*

‘Wake up,’ said Abhimanyu as he stood by Ranjit Singh’s bed at his Nepean Sea Road home one night at 11 p.m.

‘A knock would’ve been nice,’ said a bleary-eyed Ranjit Singh.

‘Locking the door would have been better.’

‘I didn’t lock the door? Oh my!’

‘I don’t blame you, Ranjit, when’s the last time you touched a door in Songadh?’

Ranjit Singh shook his head.

‘Anyway, we’re going to Baroda. Now.’

‘Not again,’ Ranjit Singh protested.

‘The Gaekwads – I’ve heard good things about them. The match is in a couple of days.’

Abhimanyu lifted up a bag and Ranjit Singh’s cricket kit, all packed and ready to go.

‘Who else is joining?’ asked Ranjit, rising slowly from his bed as he knew Abhimanyu would not take no for an answer.

‘Just you and me, my friend.’

And off they went on what could barely be passed off as a single-lane road. The railways were a gift from the British, Abhimanyu used to say; the roads, on the other hand, were Indian to the core. One could chart the metamorphosis of India with that of its roads. Right after Independence, the roadways were fragments, not dissimilar to the princely states that made up the country. Each kingdom was in charge of the upkeep of their roads. The town centre had the best roads and as one ventured out, the boundaries blurred and so did the roads. So while Abhimanyu’s Maserati zipped through parts of the journey, it hit miles and miles of dirt every time a state’s boundary ended and another started. The journey then would become excruciatingly slow and dusty. The Gaekwads had arranged for them to stay at a circuit house in Vapi, where they stopped for a break and were treated like, well, kings. A wholesome lunch and a warm bath was enough to see them through the rest of their journey. About thirty-six hours later, Ranjit Singh found himself taking guard as an opener on the palace grounds of Baroda, right after getting out of the car.

He did well for a weary traveller. Abhimanyu got a couple of wickets as well. He wasn’t there merely for the play though. Mighty impressed by the Baroda team, especially their wicketkeeper, Abhimanyu started putting his cricket diplomacy to work. At the post-match dinner arranged in their honour, he laid out his plans for a quadrangular series of top teams from western India to be held in Bombay. The tournament, he said, would precede ten-day training camp with English coaches and a grand prize money for the winning team. The offer was too good to pass for the Gaekwads, who signed up before dessert arrived. For Abhimanyu, it was a big win to get a real tournament underway.

The euphoria lasted till the next morning. As the two Bombay players got ready for a day of sightseeing in Baroda, news started trickling in about Mahatma Gandhi’s assassination. The news wasn’t public, but the Gaekwads had worked their channels for a confirmation and informed the visiting princes, stating that it was best for them to stay within the palace grounds for safety.