The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

  Shaking his head as if to shake himself out of his blues, Abhimanyu decided to continue his cricket rediscovery efforts by catching a local game. Luckily, a match was slated to commence that very day at the Ranakpour royal grounds, which the family had opened up for the locals to use. Heavily hungover, he ordered breakfast and took up a seat in the stands behind the bowling end. The crowd that had gathered at the stands was rather surprised to see the reclusive prince in public but knew better than to bother him with greetings and turned their attention to the match.

  It was easy for the former fast bowler to predict the pattern of the opening spell of the match. The bowler on the ground had bowled three overs of persistent out-swingers to one of the batsmen who was finding it difficult to get off the strike. The bowler kept prodding the outside edge of the bat as the batsman either left the ball or played a defensive shot. As the bowler marked his run up for a new over, Abhimanyu could sense it coming.

  ‘Time for the kill,’ he muttered to himself, anticipating an in-swinger that would either crash in the stumps or on the pads to get the batsman out, leg-before-wicket. There was a chance the batsman was anticipating the in-coming ball, Abhimanyu thought, so the bowler could completely outfox the bat and go for a fast Yorker and take the stumps. The fielders took their stance as the bowler approached the end of his run up. Instead of an in-swinger or a yorker, the bowler sent down a rising bouncer and the batsman was caught stunned on the crease, trying to fend off the ball while ducking his head. Abhimanyu’s heart skipped a beat as he recalled the vicious bouncer that got his eye. The ball crashed into the batsman’s gloves, something Abhimanyu couldn’t really see — the white blotch in his eye was acting up but he gathered that the ball had looped safely into the hands of a slip catcher. Easy dismissal. The bowler had outfoxed both the batsman and Abhimanyu. After few more minutes of frustrated viewing where he could not catch the intricacies of the play due to his impaired vision, Abhimanyu called it a day and headed back to the palace.

  After the family lost the elections, the palace was never the same. Uday Singh rarely left his wing; in fact, barring his staff, nobody had seen him for months. The only people left there lived in the paintings on the walls. Ajay Singh Ranakpour, in his military uniform, looking forlornly down the corridor; a few months ago, he had left Ranakpour for a long army assignment. Avantika was no longer the wide-eyed, silk sari-clad princess as her painting suggested. She had opted for humble khaki clothes, leading India National Congress’ innermost bureaucracy in Delhi. And Vihaan, with his rakish good looks and natural arrogance, had fallen off the face of earth, but was rumoured to be somewhere in Europe. They were all gone now, leaving Abhimanyu to eat dinner alone at the grand dining table, watching seven servants filing in and out of the room to serve a single patron. A table perfectly laid out with crockery and cutlery, bearing the names of each and every family member, in case someone turned up unexpectedly. Abhimanyu looked around, inspecting the arrangement.

  ‘I’ll eat in my quarters,’ he instructed the staff and walked out without touching his food, heading for the cellar.

  The underground cellar had been magically restocked to the brim – all 35,000 litres of wines and rare whiskey it could hold – even as Abhimanyu had tried his best, by God, to empty it out. ‘It’s time for Japan,’ he said to himself and walked to the far end, climbed up nearly full forty feet of intricate movable stairs and grabbed an obscure bottle, labelled in a language he couldn’t read. One his way down, he picked up a few bottles of red wine. He’d developed some kind of routine when it came to wine. He’d finish a bottle or two in a few hours and with sleep still eluding him, he’d smash them against the stone walls of his room. Feeling buoyant at the prospect of getting drunk and defeating misery, he sauntered into his quarters, picking up an empty bottle from the floor and used it as a microphone as he began a mock commentary of a cricket match.

  ‘Abhimanyu for the win, off he goes for a career-defining spell,’ he announced and ran across the hall looking like a pale shade of the menacing bowler he used to be. He jumped half the length he was capable of in his prime, and landed on the wrong foot, his arms slinging forward, hurtling the bottle with all his might towards a pillar he was aiming at. The bottle flew across the room, missed the pillar and crashed into hundreds of little pieces of glass on the floor.

  ‘Wide!’ he imitated an umpire’s call and began to look for the wine bottle opener when he heard a strange sound. Somebody was singing.

  ‘Safar mein saath to doongi, meel ka paththar hi sahi,

  Tumhe apni masti mein yuhi, dur se dekha to karungi.’

  At first, he thought he was dreaming. The voice, it drew the picture in his head – a lonely milestone by an empty highway that read ‘RANAKPOUR 8’. But as the song went on, he realized it wasn’t a dream. Meera’s voice was calling out to him. He ran out of his room in the direction of the sound, his feet hurrying him downstairs – the song seemed to be coming from Ajay Singh’s quarters. Unable to locate a sentry, he pushed open the door. The housekeeper cleaning up was startled at his entry and rushed to turn off the radio.

  ‘Don’t,’ he signaled her to step away.

  ‘Huzoor, I am extremely sorry to have turned on the radio without permission. This won’t happen again.’

  He gestured for her to leave the room. It was Meera, without a doubt, albeit a different Meera. Her diction and accent had changed considerably, her singing much more sophisticated than he recalled. The voice had remained the same, but the person had changed, he reckoned. By the time the song ended, Abhimanyu was transported to another time. A simpler, innocent time. He realized how much he had changed since the accident, and since Meera’s departure; it dawned upon him that things would never be the same again. He couldn’t bear to listen to her voice, and yet he wanted more. The announcer on the radio mentioned that it was a song from a new film. He rushed out of his brother’s quarters to look for Penaru. Before sunrise, the valet was on his way to Bombay in search of a record of a movie soundtrack – Sarhad.

  Chapter 22

  The reversal was complete – Bombay had done the trick. Meera, the struggling artist with lofty dreams had reached the stratosphere, and the prince of Ranakpour, Abhimanyu Singh, had been ground to dust. High society parties that Abhimanyu had once snuck Meera into were now deemed insignificant if the star singer was not in attendance.

  After her meteoric rise since the success of Sarhad, and with fame and fortune seeking her out, Meera was finding it hard to stay tethered to her middle-class upbringing. Stalwarts she had idolized were now hounding her to join their upcoming projects. One particular film producer showed up at the front door of her new three-bedroom house in Cumballa Hill to offer her a five-year contract – an arrangement that was unheard of in those days. She would have to lend her voice to each and every film he produced for the duration of the contract. When Meera was unable to come up with a number for her fee, he placed a blank piece of paper on the center table of her living room. ‘When you’re ready, feel free to write down any amount you have in mind,’ he said, and left.

  Meera constantly hoped that she would get used to this new way of life. But the truth was she never did. She didn’t see herself breathing the same air as the power players of Bombay. The imprint of Sahil’s assault was burnt on her brain and played tricks with her conscience. Despite being the victim of male entitlement, she felt like she had escaped scot-free. She had walked out of his studio as soon as the last verses of the film had been sung, and that was that. He had made no attempt to contact her ever since. Instead, he would shower her with praise in media interviews, which Meera found too hard to read, and when she did, she would interpret his statements as veiled threats directed towards her. For her own part, she had decided not to talk about Sahil at all. She would politely turn down any conversation that would lead to her discussing the composer. Still, Meera always felt as though there was a target on her back. That at any moment, there would be a tap on her shoulder, and th
e ugliness would rear up and grab her by the throat, bringing her down from her pedestal. She had all the fame and acclaim she had dreamt of, but just couldn’t enjoy it in peace. Such was her consternation about being swept away in her newfound success that she always kept her first audition’s script in her purse – The surest way to a man’s heart – and checked the piece of paper several times a day to remind herself of her humble beginnings, and acknowledge that it could all end in a whim of some tabloid drama.

  There were upsides – she couldn’t deny that. Kamal had become her manager, happy to leave his dead-end job and be close to his sister in the big bad world of Hindi cinema. Veena, her elder sister could now afford to work part-time at the bank and dedicate more time to their mother as her primary caretaker. Meera could finally afford to pay for better treatment for Kamladevi – a team of doctors were at her beck and call.

  With their financial situation having vastly improved, life’s simple pleasures were the ones Meera enjoyed the most. She didn’t have to think twice before ordering another round of nariyal paani at the beach, or having a cook at home. One of the first things the Apte family did was stop collecting the receipts of every purchase. Not long before, it was an exercise that helped them tally their monthly expenses and calculate if they had any savings. Now, the joy of dumping receipts was liberating.

  Meera’s first splurge involved buying a gramophone, a luxury she couldn’t have even dreamt of in her poky house in Bandra, and even less so when she lived in Danpada. Ravi Shankar, Bhimsen Joshi, Mohammad Rafi and Talat Mahmood now sang to her when she wanted. She was able to ship in American records with the help of a nurse she had befriended at Mount Sinai. One of the first records she received was the soundtrack of Kiss Me Kate. Listening to it sent a chill down her spine as she remembered the cold New York winter. Taking in the balmy sea breeze, she tried her best not to think about Abhimanyu, but it was a battle she often lost.

  But if there was something that kept her distracted during her spare time, it was the fan mail that piled up at her doorstep every morning. People she didn’t know would pour their hearts out in letters from across India and beyond, from cities in the Middle East to Eastern Europe. Cities she could neither place on a map nor correctly pronounce the names of. At first, she read every letter and tried responding to them all, but soon, it became too overwhelming, and Kamal began picking out the most interesting and moving ones for her to read and reply to. ‘Thank you for your kind words. I wish my best to your mother. I hope she gets well soon,’ she’d write in her neat handwriting. Personal words of gratitude or encouragement, along with an autographed headshot of Meera looking into the camera.

  Sometimes, she would look at the postage stamps that were crammed into the square or rectangle envelopes she’d receive and imagine the letter writer – sitting at their desk somewhere in the Soviet Union, or perhaps during a lunch break in the fields of Punjab. Or in the ornate halls of Ranakpour, perhaps? Surely Abhimanyu would have heard her songs. What did he think of them? Did he not feel compelled to write in his critique? The one letter she craved never arrived. The listener she wanted to reach remained elusive. She didn’t miss Abhimanyu per se, she told herself every day, just the discussions they had about music. She wanted to know his objective opinion, putting aside everything else they had shared in the past. She was confident of being able to cut out the ugly parts and focus on the platonic aspects of their relationship – that of a singer and a listener. Wasn’t that the essence of what she shared with Abhimanyu anyway? Why couldn’t it be just that? Had their hearts and minds played a trick that made them look for something that wasn’t there? Had she exercised some restraint, she thought, maybe they could have been the best of friends – friends that had deep conversations about music and art. Meera realized that an hour’s worth of unadulterated dialogue about music was far more satisfying to her than a week of recording songs. A thousand fan mails – some even written in blood – praising her talent, were somehow missing the point. She wasn’t convinced that the world was accurately interpreting what she was saying. That somehow, her listeners were not able to fathom the emotions she wanted to convey. She felt that only Abhimanyu would be able to truly understand what was being expressed and hear what was not even said. He would be able to place a finger on the despair in her voice – something she had worked so hard on and dug deep to bring forth. In fact, Meera was sure that Abhimanyu would be able to decipher her own songs and find meaning in them that had escaped her. Why that was the case, she couldn’t tell. Why did his opinion still matter so much to her? Such thoughts kept her from fully enjoying her success.

  *

  Long before the mafia arrived, the Bombay film industry was a playground of misfits. Apart from early mavens who were seduced by the fantastical moving images, Russian and German technicians had fled the European wars and settled in the city of dreams in pursuit of their art – an art that was looked down upon by the wider society, only to be consumed in dark and dingy cinema halls like a guilty pleasure. However, to the men and women behind the screen, it was religion, politics and philosophy, all combined into one. Individuals who translated deeply personal ideas into sound and sight while collectively defining their existence in this new language. Some borrowed heavily from Western impressionism, while others highlighted swadesi iconography in an attempt to shed their colonial hangover.

  Sitting in the Bombay Talkies office in faraway Malad to discuss upcoming projects, Meera found herself alone in a world caught in between worlds. She felt like an imposter when maestros and financiers alike courted her to be a part of their dream projects. Just when she felt that she would fall apart and be seen as a con artist, she found a way to hold her own. Her intense belief in her own capabilities grew with time, allowing her to find her footing in the hyper-competitive and often-jealous world of playback singing. At one of the technical meetings in the state-of-the-art facilities of Bombay Talkies, a bunch of European sound technicians were discussing the minutiae of recording arrangements – a far cry from Sahil Malik’s street hustle that Meera was used to.

  ‘Zhe drums will have to come off zhe floor,’ said Hermann, a highly-regarded technician from Hamburg, in his thick German accent.

  He did not want the sound of the drumbeats coupling with the vibrations from the floor to enter the sound pick-up area of microphones meant for other instruments. This was done to avoid the slightest of second-hand sounds in the final product. Another engineer laid out his personal collection of mics from his trunk which he would ferry around to every sound recording. Once he had gauged Meera’s voice, he picked out two classic Neumann mics that he felt would work well for her. The recording room itself was treated like a musical instrument as they discussed fittings that would have to be added for a particular song, and individual instrument settings were tinkered with to achieve the effect the sound engineers wanted.

  ‘Let’s go with mu-metal baffle to reduce the hi-hat spill on the snare close mic,’ another guy noted. So much talk was taking place without anybody playing any music, Meera thought to herself. The team kept their heads down on thousands of sheets of paper with musical notes scribbled on them from top to bottom, left to right.

  ‘Hermann is so musical, it hurts,’ the film’s producer proudly noted and looked towards Meera, expecting her to nod in agreement.

  ‘You can take these sheets to an eighty-piece orchestra right now and not a note will be out of place,’ the assistant beamed.

  A young post-production artist chimed in about how the great Hermann always achieved a ‘sense of width,’ ‘realism’ and an ‘emotional immediacy’ through his arrangements.

  Unable to keep her thoughts to herself anymore, Meera, who had waited a full hour for rehearsals to begin, piped up.

  ‘Everything is so perfect. I have a feeling there is no room for the unexpected. I hope you leave some space for magic to happen,’ she remarked wryly.

  An uncomfortable silence followed. People who had cut their teeth in t
he best studios were dumbfounded. From then on, Hermann of Hamburg would always ask his crew, self-deprecatingly, to leave some space for the melody queen to walk in. It was a small victory Meera was especially proud of. She walked out of that meeting with the sweet sense of achievement – a feeling that came crashing down by the time she had reached the other end of the corridor.

  ‘Well, you’ve been busy.’

  She felt a knot in her stomach as she recognized the voice, and tried her best not to turn around. She kept walking, but Sahil Malik wasn’t going to let go of her so easily.

  ‘Now don’t just walk away. For old times’ sake, give me a minute.’

  She kept walking, wishing for the corridor to swallow her there and then.

  ‘Meera!’

  His hand yanked her backwards, and she found herself pinned against a wall with Sahil breathing down her neck again. She could smell the alcohol on his breath; he’d had more than a few drinks. For a second, she wondered what would happen if somebody from the recording studio walked out and came across this scene – Meera Apte, the toast of the town, songstress par excellence who had just put a bunch of know-it-all men in their place, now stood there, pinned against a wall by a drunkard, cowering helplessly. Kamal was waiting for her outside the studio, but looking at Sahil’s rage-filled eyes, she knew that her brother’s presence wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference to the composer.

  ‘I see you’re basking in the glory of being a star, but you’ve forgotten all about who got you here?’ he snarled under his breath while tightening his grip on her hand. Another ounce of pressure and Meera’s wrist would have snapped like a twig. ‘But don’t forget that stars turn to dust in the blink of an eye, Meera,’ he continued. ‘Tongues are wagging about how you are avoiding Sahil Malik. Now I don’t want things to get out of hand, so stop your passive aggressive behavior in public and start giving some credit where it’s due. We need to set up an interview together for the cameras to nip this in the bud, Meera. Don’t you ever forget that you’re but a bit player floating high up, momentarily. And me – I am the pig that revels in mud. One phone call from me, one dirty little story in the papers, and you’ll have to come play with me. I hold the strings.’