Chapter 5 Aaditha - What Happened Last Evening?
Aaditha
What Happened Last Evening?
My head is so heavy, I’m having difficulty keeping it straight. I look at the clock on my office desk sideways.
There is a good twenty minutes to go before Vedveer Rathore Singh comes knocking. The Rathores were punctual yesterday, but that could be because of the parents.
I pull out my phone to message Lavanya.
We had a bottle each of some ridiculously expensive red last evening. Lavanya’s idea of a celebration after I tell her the prince is just as uninterested in this archaic match as I am.
The elitist snob, who spent most of the hour at our place pretending I didn’t exist, condescended to throw an arm around me for the photograph. Not that he had a choice; the photographer was practically begging. ‘Please, sir, Aaditha Maydam, come close.’
Lavanya and I said cheers to jailbreak.
In the next hour or so, the prince and I will put finishing touches to our hitherto unspoken plan before he does the good deed for the day and calls off this roka.
Lovey: It was nice running into VRS last evening.
ME: Easier to bury the body now!
Lovey: What body? You were giggling away with him last evening! You’ll make a handsome couple BTW!
ME: Savage! I must’ve laughed once or twice. I had to be cool. We just bumped into him.
Lovey: Right. Maybe I was high and seeing things, but I thought you guys smooched.
ME: Have you been drinking again this morning, Lavanya Patil? No more than half a bottle for you next time!
Lovey:
ME: We must’ve air-kissed! Get serious! What were you doing when we were smooching? Standing and watching? Weren’t you and I together the whole evening?
Lovey: There’s an image in my head of the two of you full-on kissing! You think I dreamt it?
ME: Obviously!
My hands tremble as I slip my phone into my tote.
I kissed Vedveer? I?
My fingers are on my lips; they feel fuller this morning. My heart is racing, and the room is turning. It cannot be true. Lavanya’s fertile imagination has conjured this scene.
I look at my watch; there are a few minutes to go for the half-hour. I dig out my phone, hit on Instagram and start scrolling.
I don’t have to scroll far; there it is. A photo of Vedveer and I.
Our hands are linked. Just like yesterday, during that impromptu photo session at home. Only, this time, I’m leaning into him, wearing ripped jeans and a bustier, with my wrap carelessly thrown on top. I’m smiling. Smiling.
Vedveer stands still, face unreadable.
Lavanya’s in the frame, too, but she’s cropped badly.
My heart takes off. Not racing, bolting.
What is this? How did this happen?
I can feel the breath rush out of me like I’ve been punched.
Did Vedveer ask me to pose for this?
Did I just… instinctively link my hand with his?
Who took this?
Did Vedveer have this photograph posted?
Did he mean for it to look like this?
A handle called @cholethings posted the picture; the profile pic is a plate of chole.
I’m opening and closing my palm between patting my chest, trying to calm myself down. Okay, I pose for a picture with Vedveer. That doesn’t mean anything. Most definitely doesn’t mean we smooched!
So, what exactly happened? The social media timeline?
The Rathores announced their arrival in Bengaluru in that gossip rag TittleTattle. Fortunately, they left me out of that little skit I saw that last evening before Lavanya and I headed out.
Question: Why were the popinjays (read Royals) in Bengaluru?
Answer: Dialling tech support.
I’m gagging as I troll TittleTattle in my head. Absolute scandal sheet, that! Royals this and royals that! People have names for a reason; use them.
My head is a chaotic mess. Why can’t I remember what happened last evening? I know we ran into Vedveer, we chatted some, maybe… What time was I home? I wasn’t late. I had a full night’s sleep!
When I walk through the café to my office a little after 8 a.m., I notice some of the staff is particularly chatty. Smiles everywhere. They may have seen the photograph, and now they will see Vedveer when he walks in.
F@#k! F@#k! F@#k!
A gentle knock cuts through my panic-heightened state.
Vedveer is at the door; he is wearing a broad smile. I try to return it, but I can’t go beyond a twitch. Why is he smiling? He hadn’t smiled a whole lot yesterday when he visited with his parents. He nodded for some before massacring my name.
Vedveer pauses, assimilating the space before him. My gaze shifts to his gait as he moves; it is a slow, almost lazy step.
The collar of the button-up shirt is open. Navy flannel on grey denims and suede shoes. In the photograph, he’s wearing a black shirt on blue jeans, but that could just be a colour tint. Navy/black, grey/blue. Who carries that many clothes for an overnight trip? I assume he leaves today.
I type on an already open email on my desktop; it is addressed to me. I complete the unfinished sentence and press send. I needed time to compose my appearance.
Rahman’s ‘Chhoti si Asha’ is buzzing in my ears. I tug at the AirPods and place them in their case, which I return to the drawer.
I summon that professional smile I save for customers reaching out to tell me how good my coffee is.
‘Come in,’ I say, fortunately more to myself. Vedveer is well inside the room.
His mood is a little too sunny for my liking. What happened to the man who acted swiftly in stopping his over-enthusiastic father from making a wedding announcement yesterday? He’s supposed to be my ally, not friend! My teeth sink into my lips.
I watch as his hands reach for the only other seat in the house. Vedveer pulls the winged chair back and walks around it. He stops before my desk and puts out his hand. ‘I hope you’re well rested,’ he enquires.
I nod wanly, giving him my hand.
He settles into the chair, and I push back on my Ikea wheels.
‘Tha… thank you for making time,’ I say.
Vedveer nods. He’s looking around my office, taking in the nuances, maybe.
‘You have an interesting name for your café. What’s the story behind it?’ he asks.
The question surprises me, coming from him, at this juncture of getting to know each other, but if there’s one thing that calms me down, it is talking about my caffeinated chain.
I exhale.
‘I think of books and bras as support staff,’ I say. I laugh sometimes when I put it that way, but not today. It’s a conscious decision.
My eyes are on Vedveer. I can see he’s listening.
‘I’m not alone in feeling this way. The second B, the bra, isn’t spoken about or referred to freely. I want to put it out there in a public space, on a nameboard. Bra. I want girls and women in every section of society to say the word boldly, without being forced to blush.’
They can choose to blush, but that’s a different thing entirely.
Vedveer nods. I feel the weight of his gaze on my cheeks.
‘It helps that my sister has the talent to hold that part of my brand up.’
‘She’s a designer?’ His brow doesn’t shoot up. Just a slight shift of muscle on his forehead, suggesting he’s curious.
‘Alia sourced pieces for us initially; now she’s assembling them.’
Vedveer is quiet for a while. He seems comfortable in the silence, but I feel it.
‘You are staying here?’ I ask.
Vedveer is taken aback. I asked him the same question last evening. I can read it on his face.
He nods. ‘Pruh-thaapji,’ he breathes out, ‘recommended it.’
I want to plead with him never to use Appa’s name around me unless he learns how to pronounce it. It’s a simple name, not some polysyllabic crime story.
Ra-Tho-Ray is ringing in my ears.
I pick up the intercom. ‘Coffee?’ I ask.
There’s a knock on the door, and it opens immediately. Rachael, one of our older staff, is all smiles, carrying an elaborate floral arrangement – white lilies and red roses.
I’m trying to make sense of what is happening, when Vedveer turns to face Rachael, who looks dotingly at the prince.
Is Vedveer sending me red roses?
‘This has just been delivered for you, ma’am,’ Rachael says. Her eyes are on Vedveer, who now looks at the book rack before him.
‘Who sent it?’ I ask. I’m not shrieking, thankfully!
‘The sender is anonymous, ma’am,’ Rachael says, placing the vase on the long side table.
Rachael exits my office, shutting the door behind her, but I’m still agape mentally, trying desperately not to show it.
It has got to be Vedveer. Who else would send me red roses this morning?
Vedveer’s eyes are still on my book rack. I hope he’s not encouraged by Indra Nooyi’s My Life in Full: Work, Family, and Our Future.
I pick up the intercom again and cough to get his attention. ‘Coffee?’
‘Of course! Coffee!’ he says, smiling brightly.
‘Cappuccino?’
He nods.
‘Breakfast?’
‘I don’t eat breakfast.’
His Royal Highness probably only surfaces at noon.
I want to put this out there: I didn’t ask for an early AM meeting to inconvenience VRS, though that would’ve been a sweet touch. The only reason I told Appa that I’m at work at 8 a.m. is because I wanted to get this over with at the earliest so that I could get on with my day.
Appa, whose day begins at 4.30 a.m., didn’t think the hour unreasonable. He is several filter coffees down by then.
I turn to my right and face the only window in the room. The blinds are down. They are always down; that’s how I like it.
My eyes shift to the flowers. Who is this anonymous sender?
Was Lavanya serious about Vedveer and me kissing last evening?
Is Lavanya pranking me?
Butterflies are flying free in my stomach.
‘Do you write code? For a lark?’ I ask Vedveer. There’s a plan the both of us need to hammer out. I haven’t forgotten.
Vedveer stops smiling, and his forehead scrunches into folds.
‘I studied environmental science and engineering,’ he says. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Atmospheric chemistry.’
What the hell.
I bury my face in my hands and let out a laugh, loud and slightly hysterical.
Environmental science?
That word didn’t even register when my parents first mentioned VRS two weeks ago. I must have tuned it out.
Vedveer’s eyes wander to the flowers.