Soon after that day at the park, Abhimanyu began to spend more time with Ranjit and Kamal. His bowling action improved, and in time, he was able to threaten Kamal’s composure at the crease, if not bowl him out completely. His growing friendship with Kamal allowed him a glimpse into a world he’d never known before, and he grew close to a family that he began to care for.
Kamal’s father, the late Pandit Jayshankar Apte, was once a moderately successful Hindustani classical vocalist. Meera, the youngest of three siblings, had taken after him and followed him into classical music. In fact, barring Kamal, the entire family was musically inclined.
It wasn’t long after Jayshankar’s premature death that the wolves were at the Aptes’ door – Jayshankar had incurred a small but not entirely insignificant debt, and his lenders had come to collect. The oldest of them, Veena, took a job as a bank teller and became the breadwinner of the family. Kamal stumbled his way through numerous unsatisfying odd jobs – from a dockyard worker to an operator at the textile mill to a short-lived entrepreneurial stint as a fruit seller. The only constant in his life that had his sincere attention was cricket.
Then, tragedy befell the family again – their mother, Kamladevi’s health deteriorated rapidly and put another strain on the family’s finances. The sound of music, once so prevalent throughout the day in the Apte homestead, began to fade, save for Meera’s undying love for it, which prompted her to religiously perform her riyaz in the mornings. Apart from that, her days were spent running errands after college and helping her sister with the housework.
Despite the obstacles in front of her, all Meera dreamt of was a chance to be heard by the people who could change her fortune. And where else could it happen if not in Bombay?
Among the millions who had migrated across the border between India and Pakistan were a handful of thespians, musicians and lyricists – people from the pre-Independence province of Punjab and elsewhere, who couldn’t resist the lure of Bombay. They chose art over religion, arriving in the city of dreams. Some stalwarts from Calcutta chose escapism over realism, Hindi over Bengali to set up base in the new cosmopolitan Bombay. In the evenings, Meera would knock on the doors of these creative migrants, riding on buses, trams and trains for an opportunity to show them that she too was an artiste, and that her voice was worthy of being heard.
That was the voice that Abhimanyu first heard in its full glory at the Apte’s humble adobe in Bandra, and he instantly knew that one day it would travel a thousand miles beyond the Indian subcontinent and rule the hearts of millions. It wasn’t lost on him that had the golden voice belonged to a person from a more privileged background, she would have already been the toast of the nation. Music knows no boundaries, but it does travel through privileged channels, he thought, as he witnessed Meera being turned down without getting an honest shot at proving her mettle.
For an apprehensive man fighting an uncertain future, Meera showed Abhimanyu that there was beauty in the struggle. Over the course of the following months, he would witness her battle rejections with all the grace in the world.
Chapter 4
‘I am sorry, non-members are not allowed to play.’ Mr Bakshi, the portly manager of the Orient Club, was arguing with Abhimanyu.
‘But I am a member and I’d like to invite them.’
‘You are allowed two guests per day, sir, no more than that.’
Abhimanyu was exasperated at being denied something, perhaps for the first time in his life. He wanted to bring the Shivaji Park team to the Orient Club grounds for a friendly match, but the rules were getting in his way. Back home in Ranakpour, he had his own grounds where he was free to invite anyone at his whim, from an English county club to the local underprivileged youth team.
Abhimanyu knew that the only way to see more of Meera was to see more of Kamal, and he wanted his friend to become a regular at the club grounds, but Bakshi wouldn’t budge.
‘Mr Bakshi, I’ve been getting good practice at the grounds. It’s a pleasure to play against the visiting English and Australian players – it’s great exposure for me and the lads,’ said Abhimanyu.
‘I am pleased to hear that, sir, we try our best.’
‘However, I think we are at the risk of playing in a bubble. Everyone plays from the same manual. Academy stuff, you know. I have a feeling that a rough maidan team could really ruffle the feathers of these by-the-book players.’
‘With all due respect, Abhimanyuji, I highly doubt that.’
‘It’s a bold new world, Mr Bakshi. The English game of cricket has been adapted on the streets. From Bombay to Peshawar, these kids are bending the rules while we stand here on well-manicured lawns simply trying to strike the right posture.’
Abhimanyu knew that any club manager worth his salt would take up that challenge, and he was correct. Bakshi finally gave way, and a game with the Shivaji Park XI was set for the weekend. As a show of camaraderie, the prince played the match as part of the maidan’s team rather than the club. The locals were no match to the Orient Club, and lost, much to Bakshi’s delight. But there were enough scares for the royals and club members to realize that they were not as good as they had imagined. The wily Shivaji Park spinners had spun their web around the clueless lower-order batsmen. The results, of course, didn’t matter to Abhimanyu, since he got what he wanted – a free pass for the best of Shivaji Park to play at the club grounds. Kamal was one of them.
*
One morning, as he waited in the Apte living room for Kamal before a training session, Abhimanyu heard an impossibly sweet voice coming from one of the bedrooms. There were no words – just an alap. Abhimanyu froze. He didn’t want to take a single step forward or backward; he didn’t want the sound of any movement to interfere with what he was hearing. The sound swept him away to a different place as he stood there motionless. The alap turned into a raga, and he recognized it: the Hindola raga. He must have heard it a hundred times in his classical music lessons back in Ranakpour, but only that morning in Bandra did he experience the true meaning of it.
Meera’s rendition of the raga, with her masterful improvisation, was a true manifestation of love. It wasn’t just music; it was an artiste baring her soul. It might have lasted for about thirty seconds or an eternity; either way, it was enough time for Abhimanyu’s eyes to well up in appreciation. In that moment, he knew that Meera’s voice had done what her physical presence had threatened to do the first time he saw her – pierce his heart and make him fall hopelessly in love with her.
*
More than his classical training, Abhimanyu’s deep appreciation for music came from his mother. A member of the Jaipur–Atrauli gharana, Kaushalya Devi had trained under the founder, Alladiya Khan, himself. She had never been able to shake off her artistic leanings, despite the fact that there was nobody to appreciate her talents in the artistically disinclined Ranakpour family … till Abhimanyu was born. From an early age, he had shown an inclination towards music, and she encouraged him as much as she could through lectures and impromptu performances such that the young prince absorbed it with glee, partly in awe of his mother’s talent and partly due to the happiness of knowing that she had chosen to reveal her true self to him. As Abhimanyu grew up, it was clear that his talents lay on the cricket field rather than the enclosed halls of the haveli. Nevertheless, Kaushalya Devi was thankful that her son retained his interest in music and was a keen connoisseur of the classical tradition, inviting musicians from all over the country to Ranakpour to perform at the palace exclusively for her. It was his way of thanking her for the gift of music that she’d bestowed upon him.
Old age and the threat of losing their kingdom, first to the British and then to India, had taken the joy out of Kaushalya Devi’s life – she had completely stopped talking about music, let alone singing herself. Abhimanyu hadn’t realized how much he missed it till he listened to Meera in her house in Bandra.
*
In the beginning, visiting the Apte household was strange for Abhiman
yu. Since he couldn’t fathom how people could just show up at someone’s door unannounced, he would inform Kamal about his intended visit much in advance, much to the curiosity of the Apte family.
‘Be informed, citizens of Bandra,’ Meera would mockingly announce in an exaggeratedly pompous tone, much to Kamal’s chagrin, ‘The prince shall be arriving this Wednesday at 3 p.m., because he has nothing better to do.’ When he would arrive, Abhimanyu would absentmindedly stand at the entrance for a few moments, waiting for someone to open the door and greet him with a bow, before realizing that he had to knock to get in. Then, he would stand at the edge of the living room, waiting to be asked to sit. Once someone did so, Abhimanyu would then pace around the room, unsure of where to sit, as there was no designated seat assigned to him like there was in every room in the Ranakpour Palace.
When he did sit, Abhimanyu would nervously shift this way and that, trying to fit his tall frame into a small chair or couch. He would look up and find blank walls bereft of any family history – no photo frames reminding the occupiers of the room of their lineage, no insignia to signify their pride; just plain walls that left Abhimanyu to paint his own inaccurate pictures of the family’s untold history.
Despite all his discomfort and confusion, Meera’s riyaz, even her mere presence somewhere in the house, was enough for him to feel at home. With every visit, his heart would beat in anticipation as he wondered whether she’d be home or not. It would sink when he would realize that she was out, and soar whenever she would walk in, unannounced.
For Meera, the lanky figure dressed in expensive clothes perched uncomfortably on the small couch in their living room was nothing but a nuisance. Born and raised in Bombay, the city girl did not revere royalty. Why should she, she asked herself. Her history books had told her all she needed to know about them, and she’d attributed each and every stereotype of the entitled, fruit-munching, good-for-nothing, back-stabbing royals to Abhimanyu Singh of Ranakpour – the only prince she had ever seen in the flesh.
Everything about him, from the way he talked using big, stiff words and his formal greetings to his peculiar body language, rubbed her the wrong way. Most of all, she considered Abhimanyu a bad influence on Kamal. It was Abhimanyu who was to blame for her brother’s unwillingness to leave the field to get medicine for their mother. If Kamal was a bum to start with, Abhimanyu’s company had just made him worse. Jobs he had previously held for a few months now lasted only a few weeks due to his frequent matches at Abhimanyu’s club. In Meera’s mind, all of Kamal’s shortcomings, past and present, were a result of this prince dragging her brother into a sport that was ruining their family’s earning potential.
One evening, Kamal came home and announced that he had quit his highly respectable desk job at a trading company that Veena had helped him secure by requesting a favour from a friend who worked there. Kamal had held this job for a grand total of three days – a new record.
He whined that he had to work long hours for little pay, and that he had quit so that he could find something much better, but Meera was convinced that he just wanted the time to play yet another stupid tournament organized by Abhimanyu. ‘You complain of long hours at the job, but you’re happy to play cricket day and night. No long hours there, huh?’ She looked at Veena, her eyes silently telling her sister to not believe his excuses. ‘What do you know about work? And anyway, I am talking to Veena,’ Kamal shot back. The argument was reaching its boiling point when Abhimanyu showed up as per his ‘appointment,’ clueless about the battlefield he was walking into. Veena was relieved to see him, as she didn’t want the shouting siblings to wake up their mother.
‘Go get some water for our guest instead of interfering in my matters,’ Kamal said firmly, shooing his younger sister away. Unable to react due to Abhimanyu’s presence, Meera swallowed her pride and went away. When she returned to the living room holding a tray to serve Abhimanyu, the group had moved on another less fraught topic.
‘I would like to extend an invitation to all of you to watch Pandit Bhairo perform at the club, including Maaji,’ said Abhimanyu after thanking Meera for the water. The peerless guru of classical music, Pandit Bhairo was an acquaintance of the Ranakpour royal family, and Abhimanyu knew that the Apte family would appreciate the chance to hear him sing in the flesh.
‘Thank you for thinking of us, Abhimanyuji,’ Veena said, ever the grown up who could maintain her composure and grace under any circumstances. ‘But it’s difficult for Ma to travel such distances in her condition.’
‘I understand, Veena, that’s why I have planned to send a car for you.’ Abhimanyu explained that he had made arrangements for the entire family. That’s when Meera couldn’t take it anymore and snapped.
‘Oh! What would we do without you and your car?’ Those were the first words she had ever directed towards Abhimanyu; words that betrayed the emotions brewing inside her since the day she had first seen him.
‘Meera!’ Veena cried out, trying to reign in her sister’s outburst. Prince or otherwise, showing such disrespect to guests was just not done in their household. Neither she nor Kamal had expected that from Meera, and they were both quite shocked.
‘It’s okay,’ Abhimanyu smiled, ‘I was actually thinking of sending an elephant.’
There was a pause before Veena and Kamal realized that Abhimanyu had cracked a straight-faced joke. They burst out laughing, especially after seeing their sister’s face flushed with embarrassment. Meera got up and left, but not before Abhimanyu caught a glimpse of her trying to hide a smile. She appreciated how Abhimanyu had diffused the situation, and finally, all those ill-informed ideas she had conjured about him in her mind began to fade.
*
‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Abhimanyu received the Apte family at the gates of the Orient Club later that week. Kamal had accepted the invitation – Veena and he had wanted to take the opportunity to give their ailing mother something to look forward to. Meera had decided to come along as well; despite her outburst, as a student of classical music, she had the highest regard for Bhairo, and was eager to see him perform.
‘I hope the trip here was a comfortable one for Maaji,’ Abhimanyu inquired.
‘Yes, less traffic than we anticipated,’ Kamal answered as they walked in with Abhimanyu, crossing the brightly lit corridor to enter the club’s grand hall. It was decked up for the occasion. Huge hand-painted posters of Pandit Bhairo’s face hung from the ceiling, looking down at the high-society members of South Bombay as they mingled and gossiped while waiting for the concert to start. As Abhimanyu looked at Meera in that crowd of well-heeled Bombaywallahs, she stood out more than ever to him, dressed in a mint-green sharara, her hair cut short. To him, she was like a breath of fresh air in a room full of stale conventions.
‘This way.’ Abhimanyu signalled for the Aptes to go into a room adjacent to the hall, speaking loudly so that they could hear him over the sound of roaring laughter and clinking glasses.
They followed him into a room that was small, but much cozier and quieter compared to the raucous main floor.
‘Please have a seat,’ he directed Kamladevi to a comfortable couch. The rest of them stood talking.
Abhimanyu was a chivalrous host. He had instinctively known that the Aptes would be uncomfortable in the glamorous setting of the grand hall, and had arranged a private room for them. Still, he didn’t want to make them feel as though he was setting them aside. Occasionally, he would pull the right guests from the crowd and introduce them to the Aptes. Members of the royal family of Lucknow, well-known cricketers and movie stars, all came over to greet the wide-eyed family. Gradually, Kamal and his siblings felt comfortable even though they found themselves in the presence of the high and mighty members of the club.
A good hour passed by before Abhimanyu asked for their attention.
‘Veena, Kamal, Meera – I have an announcement to make. Pardon me, but I have taken the liberty to sign Meera up for a short opening performance right befor
e Pandit Bhairo takes the stage.’
Meera almost choked on her paneer pakora.
‘Oh my,’ Veena gasped.
‘Oh no. No, no, no,’ Meera began to say, looking like she was gearing up to run away.
‘Are you kidding me, Meera!’ Kamal exclaimed. ‘This is amazing!’
Meera was having a nervous breakdown while her siblings bounced around in excitement. Even their mother was smiling with joy.
‘I can’t. I just can’t. Abhimanyuji, you shouldn’t have.’
Abhimanyu looked concerned when he saw Meera’s reaction – it was well beyond the normal hesitance anyone would have in such a situation. Kamal and Veena were trying to talk some sense into her, but Meera was having none of it. She gave Abhimanyu a reproachful look, not dissimilar to the one she had been wearing at the maidan. Understanding the gravity of her emotions, Abhimanyu intervened.
‘Meera, you don’t have to get on the stage if you are uncomfortable. It’s completely fine. I just thought you’d enjoy the experience.’
‘Oh come on, Meera, you’re acting like a child. She always shies away from big occasions,’ Veena said. She couldn’t believe that her younger sister was passing up on the offer of a lifetime.
‘How many times have you told us you want to perform in front of a big audience?’ Kamal asked, exasperated.
‘Folks, if I can have a moment with Meera,’ Abhimanyu said.
The two siblings gave up and moved away from Meera and Abhimanyu.
‘Walk with me,’ said Abhimanyu, politely but firmly. Meera had no choice but to follow him through the crowd, across the hall and up a flight of stairs. Abhimanyu didn’t speak till they were alone in a long corridor with exquisite paintings hanging on each side. To Meera, the paintings looked as real as photographs that could come alive at any moment.
The Prince and the Nightingale Page 3
