The Prince and the Nightingale

by Abhishek Bhatt

  When the word got out, Ranjit Singh was suspended from the national team, and the de facto national board refused to recognize the team, let alone allowing them play. That’s when Abhimanyu switched to high gear and started making calls. His trial-by-fire experience from the Ranakpour election came in handy, only this time he was ready to play the dirty game.

  ‘I am leaving for London, wondering if you can join,’ he said to Meera over the phone.

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘I’ll ask Kamal to cancel my appointments,’ said Meera. ‘How many days do you think it will take?’

  ‘As long as it takes for the BCCI to play ball,’ Abhimanyu smiled, reflecting the steely resolve he had gathered back in America, thanks to Meera.

  ‘What’s your plan, Abhi?’

  They hadn’t seen each other much in the months following their return to India. Still shaken by her ordeal, Meera had begun to take meetings again, in no hurry to start a project but eager to get on with her life. The Sahil Malik incident that had shaken the Bombay industry was soon swept aside as there was work to be done and movies to be made. The composer was behind bars. Meera, determined not to let his actions define her identity, had moved on as well. She was evaluating pitches she received, and at times calling Abhimanyu for his opinion on whether or not he thought a particular project was worth her while. They spoke numerous times but never met in person. It was an unspoken rule, as they did not want the intense scrutiny of the press to ruin their relationship. Meera guarded her privacy to such an extent that it only incited the press to speculate about her personal life more, often coming up with the strangest of suggestions. But for both Abhimanyu and Meera, just knowing that they were there for each other was enough.

  However, when the prospect of a UK trip came in, he couldn’t resist, and neither could she. For months, while his team of rebels trained for a showdown, Abhimanyu had worked the back channels to find the perfect stage for them to perform. He reconnected with Vihaan, who had given up his impossible mission to salvage the monarchy and had transformed into a London banker. He didn’t harbour any animosity towards his brother, so when the call from Abhimanyu did come, Vihaan was happy to do his bit and work his contacts to put him in touch with a bunch of county cricket clubs across England. Every day, Abhimanyu made calls to the administrators of different counties to broker a tour for his team. He deliberately kept it low profile, saying that it was just a bunch of players wanting to tour England and play some cricket to gain experience. It was a field trip, he said charmingly over the phone, for a bunch of rookie players. Soon enough, through Vihaan’s connections and Abhimanyu’s assurance that the tour would turn a small profit for the English counties, seven of them agreed to host the team.

  Ranjit Singh was taken aback when Abhimanyu asked him not to join them on the tour. The suspended national player still had a lot to lose by associating himself with a different league, according to Abhimanyu, so it was not worth the risk.

  ‘Is the prince having cold feet? I signed up for this knowing full well the consequences,’ Ranjit Singh said teasingly.

  ‘You’ve done enough. I don’t see much upside in you joining us, Ranjit,’ Abhhimanyu assured him.

  ‘I don’t consider the downside all that great.’

  ‘Trust me, when the time comes, I’ll be calling for you.’

  ‘I’m counting on you to, Abhimanyu of Ranakpour,’ Ranjit Singh replied with a smile and held his hand out to his friend before parting ways.

  Arrangements were made for the team to travel, with everything planned out to the last detail by the prince himself – flights, hotels, travel within England, training schedules, practice sessions, time off. Abhimanyu had even mapped out every single meal the team would be having, and where. Most of the players didn’t even have proper gear, so Abhimanyu paid for all of it from his own pocket. The trip was planned to perfection, and could have rivalled any international tour. And the players responded. They lost the first match, but won the next five on the trot. Midway through the tour, they tallied nine wins and two losses – a result no one had imagined in their wildest dreams. In more than half of those matches, the counties had national-level players on the teams – players who had travelled across the globe, beating the best teams, but fell flat when faced with the skill and guile of the rebel team. Unknown entities turned up in sleepy English towns and lit up the grounds.

  By this time, the news had escaped these obscure grounds and travelled to the highest offices of the sport in England, India and elsewhere. A bunch of unknown players were beating established counties while the Indian national team was languishing. When the best county team of the decade, Surrey, decided to make changes to their schedule and invite the Indian team to play, Abhimanyu knew his plan was working. His tour was a taunt directed at the big boys, and Surrey had taken the bait. ‘It’s time,’ Abhimanyu told Ranjit Singh over the phone. ‘Book the next flight and make sure you are seen.’

  ‘INDIAN OPENER JOINS REBEL LEAGUE,’ screamed the headlines in newspapers across India, even before Ranjit Singh’s plane had taken off. The BCCI officials were caught like deer in the headlights. They quickly held a press conference and announced Ranjit Singh’s suspension for life – a decision that looked rather stupid when he played an anchor of an innings on the first day of the test with Surrey. The match was evenly balanced on the last day when hordes of people turned up to watch the match. Four national players, star performers for the England team, were playing for Surrey that day. The Indian team lost the match in the end but won over the fans, in England and back home.

  ‘Do you know what this means?’ Ranjit Singh asked Abhimanyu in the dressing room, where a modest after-party was being held.

  ‘I do, but I’m not so sure you do, Ranjit.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Money.’

  None of the individuals in Abhimanyu’s team matched up to their counterparts in the national team. However, through Abhimanyu’s genius, the sum of its parts was greater than a seasoned team where players only played for themselves. Through instinct and research, he knew how to put together a team that could usurp the national star players. The unit was so strong that Abhimanyu could have launched his own team that could have beaten the Indian side on any given day. The story of the underdog had such a pull that any country would have hosted them to attract the crowds, since it was a phenomenon that stood to benefit all involved. That was what Ranjit Singh was alluding to. But to his surprise, Abhimanyu had no such intentions. Later that night, he alluded to approaching the Indian cricket board to negotiate a deal.

  ‘You are missing the trick here, Abhimanyu, don’t give up on this opportunity!’

  Yet somehow Abhimanyu was able to convince Ranjit Singh to go with his plan.

  ‘I know it’s just a game, but I don’t want to play the smallest part to fracture an Indian governing body – sports or otherwise,’ he confessed to Meera on their last night in London. Yet again, their time together, time they were only able to spend when out of India, had come to an end. They took separate flights back to Bombay, and Abhimanyu entered a tough series of negotiations with the BCCI. With the stellar results of the rebel team under his belt coupled with a solid art of persuasion he had picked up while fighting with wily politicians on the campaign trail, he was able to get a seat at the negotiating table with the Congress leadership – the ruling party that had a big say in the country’s sports agenda, especially in a sport handed down by their erstwhile colonial masters. And as fate would have it, sitting right across the table from Abhimanyu was the chief bureaucrat in charge of making a decision, his sister, Avantika.

  Chapter 26

  The mid 50s were interesting times. Alliances were formed and broken, and formed again. A nation found its identity and struggled with it. So did its people. Who defines these identities anyway? Royals? Devadasis? Friends or lovers? Masters and servants? If Abhimanyu worked out a deal to becom
e the chief selector of the Indian national team, was it because or despite of his politically savvy sister, Avantika? A failed politician, a has-been cricketing talent won a seat on the national stage – did that make him a success or a failure? Abhimanyu had lost a kingdom, as well as an eye, but he still won a chance to steer the future of his beloved sport, make it as democratic as he possibly could and as equal as he’d hoped for it to be. If he ever doubted his ability to take Indian cricket to the heights he had dared to dream of, history would clearly let him know that he was a winner all the way.

  It didn’t take long for Abhimanyu to make his mark. His selection skills were proven within months as the Indian side vanquished travelling teams with ease. Off the field, his almost-encyclopedic knowledge of the game coupled with his newfound people skills ensured that he was promoted to team manager for the national side. Abhimanyu was able to bring a professional perspective that was lacking in the Indian outfit. Gone was the lackadaisical, princely attitude of the team – cricket had become a competitive sport where one had to perform to keep their place in the team. He was a changed man – a far cry from the early days when he wasn’t sure of himself, or the dark period when he spent aimless nights looking for solace at the bottom of a bottle.

  But his success wasn’t his own. He had only one person to thank for it – Meera. Her mere existence pushed him to do better. They continued to meet in private to talk about cricket and music and everything in between. When asked about the historic series in England, where the true Indian team announced their arrival on the world cricket stage through an unlikely victory, Abhimanyu would half-jokingly confide to his friends that he had arranged for the series just so he could spend more time with Meera. But the people closest to him knew the truth, and how hard he had worked to try and hustle his way through to the International Cricket Council just to make that series a reality. Although it was an official series, Abhimanyu had poured a fortune from his own pocket to make it happen, just like the first time around with his rebel team. To offset some of the costs, he worked out a deal with Doordarshan to cover the series and sell advertising slots for the radio broadcast. Closer to the start of the series, he was the manager, travel agent, coach and physiologist of the Indian team, all rolled into one. To this day, even when India is the biggest player in world cricket, old-timers reminisce about that tour of England – the trip that started it all. The broadcast deals, preparation camps, logistics and overall performance in the series laid out the blueprint for future dominance. And all of it had Abhimanyu’s signature touch on it.

  *

  ‘I feel this tour is disrupting your life, Meera.’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  They were in their room, in a separate hotel from where the team was staying. Abhimanyu had spent his last ounce of energy on the eve of the first test, preparing for the biggest day of his life. He felt like sleeping for a week straight, but knew that the shooting pain in his head wouldn’t allow him a single minute of peace. His eye was acting up.

  ‘I am keeping you away from work. It’s rather selfish of me to do that.’

  ‘There’s no place I would rather be,’ Meera assured him.

  Abhimanyu, the unlikely champion of the people, had picked players from all walks of life to form a team that looked like modern-day India. Players who had won a place in the side on the merit of their skill and hard work and booked a date with destiny. Ranjit Singh took the first guard the next morning. The fact that he was a friend who had been by Abhimanyu’s side while he had engineered the coup didn’t matter. Ranjit Singh, the guy who had padded up with and against him in Shivaji Park and the Orient Club all those years ago, was by far the best opening batsman India had produced. Abhimanyu, who played fair and shot from the hip, announcing his intentions without fear of retribution; yet, in his personal life, acted like a thief by never acknowledging the best-kept secret, his relationship with Meera. Meera, the melody queen who earned her fame and fortune against all odds through her fierce will to succeed, had to protect them both from the lurid half-truths about her relationship with Abhimanyu.

  Until the morning of the first Test at the Mecca of cricket, that is. Minutes before the first ball was bowled, the Indian team manager emerged from the dressing room, walked over to the stands and took a seat to watch the match in front of the world – this time with Meera right beside him. ‘And here walks in the manager with his … guest,’ announced the commentator hesitantly, his voice blaring all over India. At Radio Chowk, the people of Ranakpour stood motionless in anticipation – eyes to the ground, ears to the speakers – to hear about a game that would capture the imagination of this new nation forever. And it was one of their own who had made it happen.

  As for the two lovers, they went through the arduous journey of getting knocked down and rising up again – of losing themselves and discovering that last shred of will to find their way. Life came full circle, as they say, and they emerged from it as better people. Stronger even. Or did they?

  Epilogue

  The historic series of the mid 50s was the first of many where Abhimanyu and Meera were seen together in the stands. I remember seeing them at the Oval, Old Trafford, Trent Bridge and even at Lord’s on that glorious Saturday in 1983, when India won the World Cup by 43 runs. I was seated next to the Indian dressing room as always. I didn’t see them as Abhimanyu and Meera, the prince and the songstress, though. I didn’t see them as lovers either. I saw my mother and a distant uncle.

  I know. How dumb could I be? The clues had been there all along, starting with my name itself – Abhimeer. When I first found out that Abhimanyu Singh, one of the last princes of Ranakpour and the Indian cricket legend, was my father, I thought how terribly unimaginative it was of them to name me Abhimeer. But through years of discovery, I’ve come to appreciate the little ways in which my parents tried to give me an identity as one of their own, while keeping me hidden from the world.

  My name is Abhimeer Apte. I was born in the spring of 1955 in London, probably conceived in one of the hotels on the cricket touring circuit. Meera, or Mum as I’d call her, took a break from her short but spectacular singing career at its pinnacle to hide her pregnancy and, later, to raise me till I was a little over two years old – old enough to be bottle-fed. Her elder sister, Veena, was by her side, and raised me as her own child. In her absence, there were innumerable stories that sprung up in the tabloids – her death through yet another poisoning, being kidnapped by the Soviets and even eloping with Bose, who was rumoured to be alive and well. Even after her return to India, the conspiracy theories didn’t subside for decades. It wasn’t really her singing all those songs, people would say, but an imposter. Even when seen in the flesh, Meera remained somewhat of an enigma as folks would point out how the person claiming to be Meera looked so different from the grainy file pictures of yesteryear, from when she first broke into the Bombay playback singing scene.

  I was blissfully unaware of such imaginary horrors my mother faced while growing up in Belgravia. Life to me was a short walk to Hyde Park with mum in the summers, when she’d make it a point to spend three full months with me. She’d pack those months with a lot of activities, as if she was trying to make up for the whole year. The circus, the zoo where we would feed giraffes, trips to the countryside where I would ride ponies with her behind me on a horse – a hobby she picked up from Abhimanyu, unbeknownst to me. Autumns were terrible, with the double whammy of the weather turning sour and the pain of seeing Mum go. ‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ she would say while showering me with gifts. But the gifts didn’t help. In fact, my hatred for gifts matches my abhorrence for autumn, due to their association with Mum’s departure. By winter, my mood would lift up in anticipation of Christmas. That, and the tireless and patient dedication of Veena Ma, who would try her best to fill the Mum-sized hole in my life.

  By the new year, the memory of Mum would fade, so much so that by the coming summer, it would take me a full two weeks to get reaccust
omed to her when she’d be back with gifts and a calendar packed with activities. A day before her arrival, Veena would pack her bags and fly to India. Like clockwork. For a while, till I was about seven, I had my own conspiracy theories. I suspected that Mum and Veena were the same, and that this person was playing an elaborate game of chicken just to keep things interesting through the year. I would identify marks on Mum’s body – a scar hidden somewhere in her nape or a mole – and would be amazed at the extensive planning that went into the sham when I couldn’t find them on Veena’s body. ‘Where’s the mole?’ I would cry out in frustration.

  Other than autumn, I had a happy childhood. Blissful, even. Another constant presence in my life was Vihaan uncle – my real uncle, but someone I knew as a good friend of Veena’s. A thorough Englishman, he was rarely seen without a suit and a bowler hat. In fact, it wasn’t until I was eleven years old that I realized that he was Indian.

  Then there was the towering figure of Abhimanyu Singh of Ranakpour. One of my earliest memories of him is watching him shave – his pre-game ritual – in the dressing room of the Indian team. His sculpted face looked even more pronounced when he peered into the mirror, his head cocked on one side to get a better look with his good eye and nose almost piercing through the glass. He always greeted me with the warmest of welcomes, with his hands on my thin shoulders. That’s about how physical he got with me. No hugs, ever. Perhaps because of his uptight royal upbringing, or the fact that he just didn’t want to give away the slightest of clues of his real relationship with me. He would then introduce me to each team member of the Indian cricket team, saying, ‘You play well today, lads, or I have the young champ waiting in the wings.’ I always attributed my full access to the dressing room and the good seats to Mum. That her fame and connections resulted in my good fortunes in stadiums all over. Little did I know that the cricket connection was much closer, and right in the family – my father.