A far cry from a death in the royal family, she now thought, where conversations almost immediately turned to what would come next, and where things seemed to move on a little too easily for Abhimanyu’s comfort.

*

On the tenth morning after the queen’s death, the Ranakpour siblings came together for breakfast. Vihaan was there, too, having flown in from London a couple of days after the queen’s cremation. One look at him and Abhimanyu knew that his youngest brother was leading a life of debauchery that had taken a toll on his body and robbed him of his youthfulness. Some things hadn’t changed, though, and he launched into his diatribe against the Indian government. ‘Patel’s goons will be here soon to make Daata sign the instrument of accession,’ he said with eyes darting at his siblings, as if he were letting out a secret. The ‘Nizam of Hyderabad is in talks with the Brits. He knows Delhi is going to eat him alive if he signs. We need to speak with Daata, now!’

His siblings knew better than to engage with him. Ajay Singh, a steady presence as always, tactfully swayed the conversation to their mother, and Avantika joined in. ‘Ma’s favourite,’ she remarked, talking about the crockery they were being served. She had matured beyond recognition. The few months she’d spent in Delhi had transformed her and she was surer of herself. She asked Abhimanyu about how Bombay was treating him, and chatted with Ajay Singh about the military and politics. She went on about life in Delhi, the leaders she’d met, discussions they’d had about the upcoming elections and how she’d been managing Uday Singh’s affairs in the capital. Abhimanyu hadn’t taken umbrage at Vihaan’s remarks; he knew his younger brother was beyond the pale. But he found Avantika’s demeanor quite unsettling. Something about her was off. He found her too cold – she spoke like a politician on a campaign trail.

‘We need to move on,’ she kept saying, ‘Ma would have liked that.’ Canned lines designed to soothe and inspire, and yet they rang hollow, like the many similar ones Abhimanyu had heard from distant well-wishers since Kaushalya Devi’s death.

‘Can you stop it, Avantika,’ he said gravely.

‘Stop what?’

‘With your token pep talk?’

‘Excuse me?’ she dropped her fork and looked at him.

‘We can mourn,’ said Abhimanyu, ‘We can be depressed; cry, even. It won’t make us lesser beings.’

‘With all due respect, Abhimanyu,’ said the offended sister, ‘you can wallow in sorrow all you want, but don’t dictate or judge how I choose to deal with tragedy. I am determined to come out strong from this.’

‘There you go again. We shall overcome, we will prevail,’ he said in a mockingly grandiose tone.

‘Cut it out, Abhimanyu,’ Ajay Singh said, trying to diffuse the situation as Avantika left the table in a huff. ‘What is wrong with you?’

‘Me? Never mind me, Ajay. You tell me. How will you overcome this tragedy? The mighty Ajay Singh shall not shed a tear and go on serving his family and his country as is his duty, eh?’