I know. How dumb could I be? The clues had been there all along, starting with my name itself – Abhimeer. When I first found out that Abhimanyu Singh, one of the last princes of Ranakpour and the Indian cricket legend, was my father, I thought how terribly unimaginative it was of them to name me Abhimeer. But through years of discovery, I’ve come to appreciate the little ways in which my parents tried to give me an identity as one of their own, while keeping me hidden from the world.

My name is Abhimeer Apte. I was born in the spring of 1955 in London, probably conceived in one of the hotels on the cricket touring circuit. Meera, or Mum as I’d call her, took a break from her short but spectacular singing career at its pinnacle to hide her pregnancy and, later, to raise me till I was a little over two years old – old enough to be bottle-fed. Her elder sister, Veena, was by her side, and raised me as her own child. In her absence, there were innumerable stories that sprung up in the tabloids – her death through yet another poisoning, being kidnapped by the Soviets and even eloping with Bose, who was rumoured to be alive and well. Even after her return to India, the conspiracy theories didn’t subside for decades. It wasn’t really her singing all those songs, people would say, but an imposter. Even when seen in the flesh, Meera remained somewhat of an enigma as folks would point out how the person claiming to be Meera looked so different from the grainy file pictures of yesteryear, from when she first broke into the Bombay playback singing scene.

I was blissfully unaware of such imaginary horrors my mother faced while growing up in Belgravia. Life to me was a short walk to Hyde Park with mum in the summers, when she’d make it a point to spend three full months with me. She’d pack those months with a lot of activities, as if she was trying to make up for the whole year. The circus, the zoo where we would feed giraffes, trips to the countryside where I would ride ponies with her behind me on a horse – a hobby she picked up from Abhimanyu, unbeknownst to me. Autumns were terrible, with the double whammy of the weather turning sour and the pain of seeing Mum go. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ she would say while showering me with gifts. But the gifts didn’t help. In fact, my hatred for gifts matches my abhorrence for autumn, due to their association with Mum’s departure. By winter, my mood would lift up in anticipation of Christmas. That, and the tireless and patient dedication of Veena Ma, who would try her best to fill the Mum-sized hole in my life.