Chapter 3 #2
The platter, covered in gold net, is carrying what looks like a large jewellery box.
It is placed carefully on the table between Amma and Appa, away from me.
I look down at my toes and force myself not to think of the tray.
The situation can be handled, I remind myself.
I have an ally in Vedveer Rathore Singh, though at this point it is only imaginary.
I need to push the right buttons, and he’ll bow out of this alliance.
We are seated opposite each other. The men occupy independent seats, and the two women and their offspring are in roomy two-seaters.
Our eyes haven’t met, but from his profile, which exceeds the pictures on social media, I can tell that this is one I would drag and drop in the supermodel folder.
Not that looks or the lack of it changes anything.
I was clear at the outset itself that I’m not making a dramatic entry, balancing a tray and tripping over the hand-knotted carpet.
Amma argued relentlessly, saying there wasn’t going to be a tray; I was only required to walk, one foot in front of the other; they were royals.
I stood my ground. This was for me; I was not taking chances.
I was not about to wipe the floor with my abs with an audience in attendance.
I was warned not to carry my phone with me. It is in my tote, feeling abandoned.
The brocade curtains are drawn back, and the mid-morning light floods the room.
The senior Rathore blinks; the light is too harsh for him, perhaps.
My smile broadens at the sight, not because I find it funny, which I would have in normal circumstances, but because my anxiety is triggering strong reactions.
After the initial exchange of greetings, which between Vedveer and me is a couple of nods and half-hearted half-smiles, which I suspect is because neither want to appear interested (hugely encouraging), the conversation swings to geopolitics.
The senior Rathore, who is introduced simply as the maharaj, and Appa are chatting merrily, like old acquaintances.
Appa, being Appa (read over-enthusiastic), tries to draw Vedveer into the conversation but is met with little or no success.
Some of the baits are ridiculously plain, a cheery What do you think, Yuvraj?
A question that may have got a nod or a smile for an answer. I don’t know because I’m not looking.
And why is Appa calling him Yuvraj? Doesn’t he have a name? So what if his father calls him Yuvraj? You are not his dad!
Gauri Elena’s posture defines angles; her legs are folded to the side, knees touching and back erect. Her bejewelled hands are locked in a gentle clasp on her lap. She is in ivory, top to toe, a silk kurta with delicate gold embroidery. A painter’s muse.
If she and I were papped, like her son regularly is, the annotation would have the word ‘twinning’ somewhere in it.
Amma is comfortable; her long arms are wrapped around her right knee, and she is gently rocking back and forth in her seat.
She is working off nervous energy. Her head is positioned such that she has everyone except her daughter in full view.
A thick string of Mangaluru mallige adorns her thick bun.
Amma is bathed in my perfume. She had forgotten to spray herself and so helped herself to generous pumps of jasmine when she dropped by my room – not that she needed it with the flowers in her hair.
That is the only fragrance I could tell in a room of mixed scents.
As our long-standing help, Yellamma, rolls the coffee cart into the room, Gauri Elena blinks before her lips lift in a smile. Is she missing her glares? Yellamma’s sari sparks more colours than a Deepawali evening. My nickname for our much-loved Yellamma is ‘Yella colour’.
Yellamma is among the first helps Amma hired twenty years ago. Initially, she only did the cleaning, but as Appa’s stock soared and we moved to a larger space, she started cooking, too. Now she’s the housekeeper. Yellamma is in her brightest sari today, and her smile matches the drape every inch.
Yellamma, on whom every pair of eyes in the room is fixed, pauses in the middle. She tilts her head in my direction, holds up her hand and says, ‘Baby, tumba muddu.’ Very cute.
Only because it is Yellamma, I didn’t wish the floors below me open and swallow me. I beam her my first smile of the morning; it is most likely my last for this AM.
Vedveer’s eyes meet mine for the first time this morning, and his lips break into a smile. I don’t think he, like his parents, understands what Yellamma is saying, but he, unlike them, has read the expression. No returning smiles, I’m determined.
Appa takes over from Yellamma, and Vedveer is on his feet too, handing out the beverages.
Freshly baked cookies and muffins are passed around, with thank yous and pleases tossed about, but no one is touching a thing, not even the melt-in-the-mouth Mysore Pak.
‘Too early to eat,’ the senior Rathore says, adding that they are not a family who eats breakfast together.
Harmonious, I think, until I notice a teapot in the mix; there are teacups, too. I wonder if it is just an option or if there is indeed a tea drinker in the room.
Gauri Elena takes a sip of her bone-dry cappuccino and looks pointedly at me. She takes another sip and is glaring at me now. Are we about to come to blows?
‘Excellent coffee,’ she says, just as I’m about to burst from holding my breath. She then turns to her husband and adds, ‘The best I’ve had in a while!’
Wow! Thankfully, I only exclaimed that in my head. I try to hold back, but the smile slips out anyway.
The senior Rathore returns my sunny expression, while his son grins at his cup. I’m beginning to think he’s human, but I dismiss the thought immediately. I’m not getting reeled in to that narrative.
‘That’s exactly what I was telling Veer,’ the senior Rathore says, shaking his plump index finger.
I like this couple so much at this moment, I’m willing to exchange parents with Vedveer.
Appa’s office had coordinated with the palace staff for the choice of beverages. A couple of days ago, Appa told me Gauri Elena likes her coffee just the way I drink mine.
That is my cue to ask how Vedveer likes his coffee.
I don’t want to know how Vedveer has his coffee or his protein supplement. Given the size of his wrists, he is into this stuff. But I’m not playing this game.
I take a sip of the coffee Amma has handed me.
The man of the moment, posturing in dark-tan dress shoes, sips his coffee from a teacup. Like his mother, he is sitting square, while Amma and I are logged in a slouching match. I long to pull my legs up, fold them beside me and sip my beverage leisurely, just like I do in my office every morning.
This is my first cup of coffee, the one I enjoy more than the others I consume in the course of the day. I deliberately saved it for later today, for when I needed reinforcements.
Vedveer is looking around the room, perhaps wondering why the walls are bare. He drops his gaze and catches me looking at him. I force a smile.
‘Why don’t the children have a word with each other?’ That is Appa, but why ‘children’?
I study the diminishing mixture in my cup, thinking I’m better off not letting my gaze wander.
The senior Rathore coughs gently. ‘We are leaving today,’ he says, turning to his wife, ‘but Veer will stay on. Perhaps they can meet later in the evening or even in the morning, before he flies out?’
I raise my head in time to catch Vedveer turn to his father and nod.
It feels like I’m in a theatre watching a stage performance. Only, I’m part of the cast.
This evening, I have a date with Lavanya.
I’m not about to change that. A quick coffee tomorrow morning works fine.
Vedveer and I need to talk. He is going to tell me he isn’t interested in this alliance, and he will convey the same to the king and queen.
Why he hasn’t already done that, I have no idea, but I have faith in Yuvraj.
Vedveer is loved on the internet. He is everywhere; the same with his sister and her boyfriend, all great-looking people. TittleTattle does a piece on Vedveer every time he steps out with a new girl, and he has been stepping out with new and very alluring arm candies.
Social media’s vituperative bite is for me. A rich father’s daughter; what else can she be? Limited.
I’m fully aware that if not for my generous billionaire father, I could still be stuck deep in the Midwest, figuring matrix algebra and linear programming in the arid hope that I could eke out a decent living one day.
According to cyberbullies, my dad is my ATM. The higher the COFFEE Before Books my eyes are on Vedveer’s back.
‘Right here,’ Gauri Elena is saying to me, her eyes bright.
I’m doing everything I can to control myself and not ask the question that is maiming my insides. What is happening even?
I inhale, and my nerves are momentarily soothed by the woody scent from my right until… ‘Aadheethhaa.’ The voice is soft and full, but the phonetics drill a hole in my head.
I nod, but maybe I should’ve said ‘Ra-Tho-Ray, Ra-Tho-Ray’ and broken into a dance, Ra-Tho-Ray style.
Vedveer’s eyes are bright, and his face is relaxed.
‘Closer, please,’ the photographer is saying. How much closer? I can smell the man’s perfume, for god’s sake, and I’m sure he has inhaled more than a whiff of Jo Malone’s Jasmine.
‘Maybe, sir,’ the photographer isn’t giving up, ‘you can put your hand on maydam.’
‘May I?’ Vedveer asks, before putting an arm around my shoulder. His voice is deep and distinct.
His fingers press gently on my forearms, and his breath fans my cheeks. I’m encased in a 6 ft something frame. My smile pops involuntarily.
I’m grateful that Lavanya had wittingly pushed me to wear my nude stilettoes. Wear flats, she told me! Vedveer towers over me, and I need the three inches my footwear lends me.
We pose for three photos, each more awkwardly staged than the last. The photographer and his assistant direct us like we’re on the cover of the Royal Couples annual. Thankfully, the parents, Gauri Elena in particular, get distracted after the first snap and stop micromanaging our elbows.
My eyes are on Vedveer, and he nods, just the slightest tilt of his head, before I link my hand through his.
‘It’s okay, it’s just a photograph,’ he says when we are done. His voice is soft, and his tone is kind.
‘Thank you,’ I exhale. His warm breath strokes the top of my ear, and his gaze is on my hair.
I turn to join Amma on the sofa when I hear the senior Rathore speak.
‘The palace will release this picture with a two-line announcement that Ahadheethaa and Veer are to wed.’
Wed? My eyes widen in horror, and my face breaks into a violent smile. F@#king wed?
Had I not been blown away by what I had just heard, I might’ve strangled the man for the way he pronounced my name. He just bettered his son. No exchanging parents, thank you! These folks are equally problematic.
My eyes meet Vedveer’s square. I’m silently pleading. You don’t want this; please say so, say something, anything…
Vedveer’s lips twitch. I look away.
There’s something about those eyes; he is trying to tell me something. A couple of minutes pass when my eyes find his again. They are differently coloured. The right is grey, and the left is green. That is the mesmerizing part.
‘I think we should hold the announcement for a bit,’ Vedveer says, turning to his father.
My smile is less violent as I look into my empty cup, which I pick up only to keep my hands busy. Yuvraj has saved the day, but tomorrow, we will need to come up with concrete blueprints.