The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

  ‘Why, what do you have in mind?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Meera did not reply right away. Abhimanyu stayed away from the hospital once Veena arrived, giving the sisters some time together, except for a dinner he arranged for the three of them on the day Meera was discharged. Veena thanked Abhimanyu profusely again, much to his discomfort. The three of them then talked about Bombay, with Veena filling them in on what had happened in the city since their sudden departure to New York. The women parted early to get some rest and prepare for their early flight the next day. Abhimanyu had offered to accompany them to the airport.

  By this time, he had given up on Meera staying back with him. He spent the night in agony, not knowing when he would see her again, if ever. So many things left unsaid and unexplained – things he didn’t know how to express. Somehow, he was able to swallow the hard pill of rejection and showed up at their hotel lobby on time. The drive to JFK Airport was a silent one, especially for Abhimanyu, who was lost in a world of what-ifs reeling through his mind. So much so that he failed to notice just one set of luggage being loaded onto the hotel car – Veena’s. His relief knew no bounds when he realized that Meera was staying back. The sisters said their goodbyes, and Abhimanyu saw Veena off at the departure gate, helping her with the luggage while Meera sat in the car.

  ‘My sister … you know, even before this incident, when she was on top of the world with all the praise and adulation she received …’ She looked over Abhimanyu’s shoulder at Meera. Abhimanyu turned around and did the same. Meera was looking at them, and she waved with a wistful smile. ‘She wasn’t happy. At least not the person she was back when you two … Whatever the two of you decide, just make sure you conclude it on good terms,’ Veena said quietly, and walked inside the airport to catch her flight.

  ‘I will,’ said Abhimanyu to nobody. He turned around and sat in the car, and reached out to hold Meera’s hand. He felt his heart constrict with happiness when she didn’t pull it away.

  *

  For the next couple of weeks, Abhimanyu and Meera travelled through northeast America, away from the crowd, reunited in pure bliss. They left New York and went to an idyllic farmhouse in New Jersey. Neither of them really spoke much about the past – what was done was done. They relished the present, occupying their minds with mundane things like where to eat lunch on any given day, or whether to choose horse riding over a walk by the beach in South Jersey. Once they took a long drive upstate to the Niagara Falls. Another week was spent strolling the Appalachian Trail. Whether they knew it or not, Abhimanyu and Meera were able to be lovers, like regular people, for the first time since they first confessed their love to each other, all those years ago.

  They were tucked away in a corner of a small family-run Italian restaurant on the roadside, located at the edge of Del Water Gap, closer to Philadelphia. It was the kind of restaurant where you couldn’t be sure as to whether or not it was open for business until you’d spot an old woman hunkered behind the counter. The chef, who was the husband of the lady behind the counter, was also the server. One could tell just from the way he checked with her whether they had olives in stock. ‘Of course,’ the counter lady replied incredulously, ‘they came in just this morning.’ He went off to the kitchen, but came back to the table to confirm which cheese they preferred. When the food was served, though, any trepidations Abhimanyu and Meera might have had about the sloppy chef melted away. Perhaps it was that homely feeling of being served by a family, and the food itself, which felt closer to India than to Italy, that uplifted their spirits, and they began talking freely for the first time in years. Such are the wonders of a good meal, especially if it beats low expectations.

  ‘Meera, I want you to know that I am truly sorry for everything,’ Abhimanyu said in their first real dialogue, an attempt really to talk. ‘I can’t thank you enough for your time.’

  ‘Tell me, have you heard any of my songs?’

  He told her about the records he had Penaru buy, and spoke at length about her singing – something she had yearned for so long. As expected, he came up with insights like only he could.

  ‘You know this more than I do Meera – you can be better,’ Abhimanyu began before going on to talk about the technical elements of her voice rather than the art of singing.

  ‘From the very first verse, I knew you were stressed.’

  He went on to explain how stress or anxiety has a very real physiological response that affects one’s voice. How he could hear her tightening muscles that lead to the loss of range at times.

  ‘It worked for this assignment, though. It gave you the quality that you needed to infuse in the character. But it won’t work for every song.’

  Why did his opinion matter so much, Meera thought to herself. She had had her performance critiqued and, for the most part, praised by the who’s who of the music industry. Experts had analyzed her talents and offered insights that even she couldn’t fathom. And yet, there she was, listening to an amateur, hanging on to his every word. It soon dawned upon her that while others were commenting on her performance, Abhimanyu had a glimpse into her soul. Of course, it was obvious that he could place his finger on that one thing everyone else was blind to – because the songs were meant for him. Listening to him speak about her craft was like watching a person unravelling a difficult puzzle that had been painstakingly designed, exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time.

  ‘How was politics?’ she asked him a few minutes later. She had very little idea of what he had been up to, and when he mentioned standing for elections, Meera genuinely wanted to know if he had enjoyed the experience. She thought she knew him well enough to know that he was not suited for it, but all this apart, she wondered if she could have been wrong.

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  ‘I am surprised you went in that direction, Abhimanyu. I wouldn’t have imagined—’

  ‘Err, apologies. I forgot to ask, would you like some wine?’ the absent-minded chef interrupted Meera and looked apologetically at the couple. He had come around to their table and was speaking in a hushed tone, not wanting to let his wife find out he had erred again. A sudden pang engulfed Abhimanyu. He hadn’t touched alcohol since he had left India.

  ‘I am fine, thank you.’

  Meera could feel his discomfort. Usually, he would have asked for her preference, but he now looked as though he wanted the man gone right away. She noticed how his forearms had lost their sculpted definition. There was no point in asking him about how he had been coping in the last few years, or how he was still coping; the proof was right in front of her, in the flesh.

  ‘Kamal loved cricket,’ she started in a deliberate way after the chef returned to the kitchen, ‘you’d seen that, of course.’

  Abhimanyu wasn’t sure why she mentioned that. He looked right into her eyes, hoping to be able to read her thoughts. His vision was worse off in the dimly lit restaurant. Meera’s image, as everything within his sight, was split in two with a white, greyish hole of nothingness floating around the centre.

  ‘He stopped playing and settled into his job once he realized the family needed another steady income. Didn’t complain, dragged his feet every morning, but showed up. And now, he’s with me as a manager,’ Meera continued, still pacing her words evenly.

  ‘That’s great to know.’

  ‘Well, he does everything, really. Drive me around, schedule appointments. If tomorrow this all goes away for some reason, he’ll find his way. Do something else.’

  Meera stopped eating and finally looked up at Abhimanyu. They gazed at each other for the first time in that trip.

  ‘I don’t see you doing that, Abhimanyu,’ she said, her eyes welling up despite her best efforts. ‘You’ve lost an eye, but the game runs in your blood.’

  That was a lightbulb moment for Abhimanyu. It was so painfully simple, what had to be done – all this time, it was hiding in plain sight. All those years he had spent agonizing over his injury and his future,
through the drunken nights and ever more depressing days, not once had he seen the light. The moment of truth had to come in the form of those plain words from no one else but Meera. If she could bask in Abhimanyu’s assuring gaze on the night of her first performance, it was now her turn to lend him a hand and lift him up from the swamp of defeat. His eyes hurt, but he couldn’t look away from her. Far away from India, far away from the past that had demanded so much from him, so much from them, he felt as though he could finally breathe. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he was just Abhimanyu – not a prince, not a commoner, not a cricketer or a politician, or even a half-blind recovering alcoholic – he was just a man.

  And sitting right across from him was a girl he’d seen grow into a woman. A girl he knew he was in love with from the moment he set his eyes on her on that hot afternoon in Bombay all those years ago. The lines on her face were more defined now, and though she was still recovering from Sahil’s dastardly attempt on her life, she looked radiant. He wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life with her beside him. Abhimanyu sat up suddenly, startling Meera.

  ‘What is it, Abhimanyu? Are you feeling well? Is it your eye?’

  ‘No, everything is fine. That’s just it. Everything is fine.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Meera,’ Abhimanyu said, pausing to breathe in before he spoke the words that had just popped into his mind a few seconds ago. ‘Will you marry me?’

  Meera, who was looking concerned, felt her eyes widen and a breath catch in her throat. Memories of the time she visited his mother, the late queen of Ranakpour, and all the events that followed, played like a reel inside her mind. She had longed and pined for Abhimanyu for so long, and had given up hope of ever seeing him again, and yet here they were, together again. But marriage was not on her mind at all.

  ‘Abhimanyu, where is this coming from? If you think you need to protect me from the Sahil Maliks of the world, you can’t. I don’t want you to …’

  ‘No, Meera, it’s not that,’ said Abhimanyu, interrupting her gently. ‘I ask you now because all this time, I didn’t have a chance to be my own person, to write my own destiny. I lost you because I had to keep a promise, but all that is behind us now. We don’t have to live in India anymore. We could settle down here, in New Jersey – there are a handful of Indians here and we can build a life together! I can’t turn back time, but I don’t want to lose you again. But if there’s someone else in your life …’

  ‘There isn’t,’ Meera said softly. ‘There never has been anyone but you. Never will be. But I don’t think I can marry you.’

  Abhimanyu felt like somebody had shot him. He gasped for a second and steadied himself. He’d pictured a different reaction to his proposal, unexpected as it was.

  Meera had never imagined she would see Abhimanyu again. When she found him at her bedside, her happiness knew know bounds. She wanted to recreate lost time, times a thousand. Recreate those moments; the feeling that she could feel only with him. All those years of pining for him, and there he was, in the flesh. But alas, time had moved on. She came to the rude realization that their moment was gone. They were both different people, stripped of their innocence. She knew it was not fair on her or on him to try and be something they are not just to be together in a marriage. She was a singer – the whole purpose of her being was a dedication to her art. He, although a man who had lost his way, was someone who had the potential to bring about great change in the game he loved. There was no mistaking that in Meera’s eyes. They were both destined to do greater things, and a marriage at that point would be settling for less and being bogged down by societal norms. She had earned her independence, and wanted to set Abhimanyu free too.

  ‘I don’t blame you for what happened in the past. I never have,’ she said to Abhimanyu. ‘It was circumstance. But we’ll have ourselves to blame if we repeat the mistakes of the past.’ Moments passed in silence before Abhimanyu spoke. ‘Meera, I’ve been selfish. I understand what you’ve said, and god knows I love and respect you even more now than I did a few minutes ago. I don’t want you to give up anything for me. All I want is to be with you till the very end, if you’ll have me.’

  ‘I want to be with you too, and I am certain that life will show us a way to achieve that. Trust me, my love,’ said Meera, smiling at him. They spent the remaining days of their rendezvous in marvellous lightness, talking about everything they had missed out talking about, going to museums and Broadway shows, palatial hotels and curbside stalls, soaking it all in, stretching every moment. Rather than recreating the past, they lived in the moment. ‘Imagine a new, promising batsman cracking a cover drive for a boundary,’ Abhimanyu would reminisce later, likening life to cricket as he did often. ‘Ten years later, the same batsman hits the exact same cover drive with the same result. The shot would bring the same joy, but feel different. That’s how we felt. Not better, not worse. Just different.’ When the day arrived for them to fly back to Bombay, not an ounce of dread did they feel. The trip had given them a lifetime of memories to live by – they would have been more than happy to mine those moments even if they were never to meet again.

  Chapter 25

  ‘It seems smaller than I remember,’ Abhimanyu remarked in a quiet voice. He was looking over the Orient Club grounds from the lobby restaurant, seated opposite Ranjit Singh of Songadh.

  ‘It’s the optics, I guess. They added a few more stands,’ Ranjit Singh explained. That and a smattering of four-storied apartments that had cropped up on the west end of the grounds did make it look a little cramped. It was no longer the only piece of land challenging the Bombay shoreline. Abhimanyu couldn’t help but feel envious when he looked at his old friend. The tell-tale signs of a comfortable life had all but disappeared: his body was taut, his shoulder broad and square, not an inch of extra fat around his middle. He looked like the top-level batsman he was.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  Abhimanyu took a deep breath and went on to list a bunch of names.

  ‘Sayaji Bhindwal, HRH Madhaorao Alwar, Nizam Siddiqui of Allahabad, the Kartars of Bhiwandi. Ranjit Singh of Songadh. I could go on.’

  Ranji Singh flashed a smile.

  ‘Seven years since Independence, and this still looks like a game of kings and princes. Hell, the BCCI emblem itself is borrowed from the British’s Most Exalted Order of the Star of India.’

  ‘Now I didn’t know that!’

  ‘A nation of millions can spit out only a handful of royals to play at the highest level,’ said Abhimanyu.

  ‘They had an early start, I guess.’

  ‘You’ve played with the street fighters, Ranjit, I don’t need to sell you this notion that we have better players.’

  Ranjit Singh let out a laugh.

  ‘The prince of Ranakpour has decided to fight for the free people. What a day!’

  ‘I’ll have you know that it’s based on statistics rather than altruism,’ said Abhimanyu with a smile. He went on to give an eerily accurate description of the domestic scene – the number of new players every year, individual performances, bowling and batting averages stacked up over the percentage of erstwhile royals in the game versus the true locals, ground-up players that were coming into the arena etc. He had pored over those numerous editions of papers lying in his room and gained enough knowledge to back up his claims just by looking at the numbers.

  ‘See for yourself,’ he said, pulling out his black diary with pages and pages of neat statistics. ‘I am not coming after you, by the way. Lucky you,’ he said, sifting through the pages and tapping his finger on the column that had Ranjit Singh’s name.

  Ranjit couldn’t believe what he saw. His whole career, including the obscure club games he’d played, totaling over 200 matches were laid out in neat columns – a snapshot of his career so far. Based on his analysis, Abhimanyu had concluded that only four players on the national team were worthy to be in the team. The rest were either way under par or too inco
nsistent to be regular fixtures. On another page, he had a list of prospects – some names Ranjit Singh hadn’t even heard of – who were better, at least on paper, than the guys on the team. Ranjit Singh spent a good ten minutes going through the diary, shaking his head and guffawing. He snapped it close and pushed it towards Abhimanyu.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  Abhimanyu knew cricket had always been a sport for the moneyed and priviledged. The gentlemen’s game was introduced to the subcontinent by the British sailors, then passed on to the Indian Army, and then picked up by the well-off Parsis. Soon, its following grew in other communities, but only among those who could afford to take the game seriously enough to form their own clubs. Businessmen, royals and friends of the ruling Brits were happy playing in their bubbles.

  Abhimanyu knew that the Board of Control of Cricket in India, or BCCI as it was called, was not a true representation of Indian cricket. It was an uncomfortable alliance of a handful of royals, barely coming together to be legitimized by the International council. A player from a lower caste would be included in the team every now and then, but the game remained one for people with money.

  It didn’t take a lot for Abhimanyu to convince Ranjit Singh. After all, the batsman knew the scene inside out from being a part of the national team. He knew that half the players on the team were there to gain social prominence rather than win a game of cricket. They threw money to travel across the globe in their cricket whites to compensate for their lack of talent. And sadly, that was enough to sustain them. But Abhimanyu felt that it was time to make a real team – the team of free India. According to him, it was a natural course the game had to take if India was to enter the big international leagues. From the Europeans to their Indian Army counterparts to the Parsis to the royals – now was the time to bring it to everyone, he argued. The question was, how?

  Armed with Abhimanyu’s black diary, the two friends found themselves on a journey once again. Through the western desert to the northern plains and the Deccan plateau, they tracked down players whose exploits had been recorded in the small print of the back pages of local newspapers. It took nearly two years, but they were finally able to form an all-India team – an alternative to the status quo that Abhimanyu had envisioned on paper. At the Orient Club, he designed a rigorous training camp and brought in international coaches who embarked on a journey with the new team to smoothen the rough edges of raw talent. The rebel team was ready; all set, but with no one to play against. It was an underground movement built in secrecy, but finally, when it was time to showcase their talent, they hit a dead end.