‘Oh, yes. Right,’ Abhimanyu tapered off pensively. Deep down, he appreciated Meera’s sagacity. ‘I haven’t been able to give you time, Meera. I am—‘Meera leaned forward and stretched her hand out to place her palm on the table, close to his. ‘Please don’t say that, Abhimanyu. I am being looked after well by everyone here. Especially Ranjitji.’ Abhimanyu gave a thankful glance to Ranjit Singh, who assuredly told him not to worry about them. ‘Please proceed to the ceremony, Abhimanyu,’ he added.

And so Abhimanyu made his way to yet another ritual for his mother – one of many that span several months after a royal death. He needed some time alone to clear his mind, so he started on foot instead of joining the royal convoy. At least he thought he was alone, but there were two minders always following him at a safe distance, as was the case during his escapade with Meera that night by the shikara. As he reached Mochi Bazaar, Abhimanyu remembered his childhood, and how his father used to bring all the siblings there on an annual trip to have new shoes made. Ranakpour’s artisans were famous for making some of the best leather shoes in all of northern India, but that was not the reason Uday Singh took them there. Be it shoes, clothes or monthly haircuts, the king made it a point to visit the local shops. Not only to show his appreciation for his subjects, but also to keep his children grounded and connected to Ranakpour and its people.

‘Hukum,’ a man recognized Abhimanyu and bowed. Few others followed suit and walked past with a bow, trying their best not to bother him, but still acknowledging his presence and conveying their condolences through pinched expressions.

Abhimanyu felt strangely comforted by their unfiltered countenances. He went past the market and reached the central lake. The white dome of the Badal Mahal at the centre of the lake, which used to be the evening retreat for the Ranakpour royals through the eighteenth century, shone bright in the morning sun. The shimmering lake in front of him was encircled by a promenade that was lined with benches every few metres, where families would sit and eat snacks or buy an ice gola from the vendors doing the rounds of the lake. Small-town folks enjoying the sights designed and maintained by their king. Abhimanyu found it all too depressing and wanted to run away to Bombay with Meera at once. He couldn’t wait to disappear into the mass of the metropolis, never to be bothered again by anyone from his past life. But first, he had to attend his mother’s Pind Daan. He walked the full circumference of the lake to the other side to join an intimate gathering of just the closest family members.

Regardless of the private ceremony, rigid protocol persisted. Ranakpour’s raj purohit sat in the puja as a representative of the royal family, while the priest performed sermons. The royal family looked on from a distance. The pandit rolled up the dough – a symbolic gift of an able body for the departed soul’s next birth. Abhimanyu glanced at his father, who was seated stoically, as the pandit walked up to the edge of the lake to immerse the dough figurine in the lake. He hadn’t seen his father since Kaushalya Devi’s funeral. Uday Singh had quietly made all the arrangements while mourning his wife’s death privately. Observing the king, bereft of his usual regal turban and sword, Uday Singh looked smaller than Abhimanyu remembered. He noticed the slight hunch his father had developed, and the skin on his neck was loose. He looked like an ordinary old man – weak and frail.