‘Ranjit Singh of Songadh. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise. Abhimanyu Singh from Ranakpour.’ The men shook hands and took in the scene around them. The atmosphere in the club gardens was expectedly regal – a whiff of expensive wine merged with the coastal air, while the best of fabrics rustled against each other as more guests joined the party.

Ranjit Singh soon introduced Abhimanyu to a group that seemed to be as interested in cricket as the latter.

‘So, I’ve heard quite a few stories about your legendary bowling,’ Ranjit Singh said, stroking his beard in a manner that would seem theatrical if it weren’t so in tune with his appearance.

‘And batsmanship,’ a female voice in the group piped up.

‘Well, I hope I can live up to your expectations. I have heard of many great talents in Bombay,’ Abhimanyu replied modestly. It’s not that he was uncomfortable with praise, but he would rather have people compliment him after watching him play.

‘If I may,’ said Ranjit Singh, ‘I’d like to invite you to join us at Shivaji Park tomorrow, where we all will get to see you in action.’

Excellent, thought Abhimanyu to himself. This was exactly what he had wanted. ‘The pleasure is mine. I have read a lot about the park.’

As the party continued into the night, Abhimanyu spent his time awkwardly declining offers of city tours from various men and women. Mostly women.

‘Shivaji Park is well and good,’ offered a pretty actress he couldn’t recognize, ‘but why don’t I take you out to show you a real good time in Bombay … places you don’t read about in the papers.’ She placed her hand on his shoulder. On cue, photographers from different tabloids and magazines clicked away, blinding him with their flashlights.

That simple gesture made Abhimanyu realize the enormity of change, of how his life would never be the same again. The slight brush of her hand before he could move away had fazed him in a way like nothing before. Not the last declaration from his father sitting on a lost throne, not Nehru’s historic speech on the radio, not the screaming, grainy headlines on the front page of every newspaper in the world, or the deafening chants of ‘Jai Hind’ in every street of India – he had been prepared for all those eventualities. But Abhimanyu couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had voluntarily touched him. Only weeks prior, a commoner would not have dared to touch a prince, but now, he was no longer out of bounds. He had become one of them.

Abhimanyu curtly declined the starlet’s offer and left the party, walking back home to calm himself down. But suddenly, the events of the past few months began flitting through his mind, starting with him listening to Nehru’s speech in the comfort of his palace, to watching his family leave their ancestral home to try their fortunes all over the country and the world, and then his decision to move to Bombay. In all that time, he had hoped to watch a young nation rise while retaining his status in society, albeit with a diminished standing. It was now clear to him that he had underestimated the enormity of change.