‘But I am a member and I’d like to invite them.’

‘You are allowed two guests per day, sir, no more than that.’

Abhimanyu was exasperated at being denied something, perhaps for the first time in his life. He wanted to bring the Shivaji Park team to the Orient Club grounds for a friendly match, but the rules were getting in his way. Back home in Ranakpour, he had his own grounds where he was free to invite anyone at his whim, from an English county club to the local underprivileged youth team.

Abhimanyu knew that the only way to see more of Meera was to see more of Kamal, and he wanted his friend to become a regular at the club grounds, but Bakshi wouldn’t budge.

‘Mr Bakshi, I’ve been getting good practice at the grounds. It’s a pleasure to play against the visiting English and Australian players – it’s great exposure for me and the lads,’ said Abhimanyu.

‘I am pleased to hear that, sir, we try our best.’

‘However, I think we are at the risk of playing in a bubble. Everyone plays from the same manual. Academy stuff, you know. I have a feeling that a rough maidan team could really ruffle the feathers of these by-the-book players.’

‘With all due respect, Abhimanyuji, I highly doubt that.’

‘It’s a bold new world, Mr Bakshi. The English game of cricket has been adapted on the streets. From Bombay to Peshawar, these kids are bending the rules while we stand here on well-manicured lawns simply trying to strike the right posture.’

Abhimanyu knew that any club manager worth his salt would take up that challenge, and he was correct. Bakshi finally gave way, and a game with the Shivaji Park XI was set for the weekend. As a show of camaraderie, the prince played the match as part of the maidan’s team rather than the club. The locals were no match to the Orient Club, and lost, much to Bakshi’s delight. But there were enough scares for the royals and club members to realize that they were not as good as they had imagined. The wily Shivaji Park spinners had spun their web around the clueless lower-order batsmen. The results, of course, didn’t matter to Abhimanyu, since he got what he wanted – a free pass for the best of Shivaji Park to play at the club grounds. Kamal was one of them.

*

One morning, as he waited in the Apte living room for Kamal before a training session, Abhimanyu heard an impossibly sweet voice coming from one of the bedrooms. There were no words – just an alap. Abhimanyu froze. He didn’t want to take a single step forward or backward; he didn’t want the sound of any movement to interfere with what he was hearing. The sound swept him away to a different place as he stood there motionless. The alap turned into a raga, and he recognized it: the Hindola raga. He must have heard it a hundred times in his classical music lessons back in Ranakpour, but only that morning in Bandra did he experience the true meaning of it.