The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

‘Your Highness,’ he continued, ‘I would be ever so grateful if you could help us out with a property matter. We have all the papers, but the new tehsildar refuses to recognize certain parts of our ownership of the land. I was hoping to sell a few acres to get money for my daughter’s treatment …’ The man let the words hang in the air.

  It wasn’t the first time Abhimanyu had heard such a complaint. Post-Independence, power had been transferred to faceless pencil pushers, and yet the royals were meant to act as conduits; neither party knew where one’s jurisdiction began and other’s ended. A million people had died crossing imaginary borders, while several millions toiled away trying to define theirs. His mother’s parting words rang in his ears – you’ll always remain the prince of Ranakpour. Abhimanyu wasn’t one for such grandiose proclamations, but the occasion of seeing one’s own under such delicate circumstances had struck a chord. An old sense of duty and responsibility kicked in as he pulled out a black diary from his bag and asked the man to write down his property’s address.

  ‘And how may I address you?’

  ‘Madhao, Your Highness.’

  ‘Ah, the south side. Are you catching enough rainwater now, Madhao?’ he asked, looking at the address.

  ‘Yes, Your Highness, thanks to Daata.’

  Abhimanyu remembered his father commissioning a large project to dig and make artificial lakes on seemingly barren lands in south Ranakpour, a region prone to droughts in the summer.

  ‘I hope the new government takes care of us just like His Majesty used to, but I doubt it,’ the old man said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I won’t take any more of your time, Your Highness. Thank you. Thank you.’

  Abhimanyu shook the man’s hand, even though he never would have in the past. The old man was taken aback by the gesture, and let his hand hang feebly for an awkward moment. Abhimanyu assured his former subject that things would get better. Hopefully.

  Later, after he’d settled down in his first-class compartment and the train began to pull out of the station, Abhimanyu’s thoughts turned to the future and his new home: Bombay.

  Had they stopped construction after Independence, Bombay would have been the most beautiful city in the world. Blame the British for all their sins in the subcontinent, but they knew town planning. From the art deco buildings of Colaba to the Mahalaxmi racecourse, everything made sense until the trains started running over the veins of the city. The same steel snake that brought Abhimanyu to Bombay Terminus slithered outward, first to Bandra, then Andheri, Borivali and beyond, spawning an ugly metropolis in its wake. Meanwhile, the rich and famous poured sand into the Arabian Sea so their gated mansions would be as far from the northern slums as possible. Half a century later, the sea would routinely flood everything in its path – the mansions, the slums, the train tracks – as if to remind the city of its past.

  Abhimanyu had a panoramic view of the mercurial sea from his upscale yet modest two-room apartment in Malabar Hill in South Bombay; a view he particularly enjoyed after having spent his entire life in the land-locked and arid state of Rajasthan. Also visible from his bedroom window was his karmbhoomi – the lush, oval cricket field of the legendary Orient Club. He owned a small piece of it, thanks to a donation he had made towards building the club in return for a lifetime membership. Taking a cue from the East India Company, royals from several princely states had poured their money into the swamp and conjured up a playground fit for kings. Little did he know what this very patch of land had in store for him.

  ‘Saheb, chai?’ a slight man in his late twenties peered into the bedroom door as Abhimanyu was settling in. Penaru, the royal valet, born, raised and trained in the palace, had been sent to the city ahead of the prince to make sure everything was in order.

  ‘No, thanks, Penaru. Where are you staying?’ asked Abhimanyu.

  ‘Twenty minutes from here, saheb.’

  ‘Good.’ This was the first time that his valet would not be staying on the same premises as him, and Abhimanyu realized that the biggest changes in his life would begin at home. ‘Do you need money? To, you know, take the bus and such?’

  ‘No, saheb, I’ve been given enough for the year. For everything.’

  ‘Good. You can leave now, Penaru, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Hukum, saheb.’

  As evening fell, Abhimanyu began to feel claustrophobic in the small apartment – a far cry from the high-ceiling grandeur of the palace. Deciding to prepare early for his first social event in Bombay – a dinner at the Orient Club in his honour – he pulled out a pair of white trousers to go with his polo t-shirt and blue sports jacket. Here was a change he had been looking forward to – he no longer had to wear his ‘royal’ clothes for social gatherings.

  Before he had spent even a day in his new home, a sizable population of young princes and princesses who had moved to Bombay after August 1947 had heard about his arrival, and had organized the dinner party to welcome him to the city. The shy prince was uncomfortable with such unnecessary socializing, at least not as soon as he’d arrived, but he didn’t want to pass up a chance of meeting members of the cricket club of Bombay, who had also been invited to the party.

  Ready for the dinner party, Abhimanyu realized there was some time to kill, and decided to take a quick stroll by the promenade before heading to the club.

  The balmy Bombay sea breeze lifted his spirits as he mingled with the crowd of people as anonymously as he’d hoped. He would have liked to stay there much longer, and almost considered cancelling on the dinner, but he could imagine the scandal his absence would cause in Bombay’s social scene.

  When he reached the club, he was glad he’d reconsidered. The party guests comprised the who’s who of Bombay – a handful of erstwhile royals from all over India, a couple of British and European bureaucrats, local cricketers and celebrities from the Hindi film industry. Abhimanyu soon learned that many young aristocrats had set up their base in the city. With their status having been taken away from them in their respective states but millions of rupees in old money still left in their coffers – money that could be claimed from them by the new central government at any moment – the erstwhile royals had gravitated to the commercial capital of India to try their luck in various businesses. From textiles and the stock market to diamonds and the film industry, old money was flowing into every field of commerce in an attempt to renew and shield it from the sarkari babus.

  Abhimanyu’s motive, of course, was different. He was in Bombay to face the best of the best in Indian cricket and get a chance to prove his mettle in the international arena, to prove that he was more than a former prince, and that he too could find his place in this new India.

  ‘I see the prince likes to have his drinks rather slowly,’ a bearded man said, approaching Abhimanyu as he nursed his gin and tonic.

  ‘I had a long journey today, so I’m just taking it easy,’ Abhimanyu said with a smile.

  ‘Ranjit Singh of Songadh. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  ‘Likewise. Abhimanyu Singh from Ranakpour.’ The men shook hands and took in the scene around them. The atmosphere in the club gardens was expectedly regal – a whiff of expensive wine merged with the coastal air, while the best of fabrics rustled against each other as more guests joined the party.

  Ranjit Singh soon introduced Abhimanyu to a group that seemed to be as interested in cricket as the latter.

  ‘So, I’ve heard quite a few stories about your legendary bowling,’ Ranjit Singh said, stroking his beard in a manner that would seem theatrical if it weren’t so in tune with his appearance.

  ‘And batsmanship,’ a female voice in the group piped up.

  ‘Well, I hope I can live up to your expectations. I have heard of many great talents in Bombay,’ Abhimanyu replied modestly. It’s not that he was uncomfortable with praise, but he would rather have people compliment him after watching him play.

  ‘If I may,’ said Ranjit Singh, ‘I’d like to invite you to join us at Shivaji Park tomo
rrow, where we all will get to see you in action.’

  Excellent, thought Abhimanyu to himself. This was exactly what he had wanted. ‘The pleasure is mine. I have read a lot about the park.’

  As the party continued into the night, Abhimanyu spent his time awkwardly declining offers of city tours from various men and women. Mostly women.

  ‘Shivaji Park is well and good,’ offered a pretty actress he couldn’t recognize, ‘but why don’t I take you out to show you a real good time in Bombay … places you don’t read about in the papers.’ She placed her hand on his shoulder. On cue, photographers from different tabloids and magazines clicked away, blinding him with their flashlights.

  That simple gesture made Abhimanyu realize the enormity of change, of how his life would never be the same again. The slight brush of her hand before he could move away had fazed him in a way like nothing before. Not the last declaration from his father sitting on a lost throne, not Nehru’s historic speech on the radio, not the screaming, grainy headlines on the front page of every newspaper in the world, or the deafening chants of ‘Jai Hind’ in every street of India – he had been prepared for all those eventualities. But Abhimanyu couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had voluntarily touched him. Only weeks prior, a commoner would not have dared to touch a prince, but now, he was no longer out of bounds. He had become one of them.

  Abhimanyu curtly declined the starlet’s offer and left the party, walking back home to calm himself down. But suddenly, the events of the past few months began flitting through his mind, starting with him listening to Nehru’s speech in the comfort of his palace, to watching his family leave their ancestral home to try their fortunes all over the country and the world, and then his decision to move to Bombay. In all that time, he had hoped to watch a young nation rise while retaining his status in society, albeit with a diminished standing. It was now clear to him that he had underestimated the enormity of change.

  As soon as he entered his apartment, Abhimanyu looked for the bottle of whiskey he’d brought with him. He poured himself a stiff one as he nursed his bruised ego and mulled over the undercurrent of disdain he had felt all day towards people who were not from his background. He took a large swig from his glass and walked across the room to his desk. Lying on top of it was Ranakpour’s rising sun-sword and bow insignia, and he pinned it to his cricket kit bag; a bag he would carry to many grounds across India. In that moment, the sport became more than a mere passion for him. It became a platform from which he would get back at fate – he was born a prince, and he would show the cricketing world that he had it in him to be a king.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, Abhimanyu’s distaste and misgivings about the night before had abated, but he could still taste the stale liquor in his mouth when he arrived at Shivaji Park.

  ‘Welcome to the people’s ground, dear prince of Ranakpour. You left early last night!’ said Ranjit Singh as he walked in late, seemingly only half awake, but in good spirits.

  ‘Good morning, Ranjit.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Ranjit Singh inquired as they stood together, looking out at the field. There seemed to be a dozen games being played at the same time, and no one appeared to know who was playing in which team, including the players themselves.

  ‘It’s a beautiful chaos,’ Abhimanyu replied.

  ‘Ah, the chaos. What’s Bombay without chaos?’ quipped Ranjit, looking for approval from a group of locals who had gathered around them. He gestured to one of them to come closer.

  ‘I want you to meet Kamal Apte. Kamal, this is Abhimanyu Singh of Ranakpour.’

  The two exchanged pleasantries, and Kamal told Abhimanyu of how he knew the prince of Songadh. Apparently, Ranjit Singh was quite the convert, and had chosen to play in the street circuit instead of the princely grounds much before Independence. That’s how he had befriended a bunch of locals, including Kamal – a certified bum who was unable to hold a decent job for more than a week before getting fired, even as his family struggled financially – but, as Ranjit told Abhimanyu later, one who could hold a bat and make it talk like no other Bombay player.

  ‘Shall we?’ Ranjit asked the group, and they began walking towards the middle of Shivaji Park.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Abhimanyu said, looking slightly surprised.

  ‘Get a game on?’

  ‘You mean right now, here?’

  ‘Not fit for Your Highness?’

  Forcing a smile, Abhimanyu agreed to a game, and glanced at the insignia on his gear, ready to showcase his dominance on the people’s ground. As he traversed the field of sinewy bodies, much like his namesake, Abhimanyu, the reincarnate of Chandra, who traversed the chakravyuh, he saw the local players in the middle of their matches – some diving for catches, others in their run-ups, as well as a batsman marking his spot at the crease. At one point, Abhimanyu had to duck from a flying ball, the cherry red flying past his face. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, he was finally where he felt most at home.

  Before he knew it, teams had been formed and a match was underway. Soon, it was his turn to bowl to Ranjit. He made a couple of defensive shots before Abhimanyu had him clean bowled. The ball just kept swinging in and beat the batsman square. Ranjit couldn’t do much other than stand at the crease and look at his shattered stumps in appreciation of the prince’s amazing skill to swing a barely round piece of tattered leather that had been roughed up by the coarse Shivaji Park ground.

  The sight of the tall, broad-shouldered prince zipping through his run up and his feet gliding slightly above the ground was enough to make half the players at the park pause for a few minutes and watch him. It was a nondescript game – one among thousands being played on the streets of Bombay that day – but to Abhimanyu, it meant the world. In his mind, he was fighting for his rightful place in society; one of dominance. He was born to rule, he thought, and with his kingdom snatched away from him, the cricket field would be where he would show them that he was always in charge. Perhaps that’s the reason he felt abjectly deflated when the next batsman, Kamal, negotiated his ferocious bowling with almost lackadaisical ease. Abhimanyu’s run-up got longer, his jumps higher and the ball would pierce through the dead air of the park just to be smacked right back at him. A street player was putting the blue-blooded prince, in his place and the crowd was cheering the spectacle.

  ‘Bhau!’ Abhimanyu was walking away from the pitch and measuring the run-up when he heard her voice for the first time.

  ‘Bhau!’ It came again. She was calling from afar, but the sweet inflection in her voice made it sound like he was hearing it right inside his head, in a dream.

  ‘It’s way past your promised time, bhau, you’ve got to stop and come at once!’

  ‘Hey, hey! Get off the pitch,’ Ranjit Singh sounded irritated, and Abhimanyu turned around to look at who was causing this scene in the middle of their match.

  A young woman, slender and about twenty years old, was standing in the middle of the pitch, dressed in a blue form-fitting salwar-kameez and a flowing cream dupatta. It was a simple yet tasteful outfit, Abhimanyu noted. Had he seen her at the party?

  Abhimanyu was trying to place her in his mind when his eyes were drawn to her feet. The milky skin looked whiter in contrast to the reddish-brown field of the maidan, but it was her worn-out sandals that gave her away. She was a commoner, Abhimanyu realized. But there was nothing common about her beauty. He wondered who she was calling out to.

  His question was answered as Kamal left his position at the crease and rushed to her.

  ‘Meera! Get off the pitch, there’s a match going on. I am almost done,’ he said as quietly as he could, but by then, everybody was listening in.

  ‘It’s way past twelve! You had to go to the hospital!’ the girl protested.

  Kamal looked around, embarrassed. There were two princes waiting on him. ‘I need half an hour,’ he said in a hushed tone to the girl who was clearly his sister. Clearly, she couldn’t care less.

 
‘The dispensary closes for lunch in thirty minutes. If you miss that, Ma won’t get the medicine till evening. It’ll be very late!’ she countered.

  ‘Meera!’

  ‘Fine, I’ll go get it myself.’

  By then, Shivaji Park had come to a halt, glued to this family drama. Abhimanyu noticed that only Kamal looked flustered. Meera, on the other hand, stood stoically, barely noticing the crowd.

  ‘Fine. Let’s go,’ said Kamal, giving in. He turned to Ranjit sheepishly. ‘Ranjitji, I am extremely sorry. Urgent family matter. Please have someone take over.’

  ‘Till I get you next time,’ Abhimanyu called out to Kamal with a wry smile that betrayed his dejection.

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Kamal doffed his cap to the prince and followed his sister.

  Ranjit Singh threw up his hands in exasperation. His star player leaving meant that the match was no longer his to win.

  As she got off the pitch, Meera turned to see if Kamal was behind her. That’s when, just for a fraction of a second, Meera and Abhimanyu’s eyes met. His still filled with defeat, her’s exuding a quiet confidence – a look Abhimanyu knew right then he would never forget.

  Fourteen balls later, the match was over as Abhimanyu made short work of the opposition’s tail. He left the park in a hurry, eager to gather his thoughts. A mere twenty-four hours in Bombay and his Ranakpour days seemed like another life to him. He was swaying in the new world like an unmoored ship, and now drifting towards a girl he hadn’t even met.

  *

  By the time Abhimanyu returned to his new home, he knew that he had to see Meera again.

  Later, several of his close confidantes would ask him, not once but many times, about what he’d seen in her that day in Shivaji Park. ‘The mole on her chin mesmerized me such that I couldn’t tell the middle stump from the off,’ Abhimanyu would half joke. He would maintain that it had not been love at first sight. After all, a prince of Ranakpour wouldn’t fall for a commoner with no wealth at first glance just because of the sound of her sweet voice. When probed further, Abhimanyu would cryptically add, ‘It was a matter of circumstance.’ That was a half truth. While it certainly wasn’t love at first sight, it didn’t take long for Abhimanyu to completely fall for Meera Apte. To the young and privileged prince of old India, Meera represented the independent spirit of the new nation. She epitomized the fresh start Abhimanyu was yearning for.