Before he knew it, teams had been formed and a match was underway. Soon, it was his turn to bowl to Ranjit. He made a couple of defensive shots before Abhimanyu had him clean bowled. The ball just kept swinging in and beat the batsman square. Ranjit couldn’t do much other than stand at the crease and look at his shattered stumps in appreciation of the prince’s amazing skill to swing a barely round piece of tattered leather that had been roughed up by the coarse Shivaji Park ground.

The sight of the tall, broad-shouldered prince zipping through his run up and his feet gliding slightly above the ground was enough to make half the players at the park pause for a few minutes and watch him. It was a nondescript game – one among thousands being played on the streets of Bombay that day – but to Abhimanyu, it meant the world. In his mind, he was fighting for his rightful place in society; one of dominance. He was born to rule, he thought, and with his kingdom snatched away from him, the cricket field would be where he would show them that he was always in charge. Perhaps that’s the reason he felt abjectly deflated when the next batsman, Kamal, negotiated his ferocious bowling with almost lackadaisical ease. Abhimanyu’s run-up got longer, his jumps higher and the ball would pierce through the dead air of the park just to be smacked right back at him. A street player was putting the blue-blooded prince, in his place and the crowd was cheering the spectacle.

‘Bhau!’ Abhimanyu was walking away from the pitch and measuring the run-up when he heard her voice for the first time.

‘Bhau!’ It came again. She was calling from afar, but the sweet inflection in her voice made it sound like he was hearing it right inside his head, in a dream.

‘It’s way past your promised time, bhau, you’ve got to stop and come at once!’

‘Hey, hey! Get off the pitch,’ Ranjit Singh sounded irritated, and Abhimanyu turned around to look at who was causing this scene in the middle of their match.

A young woman, slender and about twenty years old, was standing in the middle of the pitch, dressed in a blue form-fitting salwar-kameez and a flowing cream dupatta. It was a simple yet tasteful outfit, Abhimanyu noted. Had he seen her at the party?

Abhimanyu was trying to place her in his mind when his eyes were drawn to her feet. The milky skin looked whiter in contrast to the reddish-brown field of the maidan, but it was her worn-out sandals that gave her away. She was a commoner, Abhimanyu realized. But there was nothing common about her beauty. He wondered who she was calling out to.

His question was answered as Kamal left his position at the crease and rushed to her.

‘Meera! Get off the pitch, there’s a match going on. I am almost done,’ he said as quietly as he could, but by then, everybody was listening in.