Chapter 2 #2
‘We have a marriage proposal for you, Yuvraj.’ His eyes are on me now. ‘And a very good one at that!’ he adds with a smile. ‘Lovely girl, great family.’
I place my teacup on the table and try not to laugh. My lips twitch.
‘This is serious, Veer,’ he says, shuffling in his seat. ‘This works for us.’
I hear the morning wind rustle through the branches of the dhok trees that lean into the garden.
‘This fits us perfectly.’ Father is sweating profusely.
‘What do you mean by “fits us”? And why are we reacting this way?’ I ask. ‘You are rushing.’
The Rathores have made an art form of taking time; if there’s any doubt, see how we move. Glacial is our pace.
‘She’s a south Indian, and she lives in Bengaluru,’ he says, looking at me intently. Pranav steps forward with a hand fan, but Father tells him off and shuts his eyes for a moment.
I feel my brows scrunching.
Marriage is inevitable in my position. I have responsibilities, heir, spare and all that, but not now.
‘I was told about this family, the Gawdas; they’re very respectable people. I approached them.’ He is sitting up in his seat and speaks softly.
What? Father approached this family from halfway across the country, the Gowdas? He, Gaurav Rathore Singh, made the first move?
‘It’s okay,’ I say after a while. It is time to play Father. ‘Just because you approached them doesn’t mean we have to go through with it. We can tell them we’re not ready. That’s the truth, right?’
He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Why don’t you meet her,’ he says. It isn’t a question. ‘Get to know her.’
‘Who is she?’
Father takes a sip of his tea and puts down the cup before wrapping his arms around his chest.
“She’s the daughter of a senior politician.’
A politician! ‘Name?’
‘He is Prathap Gawdaji from Karnataka.’
I know who he’s talking about; I have read about him.
I’m not particularly enthused by politics, but I’m aware.
Not everything I have read about Gowda printed in mainstream media is complimentary.
I have also heard of Prathap Gowda for his coffee brand – COFFEE Before Books it is what we are enjoying at this moment. I have the occasional coffee, but I’ve never had Gowda’s coffee.
‘At least you will have good coffee to drink every day.’ I hear him exhale and watch as his brows shift in exaggerated appreciation. ‘Great coffee!’
Why disabuse him of his idea of the match, because that is all it is going to be – an idea. I’m equally determined.
‘It’s Gowda, not Gawda, please.’
‘Is that how I pronounced his name?’ Father’s laugh carries in the morning air. ‘Gowda,’ he says, ‘that’s right?’
I nod.
‘I like that you’re keen I get the pronunciation right,’ Father says, smiling. ‘It’s a good match,’ he continues, nodding some more. ‘You should meet the girl.’
‘Good for whom? I’m not even thinking of marriage.’ I’m surprised at how calm I sound.
‘In every sense, it’s a good match.’
I search his face for a reason to believe he is pranking me, but all I get is an expression that tells me he’s on edge. He’s fully aware that I’m looking at our lands, making plans to expand our agrarian projects.
‘It’s good. This is a very good proposal,’ he says.
‘Okay!’ I exhale. I need to take charge and change course.
‘You are okay with the proposal!’ He’s smiling ear to ear now.
‘No! I’m not okay with getting married now; you should know better,’ I say. ‘Tell me you’re joking, Father!’
Nothing against Prathap Gowda or his daughter. Marriage is where I don’t want to go now, not for a while anyway.
‘What do you mean?’
Could he be losing his mind? His shoulders drop, and his spine slackens. He’s looking at his feet now.
‘You know I don’t want to marry for some time at least.’
Father turns away.
When our eyes meet, I see what may have triggered the rivulets that are flowing freely down his face.
He has walked in here expecting me to stand my ground; he is aware the timing is off for me and that I’m determined to pursue our green dream.
He’s desperate to convince me. The monarch was not only looking at a proposal from outside the community for his only son, the heir to his throne, but he has taken an extreme step in his search.
He has made the first move, and he is going to hold authority – father over son, king over heir – over me.
Father pulls himself up from the chair and walks up to me, unbuckling his diamond-studded watch in the two steps he takes to get to me. (He rarely wears this timepiece but has made the effort to wear it today.) He wraps it around my wrist.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you say?’ he asks, ignoring my question. He steps back and looks at my wrist admiringly. ‘We go to Bengaluru in a couple of weeks?’
‘We can’t go ahead with this,’ I tell him. He is at the edge of the gazebo, and my eyes are on his back. ‘I’m not even thinking of marriage. I have stuff to do before I marry.’
Father is on the pebbled pathway of the lawn. He has called for a buggy to drive him to the rear entrance of his palace.
I return to the garden furniture and look across the lawn at the colourful crotons. Someone has to give, and it isn’t going to be me.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling before tossing it away.
Why would Aaditha Prathap want to go ahead with this proposal? An arranged match? She’s young, wealthy and supposedly successful. Why would she want to get married into something so traditional and antiquated?
I bury my face in my palms. Did someone spike the oolong leaves, or did I just hear all that?
What is even happening?