‘I do, Abhimanyu. Please stop. I do,’ said Meera, falling into his arms. Years would pass until Abhimanyu would realize what a leap of faith she had taken in accepting his proposal that night, and the gravity of what she had meant by ‘others like you’. What was not lost on him that night, though, was the realization of what it meant to be a true royal. It meant putting others before himself and helping them. Values that his father had tried teaching him. But up until then, he’d never understood its true meaning. He was prepared to lose her that night, but he would have still been at peace knowing he did what he could to help her. He had finally understood what it meant to elevate the people around him using his own position and privilege.

There at the verandah, overlooking the cricket field at the edge of the sea. They spoke to each other openly, honestly and without fear. Quaint words best left out of these pages lest I sully that special moment of love and longing, if only their subsequent lives had held the simplicity of that night. The athlete and the songstress; the prince and the commoner. Two different worlds stood together at the southern-most tip of Bombay, with hopes and without a plan.

Chapter 5

Before long, Abhimanyu and Meera started bonding deeply over their shared love for Indian classical music. She, the serenader, and he, the consummate listener. It was a truly transcendent relationship – Abhimanyu’s status didn’t come in the way of them speaking to each other freely. Each moment with Meera made Abhimanyu forget about his own tribulations. As for Meera, she was happy to converse about music, perhaps for the first time since her father’s death. Abhimanyu offered a constant loop of praise, criticism and advice – something that had been missing in her family. She opened up to him about her dreams and struggles. He would hear her talking giddily about her idols in classical and playback singing, and how she would give up everything just for a chance to perform alongside them. The reproachful girl at the maidan had metamorphosed into a passionate conversationalist, eager to share her world with him, testing out her theories about breaking into the industry, unfazed by a string of rejections. He coaxed her to try out smaller projects like singing jingles in advertisements.

‘And be banished from the singing community forever?’ she said, only half jokingly.

‘Well, they are no custodians of all art,’ Abhimanyu said.

‘Selling soap is an art?’ Meera said after taking a sip of fresh Irani tea.

‘Yes, why not? Besides, look at it as a stepping stone to bigger things!’

They were sitting in a corner booth at Bandra’s Lucky Restaurant. A steady stream of mill workers filed in to get their first meal of the day before heading to town. Abhimanyu had never stepped inside a restaurant before in his life. The hum of chatter and shifting chairs that filled the hall were all too foreign to his cloistered upbringing, but he took it all in. Men with sunken faces stuffing pavs into their mouths, barely taking the time to chew as they planned to tackle the day’s work, were a far cry from the leisurely pace of the palaces and clubs he was used to. Some shared pages of the morning newspapers, passing them around when they were done in exchange for a new one. Outside, a horde of workers stood listlessly in hopes of getting odd jobs. Every few minutes, a truck would come along and the driver would announce the jobs he had, along with the wages. Road maintenance in Mahim – 6 rupees. Construction work in Andheri – 8 rupees. A bunch of workers climbed the truck, gobbling down the last bits of their bun maskas. A few men shook their heads at the low wage, but climbed on anyway. Some didn’t have a clue about the work or the wage, but went along just to stay with their friends. A few others took their chances and continued to wait for a better deal to arrive.