*

A while later, Abhimanyu was at the wheel of his beloved Rolls Royce Phantom III, gifted to him by Uday Singh on his twenty-first birthday. His other favorite, the red Maserati, was already on its way to Bombay, having been shipped ahead by this father as a present. His driver sat in the passenger seat. The drive to Ahmedabad was a blur, as the black metal beast raced through a landmass of beige.

At the train station, past the Jhulta Minar, Abhimanyu climbed out of the car with a leather duffel bag and a cricketing kit, and hurriedly made his way to the waiting room, hoping to avoid anybody who would recognize him. But quite a few people had already done so, and were rushing over to greet him. It was not often that one got to meet a royal, erstwhile or otherwise. Abhimanyu wanted to be left alone, and so he didn’t engage much with anyone, leaving many people disappointed. And then, an old man approached him with a full bow and mentioned that he was from Ranakpour.

‘Your Highness, it is a privilege to see you,’ he greeted Abhimanyu while keeping his eyes turned firmly to the ground.

It had only been a few hours since he had left home, but Abhimanyu found himself strangely pleased to see someone from home. He stopped to greet the man with warmth.

‘So, do you still live in Ranakpour?’ he asked the old man.

‘No, Your Highness, I moved to Ahmedabad four years ago for my business. But my family still lives in Ranakpour,’ said the old man.

‘I see, good.’

‘Your Highness,’ he continued, ‘I would be ever so grateful if you could help us out with a property matter. We have all the papers, but the new tehsildar refuses to recognize certain parts of our ownership of the land. I was hoping to sell a few acres to get money for my daughter’s treatment …’ The man let the words hang in the air.

It wasn’t the first time Abhimanyu had heard such a complaint. Post-Independence, power had been transferred to faceless pencil pushers, and yet the royals were meant to act as conduits; neither party knew where one’s jurisdiction began and other’s ended. A million people had died crossing imaginary borders, while several millions toiled away trying to define theirs. His mother’s parting words rang in his ears – you’ll always remain the prince of Ranakpour. Abhimanyu wasn’t one for such grandiose proclamations, but the occasion of seeing one’s own under such delicate circumstances had struck a chord. An old sense of duty and responsibility kicked in as he pulled out a black diary from his bag and asked the man to write down his property’s address.

‘And how may I address you?’

‘Madhao, Your Highness.’

‘Ah, the south side. Are you catching enough rainwater now, Madhao?’ he asked, looking at the address.

‘Yes, Your Highness, thanks to Daata.’

Abhimanyu remembered his father commissioning a large project to dig and make artificial lakes on seemingly barren lands in south Ranakpour, a region prone to droughts in the summer.