Into cinder and ash, blood flowed like rivers, drenching the once fertile land in crimson. The air was thick with smoke, the stench of death clinging to the wind. Warriors clashed, steel ringing against steel, their battle cries swallowed by the roar of flames.
"Do not give up!" The command rose above the chaos, strong, unwavering. "This is our city, and we will defend it until our last breath!"
The voice belonged to none other than Crowned Prince Ashok Bhorjan—the last hope of a crumbling empire. His sword cut through the invaders, his presence alone keeping the soldiers fighting. But they were outnumbered. The walls had been breached. Yet the Soldiers fought steel clinging against steel the battlefield was drenched with war crys and blood!
Then, came an arrow. It struck deep in to the chest of the leader Ashok staggered, his grip loosening, his vision fading. The warriors around him faltered. Their leader had fallen.
Despair spread like wildfire. Their morale crumbled. The one city, the heart of an empire, had fallen.
Fallen to the Mughals. The land rule by the Bhorjans for a 100 years had collapsedwith their dynasty.
A hundred years ago, it was not like this. The land was different—prosperous, powerful, whole. To understand how it came to ruin, we must go back. Back to where it all began. Inorder to solve this mystery and to know what went wrong we need to go 100 year back in history.
A 100 years ago...
In the south-central region, the kingdom of Bundal stood as a jewel of prosperity. Its capital, Bundal Khand, was a city of grandeur-its streets bustling with merchants, soldiers, and scholars, all under the watchful eye of Raja Mohanraj.
The sun rose over Bundal Khand, gilding the sandstone walls of the royal palace in hues of gold. Within its vast halls, a silence lingered, broken only by the muffled echo of footsteps on polished stone. Inside the Maharaja's chambers, the air was heavy, not with the scent of incense, but with the tension of a conversation that teetered on the edge of confrontation.
"Father, I only ask for what is rightfully mine." Tarabai's voice, steady yet tinged with frustration, filled the room. She stood tall, her presence commanding despite the simplicity of her attire. Her long braid rested on her shoulder, and her hands were clasped before her, as though holding back the full force of her emotions.
Across from her, Raja Mohanraj sat on his ornate throne, his brow furrowed in thought. A man of power and progress, he was revered across Bundal as a just ruler and a master of trade. Yet, for all his wisdom, he now found himself caught in a web of expectations not of his own making.
"Tarabai," he began, his tone calm but firm, "the laws of the land, the traditions of our people, they leave no room for debate. The throne will pass to Dev, as it must."
"And what of my rights as your eldest child?" she pressed, stepping closer. "Am I to be reduced to a pawn in a marriage alliance, a mere footnote in the history of our dynasty?"
Her words struck a chord, but Mohanraj's face betrayed no weakness. He had heard these arguments before, but it was not her reasoning he doubted—it was the world around them.
"You know I have always admired your intellect, your strength," he said, his voice softening. "But the council, the nobles, they fear change. They fear you."
"And you?" Her question hung in the air like a blade. "Do you fear me, Father?"
Silence enveloped them. Mohanraj lowered his gaze, not out of fear, but out of a profound sorrow. He had raised her to be bold, to think freely, yet now he was forced to deny her the very future she deserved.
"I do not fear you," he finally said. "I fear for you."
Tarabai's shoulders squared. Her father's words, though laced with love, felt like chains binding her to an unjust destiny. She loved him deeply, respected him even more. But in this moment, her love clashed with her desire for justice, for the right to rule a kingdom she had watched over, in her own quiet way, for years.
"You raised me to be strong, Father," she said. "Strong enough to protect this land, strong enough to lead it. I will not let your fears, or theirs, define my fate."
For a moment, the room was still, the weight of her resolve as tangible as the sunlight streaming through the lattice windows. Mohanraj sighed, leaning back into his throne. He could see the fire in her eyes, a fire he knew could not be extinguished.
"Do not let this world break you, my daughter," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Tarabai did not reply. She turned and walked out of the chamber, her footsteps echoing in the stillness. Outside, the palace gardens bloomed with life, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within her.
She knew her fight had just begun. Tarabai strode down the long, echoing corridors of the palace, her mind a whirlpool of emotions. Anger simmered just beneath her calm exterior, but beneath the anger was a deep well of frustration and longing. She despised feeling helpless, yet that was precisely how the conversation with her father had left her.
She was not envious of her brothers; she had raised them like a mother and loved them dearly after their mother's death while giving birth to Sham, her youngest brother.
The grand double doors of the palace library stood before her—her refuge, her sanctuary. She pushed them open, the faint scent of aged parchment and ink welcoming her like an old friend. The library stretched on endlessly, with towering shelves filled with the accumulated knowledge of centuries. Here, she could lose herself, forget the confines of the palace walls and the weight of expectation.
Her fingers traced the spines of the books as she walked, seeking something new, something to quiet her restless mind. Her favorite scholar, Shastra Gupta, came to mind—his writings had always resonated with her. He had been a revolutionary thinker of the Bhorjan Empire, challenging the rigid structures of society and envisioning a world unshackled from primitive ideas. His critiques of patriarchy and territorial divisions mirrored her own thoughts, and she often found solace in his words.
But today, even his familiar texts felt insufficient.Her wandering feet brought her to a section she had never dared approach before—the restrictive section. It was cordoned off by a heavy iron gate, always guarded by stern sentries who ensured that only those with special permissions could enter. But today, the sentries were conspicuously absent. The gate stood ajar, an invitation she could not ignore.
Tarabai hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding. The restrictive section housed the rarest and most sensitive manuscripts—works deemed too dangerous or controversial for general access. To enter was to defy the rules, but curiosity burned brighter than caution.
She slipped inside, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. The air here was cooler, laden with the weight of secrets. She scanned the shelves, her fingers brushing against ornate scroll cases and leather-bound tomes until something caught her eye—a scroll bearing a crimson seal.
Her breath caught. The seal was unmistakable—the insignia of Shastra Gupta. Her hands trembled as she reached for the scroll. She had spent years reading and re-reading his works, yet she had never encountered this one. Her eyes widened further when she noticed a second mark on the parchment—the royal seal of a long-past Bhorjan emperor.
With careful reverence, she unrolled the scroll, her heart racing with a mixture of awe and anticipation. The characters were elegant yet dense, the ink faded but still legible. It was Shastra Gupta's unmistakable handwriting. And the words before her held a profound message—one that seemed to radiate hope and rebellion in equal measure.
Tarabai's lips moved silently as she read, her mind grappling with the complexity of the text. Each line was a puzzle, but within it lay a vision of unity and progress, a dream of a Bharata unbound by the chains of patriarchy and division.
Her pulse quickened. The scroll was not merely a philosophical treatise—it was a call to action, a beacon of possibility that spoke directly to her soul. And with every word, she felt a growing certainty that this discovery would change everything.
But why was this scroll hidden? And why did it bear the royal seal of the Bhorjan Empire?
As she carefully rolled the parchment back, a new thought gripped her—this was no ordinary document. It was a message meant to be uncovered, not by chance, but by someone ready to rise above the confines of the present.
Tarabai clutched the scroll to her chest, her mind already racing with questions. Whatever lay within these words, she knew one thing for certain: her journey had just begun.