The Meeting of Two Worlds: The Prince and the Nightingale | EXCERPT

What happens when a young prince, stripped of his royal status, decides to follow his passion? How does a struggling, working-class singer with an angelic voice fulfil her dreams? The choices they make will change their destinies forever. Inspired by true events, The Prince and the Nightingale is a tragic tale of star-crossed love, set against the nascent years of a newly independent nation. Read an excerpt:

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. 

‘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.’ 

‘Good. You can leave now, Penaru, I’ll see you in the morning.’ 

‘Hukum, saheb.’ 

As evening fell, Abhimanyu began to feel claustrophobic in the small apartment – a far cry from the high-ceiling grandeur of the palace. Deciding to prepare early for his first social event in Bombay – a dinner at the Orient Club in his honour – he pulled out a pair of white trousers to go with his polo t-shirt and blue sports jacket. Here was a change he had been looking forward to – he no longer had to wear his ‘royal’ clothes for social gatherings. 

Before he had spent even a day in his new home, a sizable population of young princes and princesses who had moved to Bombay after August 1947 had heard about his arrival, and had organized the dinner party to welcome him to the city. The shy prince was uncomfortable with such unnecessary socializing, at least not as soon as he’d arrived, but he didn’t want to pass up a chance of meeting members of the cricket club of Bombay, who had also been invited to the party. 

Ready for the dinner party, Abhimanyu realized there was some time to kill, and decided to take a quick stroll by the promenade before heading to the club. 

The balmy Bombay sea breeze lifted his spirits as he mingled with the crowd of people as anonymously as he’d hoped. He would have liked to stay there much longer, and almost considered cancelling on the dinner, but he could imagine the scandal his absence would cause in Bombay’s social scene. 

When he reached the club, he was glad he’d reconsidered. The party guests comprised the who’s who of Bombay – a handful of erstwhile royals from all over India, a couple of British and European bureaucrats, local cricketers and celebrities from the Hindi film industry. Abhimanyu soon learned that many young aristocrats had set up their base in the city. With their status having been taken away from them in their respective states but millions of rupees in old money still left in their coffers – money that could be claimed from them by the new central government at any moment – the erstwhile royals had gravitated to the commercial capital of India to try their luck in various businesses. From textiles and the stock market to diamonds and the film industry, old money was flowing into every field of commerce in an attempt to renew and shield it from the sarkari babus. 

Abhimanyu’s motive, of course, was different. He was in Bombay to face the best of the best in Indian cricket and get a chance to prove his mettle in the international arena, to prove that he was more than a former prince, and that he too could find his place in this new India. 

‘I see the prince likes to have his drinks rather slowly,’ a bearded man said, approaching Abhimanyu as he nursed his gin and tonic. 

‘I had a long journey today, so I’m just taking it easy,’ Abhimanyu said with a smile. 

‘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.’ 

 

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