Chapter 4 Vedveer - All-Action Day in Bengaluru!
Vedveer
All-Action Day in Bengaluru!
I’m lounging in the Presidential Suite on the nineteenth floor of Kempe Crown, the iconic hotel that also houses the flagship Prathap’s Café. I’m considering a run.
The January sun is unusually sharp this afternoon; late evening may just be right. I could go to Cubbon Park, take a couple of loops around the park and run back. It looks good on the map.
I message Ratan Singh, my secretary, who taps on the open door a few seconds later.
‘Give me thirty minutes, Yuvrajji. I have to organize the support riders,’ he says.
Is that a threat?
I glance at Ratan, who has known me since I was a boy. He’s staring at his phone, clearly trying not to laugh.
Any remaining ambition to go for a run vanishes at the mention of support riders. I want to run, not headline a circus parade.
I start scrolling through my phone, looking for options that don’t involve an entourage, when a TittleTattle alert pops up, a photo of me arriving in Bengaluru. Perfect.
I toss the phone aside just as the doorbell chimes. The green smoothie, probably.
Ratan looks irritated when he appears at my door with a serving tray in hand a couple of minutes later.
‘Yuvrajji,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘There are two female staff members outside, requesting a photograph with you.’
Ratan knows I don’t encourage this kind of attention when I’m on personal work. If he’s bringing it up anyway, it must be for a good reason. I follow him to the door.
‘Just one photograph, please, and off you go!’ Ratan says to the beaming duo outside. ‘I’ll take it on my phone and share it with one of you.’
He’s authoritative and clearly in charge. I stay back.
‘Do you like it here in Bengaluru, sir?’ one of the girls asks brightly.
Ratan’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t enjoy being spoken over mid-logistics.
‘You’re so nice, sir. Is this your first visit to our Bengaluru?’ the other adds, grinning.
‘Please line up quickly, or I’ll ask Yuvrajji to go back,’ Ratan says firmly but politely.
‘May I come on the other side, sir?’ one girl asks, already stepping forward.
‘No,’ Ratan says immediately. ‘Both of you stand together.’
I offer a smile as we get into position. ‘Thank you, ladies,’ I say. ‘And yes, it’s my first time in Bengaluru.’
The photo is taken in under ten seconds, though somehow, it feels longer.
Once we’re back inside, Ratan looks at me, a little apologetic.
‘Sorry about that,’ he says.
‘It’s fine. You only threatened to send me back once!’
I take a tour of the floor and arrive at a sunroom. I stand there staring at the rather large plunge pool. It is thirty metres long. The water is inviting. I look around me; it is just me and the water. I strip down to my underwear and jump in.
I need to crunch my thoughts, and I do it best when it is accompanied by cardio. Beta endorphin is my fuel.
My decision to stay on in Bengaluru was taken in the eleventh hour. When I first heard of this Gowda proposal, I hoped it would wash away. There are two weeks to go, time enough, I thought. But when everyone around me starts making plans, I’m forced to act.
I dial Aaditha because we are in an epoch where technology has simplified communication to such a degree that there should be no reason why two adults, who find themselves in a situation they’ve been forced into, shouldn’t get on a call.
She doesn’t answer, and when I call again, a day later, I figure I have been blocked.
Aaditha and I need to have a conversation, which is why I decided to stay the day in Bengaluru.
Father is ecstatic. He calls my decision to extend my visit by a day ‘very civilized’.
That did nothing for the questions humming in my head. The water is warm, and my arms are keeping pace with my thoughts.
Aaditha was straight-faced for most of the morning, arms folded just below her chest, except for when she tugged at her clothes or drank her coffee. Then came the wedding announcement, and she startled visibly.
Our eyes met across the room. It was only a moment, but it was enough to tell her that I’d handle it.
Father hadn’t said anything about a photograph to me, much less a palace announcement about the wedding.
His words knocked me off my feet for a moment.
I looked daggers at Mother, who had obviously lit up on some cue from her husband.
She even suggested a spot for the photograph, like some creative director summing up options.
It wasn’t even her home; she was the guest. Mrs Neela Prathap was content rocking back and forth in her seat for most of the hour we were there.
Aaditha went along with the photograph, even though she took her time leaving her place on the sofa.
Nomenclature – COFFEE Before Books it has personality, someone’s personality.
Too many words and way too much love for it to be Prathap Gowda’s call.
There was something in the way Aaditha sipped her brew – not just pleasure but pride. Her shoulders lifted, and her eyes brightened when the parents praised the beverage.
It’s possible that Aaditha wants out, too.
Why would a south Indian heiress, an industry leader seemingly, be agreeable to an arranged match with Rajasthani royalty?
We are disparate as societies go, and by all accounts, the Gowdas know serious money. So why tie yourself up in royal traditions that mean nothing to you when you can live freely?
The Gowdas and the Rathores are poles apart, geographically and culturally.
We love to show, even if the show is sophisticated, while the Gowdas are vanilla in a healthy way, much like their walls.
No art, no souvenirs from places travelled or traces of a life lived, no photographs of the family, save for a few on the mantelshelf.
Maybe that’s the part of the house they open for occasions and have deliberately left it sparse.
It’s refreshing that there’s no pretence, no hiring of an interior decorator to jazz it up.
I know it is Father who reached out to Prathap Gowda, but Karnataka’s finance minister could’ve easily said no, come up with any number of excuses without offending anyone.
That he didn’t says something. Prathap Gowda probably wants it more than his daughter.
I wonder why? What’s Mr Finance Minister’s plan?
As we exited their home, Prathap Gowda told me his daughter would be at her office in Kempe Crown by 8 a.m. and if that hour suited me, I could see her then. I turned to tell Aaditha I would be at her office by 8.30, but her back was to me. She was in conversation with her mother.
The time, so early in the AM for a meeting, took me by surprise, but it suited me. I could leave for Ranibagh immediately after.
I sleep through the rest of the evening. It is past 9 p.m. when I wake up.
My phone tells me more accounts have copied/reposted the TittleTattle pictures.
Their Instagram handle, @TittleTattle, has more pictures of ‘the Ranibagh Royals’ getting off the airplane.
Someone even has a picture of our jet arriving in Bengaluru, but I can’t tell if it is Bengaluru or even if it is this morning’s photograph.
Ratan arranges for private dining. I have barely eaten today, and my stomach is rumbling.
I pull on jeans and a freshly ironed black dress shirt and head for the elevator.
The elevator opens into a dimly lit corridor that separates the living quarters from the rest of the property.
At the end of the passage is a brightly lit foyer.
I’m getting my bearings slowly. It is a large, open space over which a chandelier hangs low.
There are quite a few people milling around, given that it’s a Monday evening.
I decide against stepping out for dinner and retreat. Ratan has the doors open and is waiting for me. I spot Aaditha just as I pull back; she has seen me, too. I curse under my breath and walk out of the elevator.
What is she doing here? She can’t be working this late. Even if the flood of vitriol on social media isn’t the full truth, this is way past the school bell. Especially if your workday began at 8 a.m.!
As I make my way towards her, I realize that Aaditha hadn’t seen me earlier. Her rear is facing me now. Whoever it is she is with, a statuesque lady, identifies me.
I recognize Aaditha because of her hair, straight and heavy, a fall of ebony, which she has drawn in a heap over her left shoulder. Just like she did earlier in the day when we were done with the photographs.
The friend sounds her out. Aaditha turns to face me, wearing a recharged smile.
I see that she has changed from her traditional attire.
She’s wearing ripped jeans and a bustier blouse.
A large handbag hangs from her shoulder, and a black wrap is draped on her arm.
She appears taller than she did in the morning.
I couldn’t tell earlier because of the situation, but now that we are face to face in a more relaxed setting, she looks nothing like in the antediluvian photos doing the rounds on social media.
That’s the problem with an anaemic digital footprint; it can give wrong first impressions.
Not that Aaditha cares; if she did, she’d change it!
Aaditha’s gaze shifts to the residential quarters behind me. She doesn’t know I’m staying here.
The person she is with looks familiar. I might’ve crossed her on social media, or she could be someone known. I didn’t have a name for her, though.
‘Aaditha,’ I say.
She’s giggling; it’s a soft, bubbly sound, but it doesn’t stop until she finally says, ‘Maaaan! The way you say my name.’ More tee-hee follows before she sings, ‘Aahdeethhhaaa.’
I’m embarrassed, and I apologize quickly. Only I don’t know which part of her name I have mispronounced.
‘Aaditha,’ she says, stretching out her hand, ‘nice to meet you.’
‘Aaditha,’ I repeat with a prayer, ‘likewise.’
She nods. I exhale.
‘You didn’t tell me you’re staying here.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
A late evening breeze sweeps across the slowly filling foyer; the decibel level climbs each time a car appears on the circular driveway. It is beginning to feel crowded.
She points at my wrist. ‘You have rolled up your sleeves,’ she is saying, following it up with a rush of tee-hees.
‘Hello,’ her friend says, introducing herself as Lavanya Patil.
‘Vedveer.’
‘Sorry! I forgot!’ Aaditha says gayly.
The name is familiar, but I can’t tell who exactly Lavanya Patil is.
Aaditha opens her palm and stretches her fingers and rolls them back in. She was flexing her palm in the morning, too. Is she injured? Is this physio?
A horn blares, out of tune on a quiet night, and Aaditha steps back involuntarily. She’s under the chandelier, and that’s when I notice her eyes. They are glazed, as are her friend’s. They have obviously enjoyed their drinks.
I turn to Aaditha. Her lips are quivering. Is she cold?
‘Are you cold?’ I ask.
‘Have you had drinks?’ she asks.
I take the wrap from her arm and drape it around her shoulders. She is cold.
‘Chivalrous!’ Lavanya says.
‘I forgot I had it with me,’ Aaditha coos, her hand going up to her head and massaging it lightly.
I’m beginning to feel the crowd around me.
‘Have you ladies had dinner?’
Aaditha throws her arms up and laughs. ‘All done,’ she says.
‘Are you here for coffee?’ she asks.
Whatever it is Aaditha Prathap and Lavanya Patil knocked back this evening, it has triggered a memory lapse while loosening tongues.
‘Dinner,’ I say, pointing randomly behind her.
‘We’ll walk with you,’ Aaditha says. Lavanya Patil nods; she seems happy to play along.
As Aaditha transfers her weight to one leg, her jeans ride up, and I notice her chunky footwear; she’s on a platform, literally. ‘You’re giving me a complex,’ I say as we dodge our way through the crowd.
Aaditha’s laughter is a roar.
As we move, I hear a commotion behind us. A man is shouting, ‘Sir, please, please stop.’ Aaditha tugs at my arm, and I turn to face a man madly waving his cell phone at us, asking us to stop.
‘Please, can you stand for a picture, sir, with ma’am and ma’am?’ he asks. He is addressing me, but he is no one I know.
I hold up my hand and look around for Ratan. He’s nowhere to be seen.
Aaditha slinks her arm through mine. ‘Don’t be a snob,’ she says, nudging my ribs with her elbow.
This is a whole different Aaditha Prathap, a 180-degree turn from the person I met in the morning.
We line up for a photograph. I’m at one end, and Lavanya is on the other. I inhale Aaditha’s seductive perfume; it fills my nostrils. Nodes of gardenia, or is it ylang-ylang? Jasmine, maybe?
I don’t know how many photos the man and a couple of others took before Aaditha’s phone rings. She answers and says something in Kannada that sounds like Batra idly, bartha idi.
‘Kannada?’ I ask.
‘It’s Kannada,’ she replies, laughing.
‘That’s what I said.’
Her shoulders shift. ‘“A” is not silent.’
Ratan appears miraculously and sweeps us past a ginormous doorway that shuts behind us. He is marching us towards the dining area, along the secluded passage. Once we make ground, he steps back. We’ve lost Lavanya, too, somewhere behind the giant decorative pillars we have crossed.
Aaditha and I stop simultaneously. I’m facing Aaditha, whose palms are on my arms. She’s on her toes, gripping me hard; I feel her nails through my shirt.
I’m drinking her scent; it’s definitely jasmine.
I lower my head just as she reaches up and brushes her lips against mine, back and forth, her hips shifting against my crotch.
She is looking at me now, smiling, admiring her handiwork perhaps.
Her hands are still on my arms, digging deeper into me; her eyes are speaking a language I’m unsure if I should decipher.
I hear my groan as I wrap my hands around her back, my fingers knotted in the silken strands of her hair. I claim her lips in a kiss.
It is slow at first, lazy strokes, our mouths tasting each other’s spaces.
Then the urgency grows with the little sounds coming out of us.
We are each lost in the depths of the other, going hard and reaching for more.
She exhales, and I inhale her breath. My legs part, and I pull her into me.
We are hanging onto each other, unaware of the seconds that have swollen into minutes.
When I open my eyes, my lashes fan her face, tickling her. Aaditha opens her eyes and blinks.
I break the moment and step back, my heart thumping in a manner it had no business to. Aaditha’s smile is luminous.
‘You’ve had dessert before dinner, Your Highness,’ she says.