Chapter 1
The Roots of Rajgarh

The village of Rajgarh woke with the sun, but the haveli at its heart was always a step ahead. Morning chants from the temple blended with the scent of incense drifting through the open courtyard. In the kitchen, the sound of ladles clinking against brass pots set the rhythm of another day.

Prithvi Raj Chauhan stood in the veranda, tall and silent, his presence commanding even in stillness. Dressed in a simple white kurta-pajama, his gaze swept over the fields in the distance. The land was quiet, loyal—just like he’d always been taught to be.

Behind him, a voice broke the morning calm.

“Prithvi, at least have some breakfast before the village meeting,” his mother called out, her tone both gentle and firm.

Rajeshwari Devi, a regal woman in her early fifties, was the backbone of the Chauhan haveli. Widowed young, she had raised her children with a spine of steel and a heart full of devotion. Her love was fierce, her discipline fiercer.

“I’ll eat after the panchayat, Maa,” Prithvi said, without turning.

“You said that yesterday. And the day before,” she replied, walking up behind him with a plate in hand. “Do you think leading this village means starving yourself?”

Prithvi gave a half-smile, rare and fleeting, but she caught it.

From inside the house came the sound of bangles and bickering.

“Didi, mujhe pehle bathroom jaana hai!”
“No! I was up first!”

The younger voices belonged to his sisters—Meera and Charu.

Meera, the elder one, was sharp, organized, and already halfway into handling village women’s welfare issues despite being just twenty-two. She had dreams of studying law, but refused to leave until her younger sister finished school.

Charu, seventeen and full of fire, had no interest in diplomacy. She was known for arguing with the local boys at the tea stall and correcting the temple priest's Sanskrit. Everyone said she was too outspoken—Prithvi called it courage.

And then came the thud of running footsteps.

Yuvraj, the youngest Chauhan, slid into the courtyard, school bag bouncing behind him. “Bhaiya! You promised to come to school for the football match today!”

Prithvi arched a brow. “That was last week.”

“No, that was the practice match. Today is the real one.” Yuvraj puffed out his chest, only slightly taller than the football he carried.

Rajeshwari laughed. “Go, Prithvi. He doesn’t ask for much.”

Prithvi sighed. “Fine. After the panchayat.”

“You always say that,” Yuvraj muttered, mimicking his mother’s tone.

Rajgarh might have seen him as a leader, but here in this haveli, surrounded by his chaos-loving siblings and a mother who ruled his mornings, Prithvi was just a son. A brother. A man with the weight of tradition on his shoulders and the ache of an unknown restlessness in his chest.

Little did he know, that ache had a name—and she was on her way to Rajgarh.

The panchayat courtyard, nestled beneath a sprawling neem tree, buzzed with murmurs. Men in white dhotis sat on charpoys, their eyes darting between one another, tension humming in the thick, dusty air. In the center, an old man with trembling hands stood barefoot, his turban askew, eyes downcast.

Facing him, with arrogance writ clear on his face, stood Mahipal Singh, the village moneylender. His arms were crossed, gold chain glinting around his neck, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

“He took five thousand rupees a year ago,” Mahipal said, loudly for all to hear. “And now he says he cannot return it. That is theft.”

“It isn’t theft,” the old man, Raghu, murmured, his voice shaking. “My crops failed. My wife has been unwell. I need time, not punishment.”

Mahipal took a threatening step forward. “If you cannot return my money, you’ll give me your land. You signed the deed. I have the paper.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Land was everything in Rajgarh—it fed families, built futures. For a farmer to lose it was not just misfortune. It was devastation.

But before anyone could speak, a firm voice rang out.

“Yeh faisla tum nahin loge, Mahipal.”

Silence fell like a blade.

All heads turned.

Prithvi Raj Chauhan stepped into the courtyard, his shawl draped over one shoulder, eyes hard as granite. He didn’t raise his voice, but his presence commanded silence more than any shout ever could.

Mahipal shifted uncomfortably. “Pradhanji,” he said with a nod, forcing civility into his tone. “This is a matter of law. The man owes me. There is no dispute.”

Prithvi looked at Raghu. “Is it true you took the loan?”

Raghu nodded, shame coloring his wrinkled face. “Yes, beta. My crops failed two seasons in a row. I borrowed to buy seeds and to treat my wife’s illness.”

“And did Mahipal harass you for repayment?” Prithvi asked, voice even.

“He came to my house last night,” Raghu whispered. “Threatened to throw my son out of the school if I didn’t pay today.”

Prithvi’s jaw tightened. He turned to Mahipal. “You do not threaten people in this village, Mahipal. Not while I’m alive.”

Mahipal scoffed. “I did nothing outside the law. The paper has his thumbprint.”

Prithvi took the document offered by Mahipal’s man, scanning it with sharp eyes.

“Two things,” he said, holding the paper up. “First, this loan was taken with no witness. Second, the interest rate you charged—twenty percent per month—is not just immoral. It’s criminal.”

Mahipal’s face darkened. “This is my business, Prithvi. You have no right—”

“I have every right,” Prithvi thundered, stepping closer. “You think this is still your father’s time, when you could trap poor men with papers they didn’t understand? My father didn’t raise me to watch while leeches like you suck the blood of this land.”

He turned to the panchayat. “My father, Rajveer Chauhan, taught me that leadership isn’t about power. It’s about seva—service. About nyay—justice. And I swore on his pyre that I would never let this village be broken by greed.”

Heads nodded. The elders murmured in agreement. Prithvi’s father had been loved, revered even. His word had been law. And now, it seemed, the son bore that same fire.

Prithvi turned back to Mahipal. “You will cancel this loan. Tear this paper now. Right here.”

Mahipal sneered. “Or what?”

Prithvi’s voice dropped low, dangerous. “Or I will make sure that you are investigated for every illegal transaction you’ve made in this village. And I’ll personally walk your file to the SDM’s office.”

That did it.

With a reluctant growl, Mahipal snatched the paper from his man’s hands and tore it down the middle, letting the pieces flutter to the ground like dust.

Raghu’s knees buckled. “Prithvi beta, I—”

Prithvi stepped forward, catching the old man’s elbow, helping him stand.

“You don’t owe me thanks, Kaka. You worked this land for forty years. This village owes you.”

There was silence, then a slow clap. Then another. And soon, the courtyard erupted with applause—quiet at first, then thunderous, heartfelt. Some stood, some bowed their heads. Prithvi didn’t smile. He only nodded once, then turned back to his seat.

The panchayat continued with other matters, but the energy had shifted. The villagers knew now—they had a leader who would protect them, not sell them.

As the meeting ended, Yashwant Chaudhary, an old friend of Prithvi’s late father, approached him.

“Rajveer would be proud,” Yashwant said, eyes misty.

“I hope so,” Prithvi replied softly. “But I still have far to go.”

Later that evening, as the sun dipped behind the banyan trees, Prithvi stood once more in the courtyard of the haveli, his arms crossed, mind heavy.

Rajeshwari Devi joined him, carrying a glass of water.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

“Then rest. Justice will still be waiting for you tomorrow.”

He took the glass, but didn’t drink. “This village… every time I think I’ve done enough, something else rises. Some new cruelty. Some hidden wound.”

“You can’t fight it all, Prithvi,” she said gently. “You are not your father.”

He looked at her. “No. I’m not. But I carry his name. His promise.”

Rajeshwari touched his arm. “And that’s more than enough.”

Far from Rajgarh, a city girl boarded a train that would unknowingly collide with Prithvi’s carefully ordered world. But for now, he stood in the land of his blood, unaware that love was about to arrive like the very storms he never feared—loud, wild, and utterly unrelenting.