The priest’s soft chants mingled with the raspy kaarks of grey herons looking for food. Abhimanyu wondered about Meera again. As the dough figurine floated in the hallowed waters, he wished it would give him some sign about his mother’s possible conversation with the king. But there was none.
Uday Singh betrayed some emotions when the raj purohit came up to him to offer flowers from the puja that signalled the end of the ceremony. His beloved queen had now truly transcended to ether. He stood up with the thal of parijats in his hands and started giving out one each to his family members as they approached him one by one. Starting with his brothers and their wives, followed by his children. Each offering formal condolences while accepting a flower as a token of remembrance. At last, it was Abhimanyu’s turn. He walked up to him – from up close, Uday Singh looked even weaker. His father was a broken man. Abhimanyu chose not to say anything. Right before he bowed to his father, he was sure he saw a tear escape the king’s eyes. Uday Singh cleared his throat and spoke.
‘Your mother mentioned the girl,’ he said softly but firmly. ‘If you think I didn’t know about her before, you’re wrong. I’ve been keeping tabs on your life in Bombay. And I’ve looked into the girl and her family as well – let me just say that her commoner status doesn’t hurt us as much as the family’s devadasi lineage, one we royals are only too familiar with.’ Abhimanyu could not hide his shock. It wasn’t that he himself thought much about Meera’s devadasi background – he couldn’t care less about such antiquated labels, and vowed there and then to never bring it up with Meera. He was also confident that Meera had not intentionally hidden her family’s past from him. It had just never come up as a topic of discussion for Meera to shed light on, he was convinced. Abhimanyu was dismayed because his father had sprang up a rude surprise on him in a delicate moment. He was disappointed at his own naïveté in not anticipating the lengths his family would go to prevent a morganatic marriage, even as their own titles were rendered meaningless. ‘Had your mother been alive,’ the king continued, ‘she might have been able to bring me around. I’ve now lost her to circumstances out of my control, but I won’t lose my son to a foolish, immature decision, just because he thinks he’s in love. If you don’t commit such a transgression while I am alive, I will be obliged.’
Abhimanyu watched his father’s bare feet walk away from him. For what felt like ages, he stood there alone by the lake, watching the still waters.
Chapter 9
About 100 years before Kamladevi’s death, monsoon had arrived late to Ranakpour. When it did come, it lasted for a mere twenty-eight days. There was a shortage of fodder and water in the city and its surrounding princely states. Ranakpour was on its own, and in dire straits.