more signs of the change taking root.
A shopkeeper using a wooden slate to record his transactions rather than relying on memory alone.
A young boy reading out the names of herbs from a scroll at the apothecary, helping his father organize them.
An elderly man carefully scrawling his own name on a slip of paper, his hands trembling but his eyes filled with pride.
It was subtle, but the impact was profound. The commoners were learning to understand contracts, count their wages, and communicate through writing—a skill that once belonged only to the educated few.
---
By midday, Virendra returned to the palace.
In the royal garden, he found Queen Yashodhara seated beneath the shade of a flowering tree, sipping from a silver goblet. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting soft dappled patterns on her golden sari.
Her eyes lifted when she saw him approaching.
"You seem pleased," she observed, noting the faint glimmer of satisfaction in her son's eyes.
Virendra sat down beside her, his gloved fingers lightly brushing the petals of a nearby jasmine blossom.
"They're learning," he said simply. "And they're… grateful."
The queen's brows arched slightly, a glimmer of intrigue crossing her sharp eyes.
"Grateful?" she echoed.
Virendra's lips quirked faintly, his voice calm but purposeful.
"They are beginning to see it not as a burden, but as a gift," he explained. "They now realize the power of knowledge. I heard an old woman say she could finally write her dead son's name for the first time in her life."
For a brief moment, Yashodhara's eyes softened, the calculating sharpness giving way to a flicker of warmth.
The commoners' gratitude was not only toward the instructors or the initiative itself—it was toward their queen, the sovereign who had allowed them this opportunity.
"Let them be grateful," Yashodhara murmured smoothly, but there was a glimmer of pride in her voice. "It is fitting that they know whom to thank."
---
After a few moments of silence, Virendra's eyes narrowed slightly in thought.
"Mother," he said quietly, his voice steady, "I've been considering something else."
She glanced at him sharply, sensing the familiar tone that often preceded one of his bold ideas.
He turned slightly to face her, his eyes calm but piercing.
"We should consider teaching the commoners about the law," he said evenly.
The queen's brows lifted slightly, her eyes narrowing in measured curiosity.
"Law?" she echoed, her tone neutral but watchful.
Virendra nodded slowly.
"Reading and writing gives them the tools to understand the world," he explained. "But if they understood the laws—if they knew their own rights and duties—it would make them far less vulnerable to exploitation."
Yashodhara's expression hardened slightly, her regal features becoming carefully composed.
"And you believe that would be wise?" she asked smoothly, her voice a shade cooler.
Her sharp gaze fixed on him, weighing the implications.
Virendra's eyes did not waver.
"Yes," he said firmly. "A man who knows the law cannot be deceived so easily by false contracts or tricked into unfair debts. And a woman who knows her rights cannot be dismissed as easily by a noble seeking to take advantage of her."
There was a brief, measured silence.
Yashodhara's fingers lightly tapped against the stem of her goblet, her expression contemplative.
"You understand what you are suggesting," she said slowly, her voice calm but firm. "You would be arming the peasants with knowledge. Knowledge that could… weaken the hold of the nobles over them."
Virendra's lips curved faintly, his eyes calm but calculating.
"Yes," he admitted smoothly. "But it would also make them more loyal to you. Grateful to you for protecting them, not only through your armies, but through justice itself."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing him. The queen was no fool—she understood the powerful implications of teaching the commoners about the law. It was a long-term gamble—one that could either fortify her rule or unsettle it.
After a long moment, she let out a slow breath, her gaze steady.
"It is a bold proposal," she said smoothly, her voice cool and measured. "And one that will take time to consider."
Her tone was not dismissive—it was cautiously contemplative. She did not reject the idea, nor did she fully embrace it.
But Virendra knew her well enough to recognize the faint glimmer of interest in her eyes.
She would think about it.
---
Over the following weeks, Virendra rode through the villages more frequently, watching as the changes slowly took hold.
Commoners now bartered more confidently, calculating their deals with newfound literacy.
Some began to send letters to distant family members—an impossible feat only months ago.
The scribes in the markets no longer belonged only to the noble houses but included educated commoners offering their services for a modest fee.
The change was gradual, but undeniable.
And though the law was not yet part of their curriculum, Virendra knew it was only a matter of time.
As he watched a young boy scrawling the alphabet in the dirt with a stick, his eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction. The future was being forged with every letter, every word, and every lesson.
And he would see it through.
---