The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

  The first time I became aware of India as an entity was in 1962, when the Sino-India war shook India to its core. I know that because Meera had sang about it on Independence Day and dedicated the song to the soldiers who had sacrificed their lives – a song that pulls at the heartstrings of millions to this day. That was the song that introduced me to the concept that mum was a singer.

  ‘That’s your mother singing on the radio,’ Veena called out one evening when such a fog had descended upon London, and all we could do was sit in the living room and wait for it to lift up so that we could go to the park.

  While I never had any cricketing talents to speak of, singing and playing the tabla were practices I did enjoy and was reasonably good at. Much later, Meera confessed to me the sense of dread she had felt watching me pick up music. She wanted me to be as far from a career in the arts as she was close to it. She worried about the possibility, however miniscule, that I’d take it seriously and follow in her footsteps. ‘It’s a make-believe world for people watching,’ she said, ‘a three-hour-long escape, and they go back to their lives. But we end up living in the house of mirrors till we can’t make out what’s real from what’s just a reflection.’

  Despite all her success, she remained disillusioned with the Indian film industry. The rumours mixed with adoration bordering on obsession from her fans reached a breaking point in mid 70s, when she quit and left Bombay for good. She could have withstood all that came with stardom, but when the industry itself took a turn and began making cheap imitations of Spaghetti Westerns, resulting in the deterioration of the caliber of music compositions, and when she was offered to sing half-baked compositions instead of the poetry she was used to, staying tethered to a city she could no longer relate to ceased to make sense. She longed for a new challenge – for creative freedom with which she could experiment and grow as an artiste rather than sell records. And she found it in the one city she could always rely on for new beginnings – New York.

  Her move to the US meant that her trips to London would become more frequent. My father, however, got the raw end of the deal. His already-infrequent secret rendezvous with Mum took a hit. A gruelling travel schedule with the team and the lack of a cricket scene in the US meant that they could only meet once a year. Despite this, he was supportive of Mum as always, as he knew she had much more to offer to the world than a few memorable film numbers. Her undying faith in her abilities proved him right in the years to come.

  Despite her apprehensions, Mum and I did end up performing together once, in 1983, the night India won the World Cup. As the wild celebrations ran well into the night, a few Indian team members, including Ranjit Singh, ended up in our living room along with my father. One of those rare nights when everyone in my family was together without me even knowing it. Mum, my father, Veena Ma, Vihaan uncle and Avantika, who I met for the first time that night – all giddy with excitement.

  It was the players who requested Mum to sing a sports anthem from one of her films, and she obliged, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to refuse the excited and victorious team members. Midway through the performance, Veena Ma urged me to get on the tabla, and soon enough, as more songs followed, the humble tabla sidekick morphed into a singer. My father, the ever so stoic royal leader of men, gave me a smile of approval. The last song sung by Mum that night was one that no one had heard of. It was from her upcoming album, Winds of Time, which she had been working on in New York. A devotional album that would go on to win a Grammy Award for ‘Best World Music Album’. It’s not lost on me that the Bollywood songstress went back to her devotional devadasi roots after all. ‘Hari om,’ the song, was more an intense meditation of the soul than a devotional piece, carrying, both the serenity of the classical inflection of Mum’s beautiful voice and a fierce cry for help to the omnipresent lord. It was an Indian win for the ages – a classical lesson in the millennia-old tradition – and all too much for me to resist. With that, the seeds of my fascination with India, and the history of my parents were sown.

  But this is the story of India I know – an achievement is followed by a disaster. For all the highs of 1983, the lows were never too far. My father’s health deteriorated later in the decade. For all that adulation and success, someone must have cast an evil eye, Veena Ma would say. After years of ignoring the symptoms, he went for a thorough check-up in a narrow window his schedule afforded him, only to find out he was suffering from Alzheimer’s. As family traditions go, it was kept a secret.

  In 1992, just as India opened up with economic liberalization, Mum decided to open up the vault of secrets that she had been carrying around like a stone in her heart every waking minute. Knowing that my father hadn’t much time left, she decided it was just too cruel to deprive me of the truth.

  ‘I am so sorry, Abhi!’

  ‘Ma, what are you saying?’

  That’s all I could muster. I felt like a seven-year-old again, thinking that’s just how life goes. That everyone finds out who their father is when he is about to die.

  ‘Please forgive me.’

  I stayed quiet. It was raining that day, and my mind raced towards a nagging worry that I might have left my umbrella in the office. But then I thought I didn’t need to go to work that day, because maybe that’s what everyone did when they found out that their father didn’t have much time left.

  I am ashamed to inform you that I made the trip to India to see my dying father rather begrudgingly. What is there to see and do now, I thought. I am ashamed to say that I hated my mother to have told me about him. Why did you have to tell me now? So that I have to make a 13,000 kilometre trip to witness his death? But things changed once I reached Breach Candy Hospital. There was a line of people from all walks of life visiting my father every day to pay their last respects, even as he could barely open his eyes. They told me that there was more to him than the man who used to greet me warmly, although a little awkwardly, and stand in a distant corner during gatherings. That there was more to the story of my mother, who, while staying behind the camera, breathed life into the songs lip synced by larger-than-life movie stars. They told me about how these unlikely lovers came to share a bond that stood the test of time and distance.

  There was more that I had to find out to give meaning to my childhood. I couldn’t just stand there and look at the lifeless body of my father, having less in common with him than the innumerable well-wishers who shuttled in and out of the room. I was his son. He wasn’t the lucid man who remembered the minute details of people’s lives by the time I arrived at Breach Candy. What gave me comfort, however, was the one glance he gave me – the only time his eyes opened in my presence. He looked at me, unable to speak or express himself, but the look he gave me with his one good eye was that of recognition.

  Until his death, India to me was his sterile room in Breach Candy and a cacophony of noises outside it. It wasn’t pity, but there’s something about seeing a man lying like a vegetable and dying that urged me to make his life whole in my eyes – an urge that took me to Ranakpour, and then to Baroda, to his cricket club where it all started; to Mum’s house in Bandra, and the fisherman’s village where she stayed during her first recording, and where a photo of her still hangs in the ant-infested kholi she stayed in. I went all the way to Karnataka to see her ancestral temple, where Mariamma sang, and beyond. I lapped it all up in an attempt to get to know my parents intimately and relive their journey.

  The following summer, before she passed away, Mum called me to her room one day. ‘Abhi, I have kept this close to myself for many, many years now, but I don’t think I have much time left. Before you say anything, please just take it,’ she said, holding out a medium-sized cardboard box in her outstretched hands. I took it and sat down on her bed. She sat down beside me and quietly said, ‘Open it.’

  Inside were clippings of newspapers that were fraying at the corners, ticket stubs for Kiss Me Kate and an ancient-looking royal insignia of Ranakpour. I reached out deeper into the box to pull out a surp
risingly non-ostentatious gold necklace, and held it up to peer at the intricate carvings.

  ‘Your father gifted it to me on my first trip to Ranakpour.’

  ‘Smooth move,’ I said, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘I’m sorry, didn’t mean to get too sappy,’ she said in a frail voice, giving me a meek smile as I rummaged through the box.

  They weren’t just romanticized artifacts. There were also dour prescriptions carrying unpronounceable medicine names from my father’s eye surgery, and from my mother’s post-poisoning care. The famed black book with strategy notes on key cricket matches and other pressing issues that my father thought needed his attention, including the old man Madhao’s land allocation. Meera’s first audition’s script, a dinner bill from a restaurant, poignant letters from Mum’s fans, and so on. I am quite against sentimental hoarding, but looking at the care with which she had kept little memories stashed away next to her death bed – a life story told in bits and pieces of regrets and triumphs – I was overwhelmed with grief.

  ‘Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. It was all worth it, son.’ Her final words to me as I wept.

  When I set out to tell the untold story of a prince and a songstress, I was hoping for simple answers. I know now that I am a Bhil and a Rajput. That I carry the blood of a devadasi and that of a commoner. I am the king and the servant, and everything in between. But this isn’t the story of two people, or three – of two star-crossed lovers and their illegitimate son. No. This is the story of India. My parents lived in interesting times, when a nation struggled to find its way in a world that had gone mad. And the reason I can now tell this story is because the times have changed. India has changed. The new India can accept this story for what it is, I hope. My parents tried their best to keep me a secret, sacrificing their own lives together to shield me from a life of ignominy, and here I am spilling their secrets. For I am not ashamed of my existence, or their’s. I know now that there is a place for me as well in this imperfect but truly great nation.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you:

  Cyril Sebastian for the countless hours of east coast-west coast camaraderie, ensuring that this book kept breathing 24/7.

  Atul Jolly, David Austin, Debajyoti Bose, Jyoti Singh, Kent Kee, for being kind and brave enough to read my initial scribbles.

  Salik Shah for making me first believe that someone just might be interested in reading what comes out of my warped mind.

  My uncle, Lokesh Dwivedi, for the beautiful poetry. Some are in these pages. The world needs more of you.

  Anushree Majumdar for giving the story a beating heart.

  Anish Chandy, my agent, for believing. Your expertise allows me to put my head down and do the work.

  The wonderful HarperCollins India team: Swati Daftuar for having faith in a new voice and making it better. It takes courage. Sagiri Dixit and others who make sure the work reaches people. A story is but a figment of one’s imagination, you all make it real.

  My work and life friends in India, Singapore, London, and the US. Your support and encouragement make this worthwhile.

  My huge extended family. We’re scattered across the globe, but your stories bind us together. Thank you, Mom, for being the rock. I ride your luck. Avani and Sumit, for the exciting conversations – my fuel. Chandrahas, Meena, Vilsu and Siddharth for being the best cheerleaders.

  Dad, ‘find your heroes,’ you had said. I looked but couldn’t find a better one than you.

  To Mansi – thank you for putting up with my madness, for being my first reader, promoter, and critic. for creating a bubble in which I thrive. Above all, thanks for boarding the crazy ride.

  About the Book

  SHE WAS THE MELODY QUEEN

  HE RULED THE PITCH

  WOULD THEY GIVE UP THEIR PASSIONS

  FOR THE SAKE OF LOVE?

  On the eve of India’s Independence, Maharaja Uday Singh, the King of Ranakpour, urges his children to find their place in the new India as their 600-year rule on the princely state comes to an end. Stripped of his royal status, Uday Singh’s middle son, Abhimanyu, lands in Bombay to follow his passion – cricket.

  While the young prince tries to adapt to life in the metropolis as a commoner, he meets Meera Apte, a struggling, working-class singer with an angelic voice, and they bond over their common interest: Indian classical music.

  As their friendship transforms into deep love, Abhimanyu finds himself torn between familial duties and his growing longing for Meera. Finally, they make a choice that will change their destinies forever. Inspired by true events, The Prince and the Nightingale is a tragic tale of star-crossed love, set against the nascent years of a newly independent nation.

  About the Author

  Abhishek Bhatt works at CNBC, New York. Before this, he was at Sony Pictures Entertainment and Ogilvy. Abhishek’s career has been in the creative and commercial side of the film, TV and web series business. This is his first novel. Get in touch with him at www.AbhishekBhatt.com

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  First published in India by

  HarperCollins Publishers in 2021

  A-75, Sector 57, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India

  www.harpercollins.co.in

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Abhishek Bhatt 2021

  P-ISBN 978-93-5357-975-3

  Epub Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 978-93-5357-976-0

  This is a work of fiction and all characters and incidents described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Abhishek Bhatt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved under The Copyright Act, 1957. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers India.

  Cover design: Pinaki De

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