Chapter 3
Aaditha
Cue the Meltdown
The setting is just about right for someone scheduled to swipe in for a noon shift, but me, I’m stalling the day.
Workout: ?
Shower: ?
Breakfast: ?
Journal: Pause.
I ticked boxes at regular speed, on schedule to get to my work desk by 8 a.m. My time to caffeinate and journal, but Amma wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Not today,’ she whispered into my ear. Her voice was hoarse with hope. ‘You can go later, after they leave.’
If anyone is wondering, yeah, they’re the Royals. And I’ve been given permission to live my life once they leave. Hurrah!
The household is on high alert, help everywhere, lifting a pot, straightening a pillow, shifting furniture around, wiping an invisible layer of dust. Every now and then, you hear them – ‘idalla, adu’, ‘heccu hoova’.
Every vase in the house is holding flowers, even those that haven’t held a stem since Alia’s wedding over a decade ago, which was not long after we moved here.
Even the second floor, a dead space in our home, is showing signs of life. Doors and windows are thrown open, giving the space a sun-kissed facade.
We live in a 10,000-square-foot house on Mahatma Gandhi Road.
The location is not where Bengaluru’s old money lives, nor is it where the powerful reside.
Our home is a statement, an announcement that garners immediate attention.
The sand-coloured stucco exteriors and high-rise walls might give it a palatial air, but it is more than that.
Located at that precise juncture where power meets money. Newly minted.
My first steps were on slate-grey mosaic tiles, the other word for proletariat.
That patchwork composite, along with the plastic indoor plants and the rainbow-hued walls of our old home, is imprinted in my memory.
Two bedrooms for four people who had time for each other.
The texture of my childhood. Here, in this vast space, we run into each other sometimes.
I’m expecting Lavanya to come bursting through my bedroom door any moment, spouting a hundred words a minute in some twang or the other. She has already landed in Bengaluru from Mumbai. Her message tells me that.
Lovey: With you in a hurry.
Like a fortress under siege, I feel pressure pressing in from every direction.
When my parents told me about the proposal two weeks ago, I was seething.
But the anger quickly curdled into fear, the kind that makes your knees knock.
Most days since, I’ve swung between those two emotions, all while wondering if I’m slowly losing my mind, thanks to parents who clearly have no idea what they’re doing.
Initially, I thought it was just the two of us meeting, Vedveer and I. Two people, who I’m sure want this alliance to disappear so that they can get on with their respective lives as soon as possible. How long will it take for two smart people to come up with an exit plan?
A week later, I hear the Rathores – father, mother and son – will be here.
There’s a sister in the mix, but fortunately, she has a life.
Of course, the family would be here; they are royals.
They tread gently on a red carpet called tradition, while the rest of us arrive bouncing on a trampoline, juggling ten things at a time.
I spoke to Lavanya shortly after and asked her to bring her lovely self back to Bengaluru. I need my bestie with me today.
There’s a tug at the pit of my stomach, a feeling that is keeping me company late into the evenings and nudging me awake earlier than usual.
We are new money, wealth of the shiny-new address that is becoming a landmark for all things recent, unlike the Rathores, who are as old as old money gets. Even I could go back to the time when we had little, with Appa working round the clock, trying to make ends meet.
The Rathores live in an actual palace. It is where they have lived for generations; even the walls know their family tree. According to the internet, they are the most landed royals in India.
So, why me?
Why would Vedveer Rathore Singh – of endless land and limitless wealth – want to marry me?
I’m not even a blip on the society circuit, never mind a feature.
He could have any woman on the planet. And judging by social media, he pretty much has – models, an actor, a human rights lawyer, a doctor, an heiress, a duke’s daughter, society women, the works.
Surely, there’s someone closer to his world? A Rajput princess, maybe?
Sometimes, I think I don’t even need to rack my brains to figure out how to say no to Appa; Vedveer of the bottomless coffers will probably do it for me.
I pull myself up from the bed slowly, wearing a forced smile. In the morning, Raju made me practise the bow, an exaggerated gesture to lighten the mood. We repeat the drill twelve times, holding breath and posing for fifteen seconds. He even clicked a picture of me in action. I look constipated!
I discard my shorts and pull on the salwar kurta. Just as I reach for the kajal stick, Lavanya walks in, moaning about the security search the team from the palace insisted on for anyone entering our home.
She tosses her overnight case on my bed, which tells me she has not stopped at her apartment. It isn’t far from where we live.
She takes my hands in hers, saying, ‘Are you okay? I can’t believe this. I really can’t!’ Lavanya’s breath hasn’t caught up with her. Her bun is coming undone over her indigo kurta. She looks just as shaken as I probably do.
Lavanya is kneeling in front of me, holding my gaze. She’s wearing gold hoops in her ears and a single diamond bangle on her wrist. They are her designs.
‘Why not a fake model?’ she asks. I give her a weak smile. If there’s anyone who knows how much I owe Appa, it is this 5’9” being, one of the pillars of my life. Lavanya is not trifling; she’s trying to lift my mood.
‘Supermodel is the criteria.’ I play along.
Lavanya laughs. ‘You’ve got this,’ she says.
I nod. Not because I have any greater clarity or understanding of the situation I’m in, but because, at this moment, there’s not much I can do to get out of this without embarrassing my parents.
‘He’s got to want out of this mess,’ I tell Lavanya.
‘There’s a chance,’ she says. Her nod tells me she’s not fully convinced.
I feel the silence that settles on our home of three levels. The movement has stopped along with the chatter; everyone is waiting for the guests to arrive.
Amma walks into my room wearing a nervous smile.
She’s draped in a turquoise blue Kanjeevaram that matches her name, Neela.
Her face is without a dot of make-up. After dropping a kiss on Lavanya’s head, she takes a place beside us.
Amma turns abruptly to Lavanya and says, ‘You should make her understand that this is a very good proposal.’
‘She’s the best, Aunty,’ Lavanya says. ‘Anyone who gets her must walk between raindrops.’
Amma beams but is unmoved. ‘Age is crucial. There’s a time for everything in life.’
Lavanya nods and turns to me.
I’m grateful that my mother, who has no filter, didn’t add, Otherwise, Aaditha, too, will be thirty and single.
The Rathores, I suspect, will ride the lift to the second floor, which is designed like a clubhouse, complete with guest rooms. It is built for parties we haven’t hosted.
The walls of our home are bare for the most part, more so on the second floor – no artwork or photographs.
The flooring is marble, edged with gold, the main room has big windows, and the sofas are plush.
That is all I remember of the space in my house, which I may have stepped into three or four times.
Amma is on her feet suddenly. It is almost 11 a.m.; the Rathores will arrive shortly.
‘I’ll hang here until you’re done, and we’ll head out together,’ Lavanya tells me as I pull myself up. ‘I want to think he’ll want an out too…’
I nod. ‘Is that our best bet?’
‘We can make him hate you! Come on, show us some of that Aaditha sass!’
There are four animated people in the room – the maharaj, the maharani and my dear parents. They are all wearing broad smiles and sparking an effusive energy.
The two ladies have not uttered a significant word. They are beaming, nodding and agreeing with everything their husbands are saying. The other two people in this room of generous dimensions, the dude in a duck-egg-blue suit included, have other places they’d rather be.
For all the currents – the nascent and the strong – running through me these past two weeks while contemplating what this proposal could do to my life, this happy vibe is the one pressing against my trachea.
I’m suffocating. It isn’t just Amma and Appa who want this alliance to work; the other set of parents match tones.
But why? The question pokes at me, not for the first time.
The three Gowdas in residence were in position when the Rathores entered. The visitors were also three in number. They weren’t accompanied by walkie-talkie-powered security details, though a small army of men in charcoal grey had come to secure the premises at No. 5 MG Road before their arrival.
I stand up to greet the guests and am contemplating returning my rear to the sofa when Maharani Gauri Elena (that’s how she is introduced) takes hold of a gold-coloured tray from a liveried attendant, who has just walked through the doorway.
Gauri Elena steps forward in my direction, her expression sunny. I turn nervously to Amma, not knowing what to do. Amma nods before taking my hand in hers and moving it forward to accept the tray bearing gifts.
The word roka stings my mind; a shiver goes down my back.