‘That can be challenged in the courts of the United Nations! We’ll claim they were signed under duress.’

‘I couldn’t be less interested in politics right now, Vihaan. Do I look like I care?’

‘Look, Abhi, this isn’t politics. This is our life, our existence! I sympathize with your condition, and I am sorry for what you are going through, but we have to stand up for our rights! Daata was sold a ruse.’

‘I had expressly asked not to be contacted or bothered while I am here, Vihaan.’

‘Have you heard about Operation Polo? Thousands have been being massacred in Hyderabad to compel them to join India! Innocent blood spilled on the streets – is that what they call freedom?’

The Nizam of Hyderabad had refused to join India, and had chosen Pakistan instead. The landlocked princely state in the heart of the Indian subcontinent wanted to join with a Muslim-dominated landmass that lay 2,000 kilometres away from its borders – something the Indian government just couldn’t accept. Why not? asked the Hyderabadi leaders. Why should they sacrifice the reality of Hyderabad for the idea of India? Vihaan agreed. Ranakpour had been ruled by the family for centuries, he argued – monarchy must work if it lasted that long. We must join the other states, he implored. The idea of India’s Independence didn’t take hold in one fell swoop in 1947. The idea was being challenged and reinforced on the streets as well as in secret cabinets throughout the past year. The British had left the country, but dozens of deep state actors had poured in their own ideas along with guns to fill the vacuum. Lancaster Bombers loaded with arms flew into the holdouts – Hyderabad, Kashmir and other lesser-known princely states. When overpowered by the Indian Army, the same bombers carried the royals to safety in the dark of night – to England, the Middle East and wherever else they could seek refuge – leaving behind their kingdoms and their idyllic lifestyles. They left behind their world and their homes – centuries-old paintings hanging over ornate walls, collections of classic literature from all over the globe, Persian cats and so much more. All left behind in pristine condition while the idea of independence ensnared them whole.

The mess of Independent India he had left behind came back in a swirl along with Vihaan. Abhimanyu had been far away from that tinderbox, undergoing rehabilitation and therapy for his injuries, and he had no intention of getting even remotely involved in the affairs of the royal family and Ranakpour at the time. All he longed for was some quiet time to mourn his broken dreams.

Who am I to stab at the tide of history, Abhimanyu recalled quoting Chishti to his uncle the night his family had gathered after Uday Singh’s last announcement as a monarch. Alas, he didn’t have the luxury to be that blasé anymore. He groaned inwardly, knowing that he was going to have to choose between Vihaan and the rest of his family. His father, along with Ajay Singh and Avantika, had decided to join India in exchange for an elusive seat in the corridors of power. Vihaan, his kid brother, who by all accounts was always high on cocaine and conspiracy theories, had bandied up with other state rulers to subvert the very idea of India. Abhimanyu felt helpless in the face of Vihaan’s arguments. He found it preposterous that Vihaan was working with other princely states to counter the might of India, going against the collective wishes of the millions who cherished their freedom and were willing to defend it till their last breath. He wanted to save Vihaan from the self-destructive path he was on. While he found his brother’s arguments absurd, deep down he envied him for having a point of view; a fire in his belly to stand for something. On the other hand, all Abhimanyu could think of was his right eye, or what was left of it. Where is Meera, he wondered.