Page 7

Samarth saddled Bodhi’s back and patted his neck.

The smells of hay and sun and manure lifted the air around him, bringing the hustle and bustle to a quiet halt inside his head.

He grabbed a brush and ran it down Bodhi’s mane, nuzzling him there and quietly winding his arms around him to give him a hug. After this, he would be all tough love.

“Let’s start with a bang, Bodhi,” Samarth murmured to him. “First chukker is yours, set the pace.”

Bodhi nickered — his soft, easy acceptance of the strategy.

“Good boy!” Samarth patted him just as Coach strode into the stables. They had been given the smaller stables in the Rajsamand Polo Club but this one had more lighting.

“Boys, line up,” Coach Singh clapped his hands together.

He was a massive man, 6 ft something — broad shoulders, bulky chest. Samarth used to pity the horse when Coach got on top of one.

But when he tended to them after, Samarth wouldn’t find them too strained.

Then Coach had taught him the tricks of managing weight, balancing the centre of gravity, and keeping the mount from getting tired too easily.

“Samarth, done babying them?” Coach demanded, and his teammates burst into chuckles.

“Done, Coach,” Samarth came and took his spot at Number 2, clasping his hands in front of him, right hand over left wrist. All three of his teammates had already lined up, hands clasped in front of them.

Number 1 was Kush — Kushal Singh Bedi of Patiala.

His job was to play in the opponent’s half of the field, attacking aggressively.

He had to be fast, and Kush’s reflexes were unmatched.

“Did you kiss him good luck?” Kush elbowed him.

“He was traumatised by the last one to kiss him,” Samarth ribbed back, nudging his elbow.

He played Number 2, owing to his superior riding skills and the ability to control offence as well as defence.

Number 3, their Captain and senior — Gopinath Gaikwad strategised on the go and brought his experience to the field.

While their Number 4 — Vishu, or Vishwadev from the Mysore Royal House, played the defender.

He shadowed the Number 1 of the opponent and blocked his goals.

“Kush, Sam, Gopi, Vishu. Ready?”

“Ready, Coach.”

“Kush,” Coach commanded. “Lawrence’s Number 4 is a bruiser. He’ll try to body you out of position. Stay light, keep moving.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“You,” he glanced at Samarth. “Their Number 2 is your mirror. Quick hands, mean streak. Get in his head before he gets in yours.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Gopi, this lot is yours.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Get out there, cavalry. Let’s go!”

“Let’s go!” They clapped their hands together — three quick claps.

As a team, they marched out of the stables and into the field — all of them in their whites. White polo shirts with their school crest on their chests, their numbers stamped on their backs, riding boots on. All they needed now was their protective gear.

The sun was bright on this early Udaipur morning.

The clean scent of fresh-cut grass, moist and dewy, rose from the field.

The Grandstands were filling up in the faraway distance, the VIP Pavilion empty.

His Papa had planned to come see this match but his meeting in Delhi had run over last night.

He had another breakfast catch-up, as he had regretfully informed Samarth last night.

Samarth understood, of course. He had pushed his father to stay back instead of working out his breakfast meeting over video call from here.

The royal guards, police surveillance and security were lax around the Pavillion. Mewad’s steward, the king, hadn’t arrived yet.

“Gear up, cavalry!” Coach ordered.

Samarth walked to his chair under the pergola set up outside the stables. Harsh was already there, sorting through his mallets to line them up in order of height.

“Harsh, you don’t have to do all this!” He told his best friend and bodyguard and almost-elder brother for the umpteenth time. He only held up one silent hand, measuring mallets against one another.

“Check the numbers,” Samarth helped.

Harsh’s fingers wiggled in a gesture to shoo him away. Samarth laughed, sitting down on his chair and beginning to fasten his riding gear. Knee guards. Elbow guards. Helm… he stopped. Again he had left his helmet in the stables!

He had developed this habit of carrying his helmet with him everywhere he went.

He huffed, slapping his thighs and springing to his feet.

“Ehh!” Harsh called out. He gestured with one hand — “Eeee?”

“To get my helmet.”

Harsh’s usually monotonous face burst into a chuckle. Then more hand gestures. Samarth didn’t know how he had come to learn sign language. Ever since he remembered, he had been able to talk to Harsh, without any formal training in his language.

Your mind was old, now it’s getting demented, Kunwar.

Samarth kneed his side, hoping to dislodge him. The mountain didn’t even budge. How had his Papa’s prim and petite Prime Minister’s son turned out like this?!

Harsh lifted his knee to nudge him and Samarth ran away quickly. He had a game to play today. Couldn’t afford a Harsh’s knee-sized crack in his hip.

Samarth ran inside the stables and searched.

Where had he kept it? He had entered the stables holding it, then gone to meet Cherry first thing.

Samarth went to Cherry’s makeshift stall.

Not there. He had gone to the brush kit next because Bella had needed some pick-me-up after her trailer ride yesterday.

She didn’t like being jostled too much. And his poor girl had to endure a long road trip from Dehradun to Udaipur.

Samarth jogged to the brushing and grooming kits, working through the mess his teammates had made there.

“Looking for this?”

He whirled. And stumbled back.

There stood Ava, his helmet in hand, looking so amazing that he had to blink twice to believe that it was her. She wasn’t in her uniform. Maybe that’s why he was so… shaken. She looked absolutely… what was the word? He didn’t have a word.

In a royal blue dress that came up above her knees, with her hair down unlike those high ponytails, a pair of sunglasses pushed up into the top of her head… she looked like she was meant to be here. And be by his side. But why was she here?

“Why are you here?” He asked, without filtering that thought.

Her face fell.

“Umm… I’m not stalking you, if that’s what you think!” She shrugged. “Now that we are in 9th and allowed to go out during the weekends with our parents’ permission… I got it and came to watch the match. To cheer Saraswati Crest… Kush and all.”

Samarth strode to her, crossing hay and sunshine and dried mud of the stables’ floor.

“Say Kush’s full name.”

“What?”

“Say Kush’s full name,” he asked. “You came to cheer him, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. She raised his helmet between their stomachs — his stomach and her chest, and rammed it into him. He bucked forward, laughing.

“I have a game to win, Ava!” He doubled over playfully, not reaching for his helmet.

“Then act properly with me,” she ordered.

“You started.”

“You asked me why I was here!”

“It was a reflex!”

She took a deep breath, then crinkled her nose.

“It smells, huh?” He asked, straightening to his full height.

“You didn’t clean their potty this morning?” She cocked her head to one side, her waist cocking to the other side. And what a pretty sight that was. She also carried a small brown purse slung close to her armpit, looking very… grownup.

“Manure,” Samarth pronounced, reminding himself to keep his eyes focused and his mind out of the gutter it was quickly scrambling towards when Ava was in sight.

“Same shit,” she retorted. Then, as if the thought had struck along with her impish grin — “Pun intended.”

Samarth couldn’t go on then. He stepped closer, closing the little distance between them so that she had to crane her neck fully to look at him — “Seriously though, Ava. Why are you here?”

“To cheer Kush.” This time she said it with her naughty little smile. “And,” she turned his helmet around in her hands, observing it — “This is very… blue.”

“It is. It also has my name on it,” he pointed proudly.

His first personalised helmet commissioned by Maan bhai on his 15th birthday.

Two were commissioned — one had the dynasty insignia of Nawanagar and was meant to be kept for his personal practise and games in the future.

This one had the Saraswati Crest emblem embossed at the base of its back.

“Sam,” Ava pronounced, her finger running down the three letters of his Polo name, inscribed in gold on the rim. Then her brown sparkling eyes looked up into his — “I like Samarth more.”

“I am Samarth then.”

The moment those words left his mouth, he blinked.

He was taken aback by them, by how easily they had come out.

Evidently, Ava too was taken aback and he hoped she wouldn’t run after coming this far.

He glanced down at his riding boots, at the tiny scruffs that had already started developing even after shining them spotless only half an hour ago.

After this game, they would be worn to the point of recognition.

“Samarth.”

“Hmm?”

Her hands reached up and his helmet settled on his head. Samarth pushed his head up in time for her to reach under his chin and fasten the buckle. She tucked the end in neatly, running her fingers up the seams to check if they were biting. He gulped.

“I came here to do this, and to tell you that…”

“Sammy, O, Sammy!” A familiar baritone broke them apart. She jumped back, as did he, looking for something to busy himself, to look like he was doing something here aside from trying to flirt with a girl…

“Oh, bad timing.”

Hukum Giriraj Singh Mewad — the Steward of Mewad, its king for all intents and purposes, stopped at the mouth of the stables. The light was blocked by his body, the sun radiating around him like some halo. Samarth squinted, observing Ava shift from foot to foot.