Royal Hearts : When Eyes First Met
chapter 1
A dimly lit, sea-facing verandah at Dhruv Malhotra’s Malabar Hill bungalow. The sound of waves in the distance. The smell of rain on earth. Cups of steaming chai on a low wooden table
India, 1950.
The air was different in those days. Cities still carried the scent of fresh freedom, mingled with old dust and new dreams. Mumbai had begun to wear its new skin — trams clattering, jazz spilling from smoky cafés, and young men speaking of futures they were finally allowed to own
And among them was Dhruv Malhotra — the boy with too much money and not enough rules, a lover of ancient things in a world chasing the new.
That evening, a soft drizzle left the streets glistening under the gas lamps. At the top of Malabar Hill, the verandah of Dhruv’s sprawling bungalow looked out at a restless sea. The scent of wet earth mingled with strong, spiced chai. It was here, as always, that Dhruv and his closest friends gathered.
The boys sit together, laughter rising and falling like the tide
Arjun Sinha
You’re really serious about this, aren’t you? Running off to Jaipur for a dusty old haveli and some forgotten paintings?
Dhruv Malhotra
smirking*
Not dusty , priceless Diwan Haveli holds one of the last untouched private collections since Partition. And one piece in particular — The Flame of Jaipur. I need it.
Sameer Vinay
Didn’t they say that painting’s cursed? You want to bring home bad luck too now?
Rohan Sisodia
(laughing ) Since when did Dhruv believe in curses? It’s always about the art with him, never the stories.
Dhruv Malhotra
(gazing out at the misty sea):
“Maybe this time… it’s both
Kunal
(leaning back, stretching his legs):
Alright, sahib, what’s the grand plan then?
Dhruv Malhotra
We leave at dawn. My driver’s picking you lot up at 6. Bombay Baroda Express, 9 AM. We reach Ajmer by nightfall. From there, a car to Jaipur. I’ve sent a wire to the haveli’s caretaker. The deal’s as good as done.
Arjun Sinha
And where’s our royal lodging? Please don’t tell me some falling-apart guest house.
Dhruv Malhotra
(a sly grin):
Rajvilas Guest House. Quiet. Private. Old-world charm. You’ll survive
Sameer Vinay
(raising his cup in mock toast):
“To haunted paintings and dying young.
Laughter rippled through the verandah. The wind picked up, making the lanterns flicker.
Arjun Sinha
Jokes aside… this trip feels different
Kunal
Good different or ‘we-might-not-make-it-back’ different?
[A sudden gust of wind makes the lantern flicker. The city hums below. Silence hangs for a moment.]
Arjun Sinha
(raising his chai)
To Jaipur.
Dhruv Malhotra
(voice low, as though speaking to the wind):
Some stories aren’t left behind. They find you
Arjun Sinha
(raising his cup):
“To Jaipur.”
Everyone, together:
“To Jaipur.”
None of them knew what awaited in those pink-stoned streets. even Dhruv Malhotra — the boy who chased the past — would never escape it.
It had begun.
introduction of male lead
Dhruv Malhotra
The heir to one of Mumbai’s oldest business families, Dhruv is a man born with everything — wealth, charm, and an air of danger. A collector of rare art and ancient stories, he’s known for chasing forgotten treasures in a world desperate to move on. Beneath his cool arrogance lies a heart that’s never been claimed… until Jaipur.
Sameer
The joker, the flirt, the one who can make a room laugh even in a storm. Sameer is a jazz-loving, free-spirited dreamer who lives for late-night stories and chasing the impossible.
Arjun Mehta
The group’s sharp-tongued realist. A lawyer’s son with a quick wit and a skeptical eye, Arjun keeps the boys grounded. Loyal to a fault, his sarcasm hides a deeply protective nature.
Rohan
Quiet, observant, and endlessly curious. Rohan’s love for history makes him Dhruv’s closest confidant on these wild hunts. He’s the one who remembers the details others forget.
Kunal
The muscle of the group with a heart of gold. Always ready with a story or a fight, Kunal grew up on Mumbai’s streets and carries the kind of street-smarts the others lack.
chapter 3
The sun rose heavy and golden over Mumbai’s skyline, bathing the crumbling Victorian facades and restless sea in molten light. The city was already awake — trams rattling down Colaba streets, hawkers calling out, and the scent of frying puris curling through the humid air.
At exactly 6 AM, Dhruv’s black Buick purred to a stop outside Arjun’s house.
Rohan Sisodia
(groaning, stepping out with a small suitcase):
God help us all. Only Dhruv Malhotra would plan an art heist this early
Kunal
from the back seat, grinning):
Quit whining, barrister sahib. The adventure’s just begun
Sameer Vinay
(half-asleep, with a scarf tied over his eyes):
Wake me when we find treasure. Or ghosts
Rohan Sisodia
(checking his pocket diary):
“Train leaves at 9. Dhruv said he’s waiting at the station with the tickets
By 7:30, they reached Bombay Central. The station was a riot of sound and color — porters shouting, families bidding tearful goodbyes, travelers with canvas trunks and rolled-up bedding. Amid the chaos, Dhruv stood apart.
Leaning against a pillar, a rolled-up newspaper in one hand, cigarette in the other, Dhruv Malhotra looked every inch the rakish prince of the city.
Dhruv Malhotra
(smirking as the boys approached):
“Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to buy the train myself.”
Arjun Sinha
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
Sameer Vinay
(yawning):
“Is there tea on this thing? Or are we expected to survive on our youthful charm?”
Dhruv Malhotra
Tea’s on me. And so’s lunch. Now move it — the 9 AM express waits for no man
The Bombay Baroda Express was a long, gleaming serpent of metal, hissing impatiently at the platform. Their compartment, a first-class berth with worn leather seats and wooden paneling, smelled faintly of old rain and new beginnings.
The train lurched forward, leaving behind the city’s familiar hum.
Kunal
(grinning as the city blurred past the window):
“This… this is the life.”
Sameer Vinay
(already digging into a box of sweets):
“To Jaipur, gentlemen. May we find ghosts, gold, or glory.”
Arjun Sinha
“Or all three.”
Rohan Sisodia
(flipping through an old book on Rajasthani legends):
“You know… legend says Diwan Haveli was cursed by a spurned lover. That anyone who seeks its treasures loses something of their own.”
Dhruv Malhotra
(leaning back, eyes half-closed):
“Good. I’ve got things to lose.”
Kunal
“That’s the Dhruv Malhotra spirit. Always flirting with danger.”
As the train cut through fields of swaying cane and sleepy villages, none of them noticed how the wind began to shift. How old stories whispered through the desert sands ahead. How fate, silent and waiting, had already begun to write its own tale.
Because in Jaipur, a princess woke from a restless dream — of strangers arriving, of a boy with storm-dark eyes, and a name she didn’t yet know but would never forget.
It had begun.
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