They spent most of the journey back to Bombay in petrified silence. The same bends that they enjoyed driving through on their way to Baroda now looked menacing. There were hints of violence as they passed the same villages. A fire burning at a crossroad, rocks strewn across a town square. When they knocked on the door of the circuit house, Abhimanyu was on edge, clutching his cricket bat like a weapon till a friendly face appeared to greet them. But the violence caught up with them when they got closer to Bombay. As they drove off a dirt road to enter a small town on the edges of the city, they encountered a surreal scene of armed families – men, women, children as young as five holding axes, kitchen knives, rags dripping in kerosene, standing on either side of a narrow lane. Eyes filled with anger and anticipation. Fright pierced through the windshield of the car. Like zombies, they stood bewildered at the site of a Maserati driving through their ravaged street. The mob stood still, on the verge of an attack, unable to determine the religion of the passengers, and whether they were carrying any weapons. Whose side were they on? A few in the mob banged on the hood of the car, barking orders at the princes to step out of the vehicle. It would have taken one chant, Abhimanyu would later say in acknowledging how close they were to death on that fateful night – had one person shouted out to attack, the neighbourhood would have devoured them within seconds. Instead, the car dragged through roughly 800 metres of the street and escaped with a few scratches.

They reached Bombay, but could not enter Bandra on account of a lockdown. Abhimanyu tried reasoning with a sub-inspector and asked for help, but to no avail. Things were too risky, he was told. Dozens had been killed on the street and the riots were ongoing. Abhimanyu asked Ranjit Singh to head home, thanking him for everything – among the few words they exchanged on the whole trip – and stayed put at the police station closest to Bandra. He spent the night in his car at the station parking lot. Penaru turned up the next morning with breakfast and Abhimanyu was relieved to know that he was safe and sound. He declined the breakfast. After much lobbying, an officer agreed to escort the prince to Meera’s address. They drove past Lucky’s restaurant, which looked like an outpost in a war zone. Thankfully, Meera’s neighbourhood looked like it had escaped the madness.

Abhimanyu got off the police jeep as soon as they reached Meera’s house. He stood at the gate, with one hand still holding onto the vehicle’s grab bar. He couldn’t really go in and check on Meera, could he? Abhimanyu wasn’t sure he could keep his emotions under check. Just then, he heard the faint voice that belonged to the angels. The sound of Meera’s morning riyaz floating out of her room. She was safe; the family was safe.