Realization and Time-Skip

It's been four years since I arrived in this time, and the world around me has shifted dramatically, both for better and worse.

First, the British annexed Sindh, triggering a major war against them. Once again, they pitted us against our people, exploiting our divisions. After this war, the British captured Hyderabad, further entrenching their influence in India.

Then came the Anglo-Sikh War, where once more, we fought against our own blood. It was deeply disturbing to witness brothers killing brothers, all orchestrated by British manipulations. I could never reconcile how easily we were turned against each other.

The Doctrine of Lapse was another hypocritical move on their part. They decided who could rule on our land, and this policy would later give Jhansi ki Rani the reason to rise against them. In secret, I was relieved they had introduced it—because now we would have the fiercest warrior on our side. She was a force to be reckoned with. It baffled me that they would keep my old, frail father as a symbolic leader while Rani Lakshmibai was gearing up for battle. My father had no real power at this point; he was more of a spiritual figure for the rebels who sought unity under the last remnants of the Mughal name.

The British also pressured farmers to grow only cash crops, leading to a severe shortage of food, which worsened by the day. The only positive change they enforced was the abolition of the sati practice, which they implemented with strictness, finally bringing some relief to our women.

Globally, major revolutions were shaking the monarchies in Europe, especially in Italy, France, and Germany. This distracted the British somewhat, as their focus shifted across the continent. Across the Atlantic, America fought a war with Mexico, possibly under the pretext of spreading "freedom." (Though, let's be honest, they were after Mexico's oil.)

As for me, I noticed some subtle but inhuman changes in myself. First, I had grown stronger—nowhere near Captain America's level, but as a 10-year-old, I was already strong as adult. I also had a watered-down version of Spider-Man's agility. No wall-climbing or extraordinary feats, but I could handle major falls with ease.

Secondly, my mind had sharpened. I wasn't a genius, but I was smarter than most. I could remember nearly everything with clarity, not a photographic memory, but close enough if I put my mind to it. This made my lessons and exercises easier to manage.

In my studies, I completed Hindi and Urdu within the first year. For the next two years, my tutors taught me everything they could about Sanskrit and Arabic. To graduate from Arabic, I had to memorize the entire Quran—a command from my father. With my near-photographic memory, this wasn't much of a problem.

In Sanskrit, I had to write a novel in the language. I simply translated a story from my previous life's memory, and it was well-received. My tutor praised it and told me it would be added to the royal library. At nine years old, I was already earning the title of a "genius," as it wasn't common for someone so young to write so proficiently. Father even mentioned that my grandmother, Lal Bai, a Rajput princess, would have been proud of my Sanskrit knowledge.

In English, I had to finish my studies within two years, or Mr Thompson would start noticing my odd behaviour. From then, my father also began teaching me history himself, and he introduced me to poetry. This brought us closer, as it was something we could share despite his old age. He was too frail for physical activities, so we bonded over literature. I even met Mirza Ghalib and Zauq at one of the court gatherings, where my father proudly introduced me.

I began writing poems and snippets, and my modern thought processes helped me create a unique style. During this time, I realized my father was battling deep depression. Much of his poetry echoed loss, longing, and resignation—perhaps a reflection of the decline of his empire and the weight of his personal circumstances.

I also started learning new languages—German, French, Marathi, Russian, Sindhi, and Dogri. I knew this would be vital for future negotiations and interactions with different people.

Around this time, my father intensified my lessons in history and philosophy, likely after one of our conversations where I expressed thoughts about fighting for independence and uniting the people. He scolded me at first, telling me to dismiss such foolish ideas. He even stopped our private lessons for a while. But something changed. Maybe he saw a glimmer of hope in my words, or maybe he was searching for a way out of his depression. Perhaps he wanted to show the British a final struggle from the Mughal Empire, like the last ray of light before the sunset. Whatever his reasons, he resumed our lessons with more vigor and began teaching me how to handle a sword.

"You may never use it," he told me, "but a sword is always a symbol. A symbol of strength, of power. You must know how to wield it." Along with swordsmanship, I started horse riding lessons. By the time I was ten, I had mastered both.