‘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!’

Unlike the movies, Abhimanyu and Meera learned about his traumatic optic neuropathy over the course of an agonizing week. And even though that slow burn had prepared them for the worst, when the doctors formally relayed the diagnosis to them, Abhimanyu felt something die inside him. As they explained his subnormal visual acuity in cold, clinical terms, all he deduced was that he would never again be able to play the game he loved. His cricketing dreams were over – his North Star, his crutch after being stripped off his royal identity, was now gone. The prince of Ranakpour – he who glided above the ground and attacked batsmen with such fierce accuracy that he could see the terror in their eyes from twenty-two yards away – was being told that he was lucky to even have partial sight in his right eye. A single delivery on the field had dealt him the biggest blow of his life.