Abhimanyu, the unlikely champion of the people, had picked players from all walks of life to form a team that looked like modern-day India. Players who had won a place in the side on the merit of their skill and hard work and booked a date with destiny. Ranjit Singh took the first guard the next morning. The fact that he was a friend who had been by Abhimanyu’s side while he had engineered the coup didn’t matter. Ranjit Singh, the guy who had padded up with and against him in Shivaji Park and the Orient Club all those years ago, was by far the best opening batsman India had produced. Abhimanyu, who played fair and shot from the hip, announcing his intentions without fear of retribution; yet, in his personal life, acted like a thief by never acknowledging the best-kept secret, his relationship with Meera. Meera, the melody queen who earned her fame and fortune against all odds through her fierce will to succeed, had to protect them both from the lurid half-truths about her relationship with Abhimanyu.

Until the morning of the first Test at the Mecca of cricket, that is. Minutes before the first ball was bowled, the Indian team manager emerged from the dressing room, walked over to the stands and took a seat to watch the match in front of the world – this time with Meera right beside him. ‘And here walks in the manager with his … guest,’ announced the commentator hesitantly, his voice blaring all over India. At Radio Chowk, the people of Ranakpour stood motionless in anticipation – eyes to the ground, ears to the speakers – to hear about a game that would capture the imagination of this new nation forever. And it was one of their own who had made it happen.

As for the two lovers, they went through the arduous journey of getting knocked down and rising up again – of losing themselves and discovering that last shred of will to find their way. Life came full circle, as they say, and they emerged from it as better people. Stronger even. Or did they?

Epilogue

Epilogue

The historic series of the mid 50s was the first of many where Abhimanyu and Meera were seen together in the stands. I remember seeing them at the Oval, Old Trafford, Trent Bridge and even at Lord’s on that glorious Saturday in 1983, when India won the World Cup by 43 runs. I was seated next to the Indian dressing room as always. I didn’t see them as Abhimanyu and Meera, the prince and the songstress, though. I didn’t see them as lovers either. I saw my mother and a distant uncle.