The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

  ‘We need to move on,’ she kept saying, ‘Ma would have liked that.’ Canned lines designed to soothe and inspire, and yet they rang hollow, like the many similar ones Abhimanyu had heard from distant well-wishers since Kaushalya Devi’s death.

  ‘Can you stop it, Avantika,’ he said gravely.

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘With your token pep talk?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she dropped her fork and looked at him.

  ‘We can mourn,’ said Abhimanyu, ‘We can be depressed; cry, even. It won’t make us lesser beings.’

  ‘With all due respect, Abhimanyu,’ said the offended sister, ‘you can wallow in sorrow all you want, but don’t dictate or judge how I choose to deal with tragedy. I am determined to come out strong from this.’

  ‘There you go again. We shall overcome, we will prevail,’ he said in a mockingly grandiose tone.

  ‘Cut it out, Abhimanyu,’ Ajay Singh said, trying to diffuse the situation as Avantika left the table in a huff. ‘What is wrong with you?’

  ‘Me? Never mind me, Ajay. You tell me. How will you overcome this tragedy? The mighty Ajay Singh shall not shed a tear and go on serving his family and his country as is his duty, eh?’

  ‘Control your emotions.’ Ajay Singh dabbed his mouth with a napkin, carefully folded it next to his plate with an unfinished omelette and walked off.

  Abhimanyu was never fully comfortable with the trappings of a royal life. It was true that the prince in him came to the surface when he was confronting the guards, but now he disliked how rigid and unfeeling his family felt. He longed to see someone shed a tear, to see someone wail and curse the gods, break things. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do any of it.

  Chapter 8

  That night, Abhimanyu dreamt about the queen. Her face covered, she was seated on her chariot, on her last ride to the burning ghat. Abhimanyu was among the townsfolk by the roadside. His dead mother lifted up her veil, and her lifeless eyes looked straight at him.

  ‘I’ve done my part, Abhi, I’ve spoken with your father.’

  Abhimanyu started weeping unabashedly. People around him were saying their prayers. The prayers turned into loud chants.

  Our body is light, we are immortal,

  Our body is love, we are eternal

  Somebody tapped him on his shoulder. Abhimanyu turned around and saw that it was the same old man who had approached him at the Ahmedabad railway station the day he had left Ranakpour for Bombay.

  ‘Abhimanyu? Look what we have here! I can see your tears.’

  Abhimanyu bristled at the man’s insolent tone at first, but then buried his wet face in his shoulders, inconsolable in his grief.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ said the man, patting his back.

  He grabbed Abhimanyu by his shoulders and pulled away so that they faced each other.

  ‘I take it now that you can’t help me with the ownership papers. I really could have used your help, you know. But here you are, standing among us commoners, bawling like a baby. It’s okay.’

  Abhimanyu woke up with a start, perspiration running down his body like tiny rivulets. He skipped breakfast to avoid another confrontation with his siblings and arranged for a meeting with Meera at the high-point terrace. Located at the far-east end of the palace, the terrace was considered to be a rather misplaced architectural element, oddly perched over arcades that made it the highest point in the palace, exposing it to the elements and thus reducing its utility. A perfect corner away from the prying eyes for Abhimanyu to have a quiet moment with Meera. Nevertheless, Ranjit Singh accompanied the two to avoid raising any doubts.

  Abhimanyu’s trusted servers had set up a makeshift seating arrangement with a hasty yet elaborate breakfast spread, expertly ameliorated with flower arrangements. The meal remained untouched as the three sat in silence after the initial consolatory remarks by Ranjit and Meera. Minutes passed before Abhimanyu reminisced about his mother. ‘This was my favourite spot as a child. Playing hide and seek with Ma, making her walk all the way up here to find me.’ Meera and Ranjit Singh smiled. ‘I used to set up a tent here – my own outpost to look out for invading armies,’ he laughed softly and looked out at the textured grey mountain peaks dotting the horizon. He wanted to continue talking about whatever came to his mind, feeling much more at ease in his new company compared to his own family’s. He saw Meera shifting uncomfortably, with her face turning red in the harsh sun. ‘Do you want to move inside, Meera?’ he inquired. ‘That’s alright, Abhimanyu,’ she said hesitantly, ‘I am just cognizant of your schedule today. Pind Daan is in an hour’s time.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Right,’ Abhimanyu tapered off pensively. Deep down, he appreciated Meera’s sagacity. ‘I haven’t been able to give you time, Meera. I am—‘Meera leaned forward and stretched her hand out to place her palm on the table, close to his. ‘Please don’t say that, Abhimanyu. I am being looked after well by everyone here. Especially Ranjitji.’ Abhimanyu gave a thankful glance to Ranjit Singh, who assuredly told him not to worry about them. ‘Please proceed to the ceremony, Abhimanyu,’ he added.

  And so Abhimanyu made his way to yet another ritual for his mother – one of many that span several months after a royal death. He needed some time alone to clear his mind, so he started on foot instead of joining the royal convoy. At least he thought he was alone, but there were two minders always following him at a safe distance, as was the case during his escapade with Meera that night by the shikara. As he reached Mochi Bazaar, Abhimanyu remembered his childhood, and how his father used to bring all the siblings there on an annual trip to have new shoes made. Ranakpour’s artisans were famous for making some of the best leather shoes in all of northern India, but that was not the reason Uday Singh took them there. Be it shoes, clothes or monthly haircuts, the king made it a point to visit the local shops. Not only to show his appreciation for his subjects, but also to keep his children grounded and connected to Ranakpour and its people.

  ‘Hukum,’ a man recognized Abhimanyu and bowed. Few others followed suit and walked past with a bow, trying their best not to bother him, but still acknowledging his presence and conveying their condolences through pinched expressions.

  Abhimanyu felt strangely comforted by their unfiltered countenances. He went past the market and reached the central lake. The white dome of the Badal Mahal at the centre of the lake, which used to be the evening retreat for the Ranakpour royals through the eighteenth century, shone bright in the morning sun. The shimmering lake in front of him was encircled by a promenade that was lined with benches every few metres, where families would sit and eat snacks or buy an ice gola from the vendors doing the rounds of the lake. Small-town folks enjoying the sights designed and maintained by their king. Abhimanyu found it all too depressing and wanted to run away to Bombay with Meera at once. He couldn’t wait to disappear into the mass of the metropolis, never to be bothered again by anyone from his past life. But first, he had to attend his mother’s Pind Daan. He walked the full circumference of the lake to the other side to join an intimate gathering of just the closest family members.

  Regardless of the private ceremony, rigid protocol persisted. Ranakpour’s raj purohit sat in the puja as a representative of the royal family, while the priest performed sermons. The royal family looked on from a distance. The pandit rolled up the dough – a symbolic gift of an able body for the departed soul’s next birth. Abhimanyu glanced at his father, who was seated stoically, as the pandit walked up to the edge of the lake to immerse the dough figurine in the lake. He hadn’t seen his father since Kaushalya Devi’s funeral. Uday Singh had quietly made all the arrangements while mourning his wife’s death privately. Observing the king, bereft of his usual regal turban and sword, Uday Singh looked smaller than Abhimanyu remembered. He noticed the slight hunch his father had developed, and the skin on his neck was loose. He looked like an ordinary old man – weak and frail.

  The priest’s soft chants mingled with the raspy kaarks of grey herons looking
for food. Abhimanyu wondered about Meera again. As the dough figurine floated in the hallowed waters, he wished it would give him some sign about his mother’s possible conversation with the king. But there was none.

  Uday Singh betrayed some emotions when the raj purohit came up to him to offer flowers from the puja that signalled the end of the ceremony. His beloved queen had now truly transcended to ether. He stood up with the thal of parijats in his hands and started giving out one each to his family members as they approached him one by one. Starting with his brothers and their wives, followed by his children. Each offering formal condolences while accepting a flower as a token of remembrance. At last, it was Abhimanyu’s turn. He walked up to him – from up close, Uday Singh looked even weaker. His father was a broken man. Abhimanyu chose not to say anything. Right before he bowed to his father, he was sure he saw a tear escape the king’s eyes. Uday Singh cleared his throat and spoke.

  ‘Your mother mentioned the girl,’ he said softly but firmly. ‘If you think I didn’t know about her before, you’re wrong. I’ve been keeping tabs on your life in Bombay. And I’ve looked into the girl and her family as well – let me just say that her commoner status doesn’t hurt us as much as the family’s devadasi lineage, one we royals are only too familiar with.’ Abhimanyu could not hide his shock. It wasn’t that he himself thought much about Meera’s devadasi background – he couldn’t care less about such antiquated labels, and vowed there and then to never bring it up with Meera. He was also confident that Meera had not intentionally hidden her family’s past from him. It had just never come up as a topic of discussion for Meera to shed light on, he was convinced. Abhimanyu was dismayed because his father had sprang up a rude surprise on him in a delicate moment. He was disappointed at his own naïveté in not anticipating the lengths his family would go to prevent a morganatic marriage, even as their own titles were rendered meaningless. ‘Had your mother been alive,’ the king continued, ‘she might have been able to bring me around. I’ve now lost her to circumstances out of my control, but I won’t lose my son to a foolish, immature decision, just because he thinks he’s in love. If you don’t commit such a transgression while I am alive, I will be obliged.’

  Abhimanyu watched his father’s bare feet walk away from him. For what felt like ages, he stood there alone by the lake, watching the still waters.

  Chapter 9

  About 100 years before Kamladevi’s death, monsoon had arrived late to Ranakpour. When it did come, it lasted for a mere twenty-eight days. There was a shortage of fodder and water in the city and its surrounding princely states. Ranakpour was on its own, and in dire straits.

  Desperate people began emigrating with their livestock and belongings. Many wandered in search of food and clean water until they died from starvation. People who stayed put were not much better off as cholera broke out among the vulnerable population. A year into the famine, hope floated as the autumn harvest of 1842 promised to be abundant, but swarms of locusts descended upon the fields and destroyed the young crops. Then came the malaria. One-third of the population of Ranakpour was wiped out, and the rest did not know where their next meal was going to come from. The fact that the British had mandated opium farming in the neighbouring states didn’t help either.

  Finally, Abhimanyu’s great-great-grandfather, Durlabh Singh III, swallowed his pride and reached out to the British authorities for help. He knew they were sitting on 100 million pounds of rice and that they could move it quickly to Ranakpour. After some diplomacy, Sir Arthur Muir, the lieutenant-governor of the province, promised that he’d help the king, but only after he had taken care of a similar situation in Ajmer, a British territory that was given priority.

  Durlabh Singh knew that his kingdom was weeks away from total decimation when he received a strange offer from the king of Manda. Not only did the latter promise to direct food and relief to Ranakpour in a matter of days, but he also promised a considerable chunk of Manda’s wealth to Ranakpour’s royal coffers if Durlabh Singh agreed to marry his eldest son to Manda’s princess, a young girl who was all of 3’3”. All hell broke loose when Durlabh Singh explained the offer to his family. The queen was livid, and the son in question was offended that his father was even considering the offer. The royal family, of course, had just enough food supplies to last them till help arrived from the British. But that required the family to stay cocooned in their palace while people died outside. This could very well mean an uprising.

  In the end, with no other way out, Durlabh Singh ordered his son to marry the little princess, as she came to be known in the family. The prince had no say in the matter, and begrudgingly rode in his new wife as his subjects reveled to the tune of the wedding brass band. A calamity had been averted – Ranakpour had food on the table. The princess gave birth to a healthy son who grew up to be a strapping and handsome man, and the prince married again soon after.

  That’s what marriages meant in the first family of Ranakpour for ages – inheritance, diplomacy, politics. A lot was considered before marrying off sons and daughters, the least of which was love. And marrying a commoner was something that was never to be even discussed. For as long as anyone could remember, a Ranakpour royal had never married a commoner. There was Manvendra Singh, the fourteenth century prince who married a Mughal princess to keep her father from invading Ranakpour. Outside the walls of the palace, the spin given to this move was that the Ranakpour royals had championed a symbiotic Hindu–Muslim relationship, but inside the palace, it was known and recognized for what it was – a compromise; a defeat. The head priest had died under mysterious circumstances just before the wedding. There were murmurings that the family had him killed as he had turned vocal against the decision to bring a Muslim into the palace.

  Before Manvendra Singh, there was Vijay Singh, who was so repulsed by his to-be wife’s body odour that he had vomited in front of her when they first met. But he was ordered to marry the princess anyway, as a way of expanding the kingdom. Vijay Singh drank copiously to get through the nights and conceived soon after to produce an heir to the throne, but never shared a bed with his wife again.

  Times had changed, Abhimanyu knew, but not enough for him to marry Meera. And while he was ready to be disowned by the family and follow his heart, there had been something about his father’s request, made so soon after his wife’s death, that had unsettled the prince. Torn, he reached out to his elder brother.

  ‘So you know,’ Abhimanyu said to Ajay Singh upon realizing that his brother already knew about him and Meera.

  ‘Daata had mentioned something.’

  ‘What else is happening behind my back in the family? Pray tell me about the other rumours, brother,’ Abhimanyu mocked, losing his patience suddenly.

  ‘Look, let’s not create a scene.’ Ajay Singh tried calming his brother.

  ‘Scene? My personal life is being discussed by everyone and I’m the one creating a scene?’

  ‘It came up in a different context, that’s how I know. No one else has any knowledge about this, I assure you.’

  Upon more prodding, Ajay declared that he couldn’t divulge anything else that their father had said as it was part of a leadership committee discussion, which Abhimanyu didn’t have the privilege of being a part of.

  ‘I am not interested in knowing what the committee thinks of my love,’ Abhimanyu said, ‘I’m here to seek advice from you on this personal matter. Tell me, what should I do? How can I make this work?’

  ‘In the interest of this kingdom, Abhimanyu, I advice you to not pursue a relationship with that woman,’ Ajay Singh said, averting Abhimanyu’s gaze.

  Abhimanyu let out an audible sigh. ‘I came to seek help from an elder brother, just to find a custodian of the kingdom,’ he said with a wry smile.

  Abhimanyu rose from his chair like a man possessed. His body language, a mix of anger and dejection, made it amply clear to Ajay Singh that his younger brother was determined to leave Ranakpour, never to come back.

  ‘Abh
i ...’ Ajay Singh called out, but Abhimanyu kept walking. ‘Daata is running for election.’

  The young prince stopped.

  ‘Yes, the last king of Ranakpour is running for an election.’

  Ajay Singh went on to explain that Uday Singh would be launching a campaign for the office of the chief minister of Rajasthan in the coming weeks. He sounded resigned to the fact that the king would now be begging for votes from the same people that his family had ruled over for centuries. Knocking on doors, making speeches, defending his decisions and being on public trial. He’d be undertaking this Herculean task of convincing people that he was still their leader, not by proclamations, but by winning the hearts and minds of an unsure population. People had to believe deep down that he was still their king. Anything that even gave a hint that the family had lost its grip over power or that Uday Singh had become an ordinary citizen in free India would be pounced upon by his detractors. Ajay Singh said that Abhimanyu’s decision to marry Meera would be one such chink in their armour.

  ‘He’ll be dragged through the mud. He’s ready to be humiliated a thousand times over to get one democratic vote, for in his mind, anything would be better than the ignominy of being the last leader of this dynasty. And for that, he needs your help.’

  Abhimanyu walked out of the room and didn’t return to the palace that night. The pond in the forest beckoned. He longed for Meera, and yet he knew he wasn’t ready to face her with the truth.