‘Meera, I am genuinely sorry to put you through this.’

‘I wasn’t … I am not prepared for this.’

‘With all due respect, I’m going to disagree with that. You were born prepared. You could enthrall this crowd even if you woke up in the middle of the night and started singing. That much I know.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

They reached a door which Abhimanyu tried opening, but was unable to. He struggled with it a bit, mildly grimacing as he twisted the knob. Meera could see his body stiffen a strand of his slick hair hang over his forehead. For once, things weren’t going as planned for the prince. For once, he wasn’t in total control. That made him oddly human to Meera; someone she could relate to. Finally, after a violent yet controlled pull, which surely must have broken a rusty lever, the door opened and in came a coastal whiff of the sea. Abhimanyu held the door ajar for Meera as she walked out to the verandah, crossing him within inches, such that she could feel his breath on her neck. Despite herself, Meera was distracted in the moment. There she was with a strange, rather handsome man – a prince. Standing under the stars, she could see the ocean water sparkle in the distance, under the moonlight. A Bombay she didn’t know existed. It felt like a dream. A clichéd dream with an imploring prince looking right at you. Only that it was all real. Meera was amazed at herself, thinking about how much her opinion of Abhimanyu had changed over the course of a few days. She had come to see the stiff prince of Ranakpour in a whole new light.

‘They say a true artist doesn’t need an audience. But an audience makes you a better performer,’ she heard Abhimanyu say as she tried shaking off a muffled heartbeat in her ear.

‘I am neither an artist nor a performer.’

‘Well, that’s not for me or you to decide. Come on over,’ he said as he walked across the verandah to the other end. Meera followed him.

They entered another large hall, and in the middle of it sat Pandit Bhairo himself.

‘Ah! Abhimanyu Singh, I thought you’d never come,’ the maestro welcomed the prince like a long-lost friend while gesturing to his staff to leave the room.

‘How could that be, Panditji,’ Abhimanyu said, touching Bhairo’s feet.

‘And this must be Meera?’ asked Bhairo, looking at her.

Meera instinctively touched the Pandit’s feet as well.

‘I am afraid Meera wouldn’t be able to open for you today,’ Abhimanyu said, looking down.

‘Why not? Are you feeling alright, Meera?’

‘I am not nearly good enough for the task, Panditji,’ said Meera, embarrassed and apologetic, all at once.

‘Don’t be so sure, Meera. I trust Abhimanyu’s judgment. Always have. He speaks highly of you.’

‘He’s being kind.’

‘Far from it. He’s a ruthless critic of music, all thanks to his mother. I would know – I have been at the receiving end of it.’