There were days of hope against hope. Maybe his father would come around, he would think. Maybe if he just hunkered down in New York, shutting out his family for months, time would heal everything and cooler heads would prevail? Moments later, he would oscillate back to a rush of despair knowing how wishful his thinking was.

‘Why do you love me, Meera?’ he asked her one morning, trying to broach the subject as delicately as he could. It wasn’t an unfair question – after all, Meera was thousands of miles away from her family without knowing exactly what was in store for her, no questions asked.

‘That night in Ranakpour, just before the guards marched in,’ he continued, ‘I had asked you the same thing. You were about to say something, but didn’t get a chance. Tell me now. Why are you with me?’

Meera looked out the window, seemingly transfixed by the familiar site of Central Park. Morning joggers were circling the park’s reservoir, later to be renamed Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, and tourists had just begun trickling in.

‘My father used to tell a story of a famed painter,’ she said, without turning to look at him, ‘whose paintings used to enthrall the villagers. He didn’t paint things or portraits, just strokes of colours arranged haphazardly, but his canvases never failed to mesmerize people. Soon, the word spread and folks from faraway villages started coming to see his work. Once, a noble man from a big city visited. Intrigued by one of his stunning works, he asked the painter, “Why did you chose green as the dominant colour for this piece?” The painter appraised his own canvas, puzzled. He went home and thought about it all night, all of next day, on and on. He became so absorbed with the question, so anxious to justify his choice, that he never created another painting again.’

Meera turned to Abhimanyu, smiling. ‘I fell in love with you the moment you held the door for me that night at the club’s verandah. I don’t know why. But I am here, and that’s what matters.’

‘Meera … I ...’ Abhimanyu fought back tears. His guilt compounded. He wanted to come clean there and then, but the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

‘Don’t say a word, my dear prince, revel in the beauty of god’s work,’ Meera said, walking up to Abhimanyu and placing her fingers on his lips.

Woh dard hi kya jo aankhon se beh jaye, woh khushi hi kya jo hothon par rah jaye.

Kabhi to samjho meri khamoshi ko, woh baat hi kya jo aasaani se alfaaz ban jaaye.

*

For the rest of her life, Meera felt personally insulted whenever she saw a particularly oft-repeated trope in Hindi cinema, wherein a doctor would unroll the white bandages covering a patient’s eyes, building up the audience’s anticipation for as long as possible. Depending on the plot, the patient would then joyously shout, ‘I can see again, praise god!’ or completely break down, crying in horror – ‘I can’t see anything, doctor!’