‘Neither can I. But what if they say no?’

The thought hadn’t even crossed the prince’s mind.

‘What if I am able to persuade them to say yes? How will I ever know if I don’t even try?’

Meera thought Abhimanyu was being too optimistic, naïve even, to think that their relationship would win his family’s approval. All her misgivings about Abhimanyu’s royal family – the same ones she’d had about him in the beginning – were threatening to cloud her mind. But he was right – how would they know if they didn’t even make an attempt to find out?

After some back and forth on the subject, Meera agreed. She was going to lie to her family about going on a week-long trip to visit a friend in Nashik. Perhaps she trusted Abhimanyu to make it work, or perhaps she wanted this fairytale romance to come to its inevitable end so that she could get on with her life without her proverbial knight in shining armour waiting around the corner for her. Meera, ever the idealist in her approach to her career, was a pragmatist when it came to matters of the heart.

*

Ranakpour is straight out of a story book, Meera thought to herself. It was the city girl’s first trip out of Maharashtra; the long train and car ride were a first as well. But only when she entered the grand palace did it dawn upon her that she was in a relationship with a royal. The same unassuming loner who looked completely out of place in Bombay was right at home in this palace with over a hundred rooms.

She had read about royalty, seen a few depictions of their lives in the movies, but nothing could have prepared her for the actual experience. Little things surprised and amused her – her name engraved on her spoon and fork at dinner; the Ranakpour bow she encountered every single time she’d bump into a member of the royal staff in the gilded corridors; Abhimanyu’s portraits hanging in gold-plated frames. What bemused her the most was how Abhimanyu had to seek a formal appointment to meet his mother and introduce her. Meera and the Gaekwads were on a palace tour as the royal guests. Towards the end of the tour, they reached the queen’s quarters, and Abhimanyu asked the sentry if he could meet with the queen that evening. The sentry went in and came back with a time – 5 p.m. – which Abhimanyu accepted, and also informed the man that Meera Apte from Bombay would be accompanying him. ‘Hujoor,’ said the sentry, and the arrangement was agreed upon. If Meera was already nervous about meeting the queen, this kind of formality made her even more anxious.

She spent the rest of the afternoon locked up in her room, seriously questioning her wardrobe. The fanciest sari she had brought with her now looked woefully plain. She visualized the queen wearing a crown, seated on a throne as she quizzed her. Meera shook her head. No, that was too absurd to be true. All of this felt like a dream – a middle-class girl born in the suburbs of Bombay in a 900-square-foot home, where even the time to sit under the electric fan had to be rationed, was about to meet the queen of Ranakpour to announce that she was in love with her son.