‘I hope the new government takes care of us just like His Majesty used to, but I doubt it,’ the old man said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I won’t take any more of your time, Your Highness. Thank you. Thank you.’

Abhimanyu shook the man’s hand, even though he never would have in the past. The old man was taken aback by the gesture, and let his hand hang feebly for an awkward moment. Abhimanyu assured his former subject that things would get better. Hopefully.

Later, after he’d settled down in his first-class compartment and the train began to pull out of the station, Abhimanyu’s thoughts turned to the future and his new home: Bombay.

Had they stopped construction after Independence, Bombay would have been the most beautiful city in the world. Blame the British for all their sins in the subcontinent, but they knew town planning. From the art deco buildings of Colaba to the Mahalaxmi racecourse, everything made sense until the trains started running over the veins of the city. The same steel snake that brought Abhimanyu to Bombay Terminus slithered outward, first to Bandra, then Andheri, Borivali and beyond, spawning an ugly metropolis in its wake. Meanwhile, the rich and famous poured sand into the Arabian Sea so their gated mansions would be as far from the northern slums as possible. Half a century later, the sea would routinely flood everything in its path – the mansions, the slums, the train tracks – as if to remind the city of its past.

Abhimanyu had a panoramic view of the mercurial sea from his upscale yet modest two-room apartment in Malabar Hill in South Bombay; a view he particularly enjoyed after having spent his entire life in the land-locked and arid state of Rajasthan. Also visible from his bedroom window was his karmbhoomi – the lush, oval cricket field of the legendary Orient Club. He owned a small piece of it, thanks to a donation he had made towards building the club in return for a lifetime membership. Taking a cue from the East India Company, royals from several princely states had poured their money into the swamp and conjured up a playground fit for kings. Little did he know what this very patch of land had in store for him.

‘Saheb, chai?’ a slight man in his late twenties peered into the bedroom door as Abhimanyu was settling in. Penaru, the royal valet, born, raised and trained in the palace, had been sent to the city ahead of the prince to make sure everything was in order.

‘No, thanks, Penaru. Where are you staying?’ asked Abhimanyu.

‘Twenty minutes from here, saheb.’

‘Good.’ This was the first time that his valet would not be staying on the same premises as him, and Abhimanyu realized that the biggest changes in his life would begin at home. ‘Do you need money? To, you know, take the bus and such?’

‘No, saheb, I’ve been given enough for the year. For everything.’