Abhimanyu found himself sitting next to the radio, listening to Nehru speak yet again as India took a democratic leap. The exuberance of 1947’s freedom at midnight had given way to the practical challenges of running the biggest democratic elections the world had ever seen. Nehru spoke about the logistics of bullet-proof ballot boxes and the army of policemen that would guard them. He spoke about the millions of rupees it would cost to execute the free will of the people, and warned, pleaded and pressed the population to participate in the experiment. ‘Let us face this great adventure with good heart and spirit, and try to avoid ill-will even in regard to those who oppose us. Thus, we shall lay the firm foundations of the democratic structure of this great republic.’

Only this time, Abhimanyu didn’t hear the speech in the comfort of his plush palace quarters. He was standing at old Madhao’s paan shop along with hundreds of other commoners – Bhils, baniyas, brahmins – all tuning in at Radio Chowk.

When did the royals stopped being royal? Did Avantika cease to be a royal when she entered politics without her family’s approval? Or was it in 1971, when the Indian government officially de-recognized the royal titles and put an end to the privy purses? If royalty was more culture than biology, surely they were to remain royal till eternity as long as they churned out little princes and princesses. Did the royal palaces lose their sheen when they were converted into opulent seven-star hotels? Bodhidharma, the prince of the Pallava dynasty, surely stopped being a royal when he became a Shaolin monk in China. But that was much before 1971 or 1947. The Nizam of Hyderabad remained a royal even as he was being thrown out of his kingdom. Perhaps he lost his title when his wealth – all stashed away in trucks so that the government of India could not lay their hands on it – was infested by termites. Did the royal family of Rajkot lose their status when they opened the US Pizza franchise across Gujarat? Did it matter in the end?

There was no such debate over Uday Singh’s royal fate. The former king of Ranakpour patiently waited for the election results to come in – an excruciatingly slow procession of pale government envelopes entering the Durbar Hall. He had his men tally the results, district after district, and when the numbers were decidedly against him, he stood up from his chair to make the last official announcement of his life.

‘We’re all commoners today.’

The Ranakpour family had lost the election. Abhimanyu sank in his chair – he had now lost everything. First Meera, then the game he loved, and in that very moment in early 1952, his identity.

Chapter 20

Chapter 20