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.