Chapter 6 Vedveer - Delhi Darbar #2
She is looking at me. I nod.
‘I couldn’t get over the interiors. Did you spot a curio even?’
Father laughs.
‘Also, her dressing, very plain, like the walls of her home,’ Mother says.
I didn’t want to counter because that would take this conversation out of orbit.
Aaditha’s style is understated; it goes well with her personality, which is powerful.
Her apparelling is straight and simple, even on a night out with her friend at Kempe Crown. Not the ripped jeans, though, which is more rebel schoolgirl than pathbreaking CEO. Her lips were glossed but shorn of colour. Lush and 2× lovely.
‘I dropped by only to check if you’re here,’ Mother is telling her husband. ‘I’ll be back.’ She pats his hand, and he takes hers to his lips.
I let the room settle.
‘I’m here to talk about our land, Father,’ I say after Mother’s perfume follows her out of her husband’s study. ‘It’s high time we start farming on the acreage that has been wasting away for decades.’
I got on a call with a friend of my grandfather – Prakash Chandra, the last word on organic farming. The octogenarian had visited us for the last time before Grandfather’s health took a turn for the worse in the late 90s.
Prakash Chandra advised that while organic farming afforded sustainable growth, it is only in the long run that it would pay.
For now, while it would improve soil structure, water retention and nutrient content, it would send the budget through the roof.
Especially given the expanse we are looking at.
The good thing about Father is that he didn’t pretend to be anything he isn’t.
Titled and entitled. He takes care of his people and hopes that they take care of the land that is assigned to them.
He’s never out in the fields or where the action is; he goes by all that is listed when the accounts come to him at the end of the week.
As for the estates that are wasting away, he doesn’t even want to look at those because that might mean accepting their existence.
The reigning monarch is generous and much loved among staff and tenants.
He has little or no expectations from them.
‘I’ve been speaking to Prakash Chandra.’
His expression tightens at the mention of the name. ‘The nonsense the old man fills your head with. He is senile. He chews on every piece of leaf he can lay his hands on. What do you expect?!’
‘Not leaves, Father, medicinal herbs,’ I say. ‘He is a little slow these days, maybe, but far from senile.’
Hope barks; it is a high-pitched sound, and a second later, Holiday joins in.
Father leans forward; his feet are on the floor, and his elbows rest on his knees. His back is bent. He stays in that position for some time.
‘You have some thinking to do,’ he says, straightening his back and tapping the cashmere beside him. ‘Think about the proposal and weigh it all.’
A lot of decisions have been made in this room in the horizontal. Legend has it that I was conceived on this very chaise. Might’ve been an uncomfortable exercise.
‘Veer!’ Father calls.
I hear the desperation in his voice; it drags and bounces off the walls. He is faced with a mountain of a problem. His only son, his heir, is going crazy over organic farming.
‘She’s a lovely girl.’
And just like that, we are back to discussing Aaditha. The door to the study opens, and a valet walks in with Father’s pre-prandial whisky.
I push myself up from the chaise and walk up to an ornate mirror that breaks the layout of a stack of books.
I stand there for some time before returning to the chaise, which is vacant now.
I pick up my phone and unconsciously hit on Instagram and start scrolling.
There are a tonne of pictures and reels of Navya and her beau; there’s growing anticipation of a wedding announcement.
I keep scrolling, ignoring the bulk of the reels, until I see Aaditha in one of them.
She’s attacking a plate of fries; this is a recent take. She is at a nightclub in Mumbai. It is an unfair clip, and the comments are worse.
She’s so fat.
Aloo jaisi.
Rich father, no manners or culture.
Look at her eating.
Eating job she has.
Money to spend.
Bonda hai!
Spoilt rich girl. I feel sad for her.
Suddenly, there are more photographs and reels of Aaditha, a medley that includes old pictures, accompanied by various Bollywood soundtracks. The uncropped image of us on that January night has also surfaced.
I go back to that particular picture and hit on the comments. There are quite a few vile ones, but there are an equal number suggesting something is brewing, and pinning my visit to the city to Aaditha.
I go to TittleTattle and stop at the photograph of Aaditha and the mystery man. If the piece is anything to go by, this meeting took place the same day we met.
I’m breathing hard. It bothers me that I couldn’t pin down Aaditha Prathap.
Who is she: CEO or nepo baby? Single or attached? I try to regulate my breathing. It shouldn’t really matter who she is. I’m looking to put an end to this shoddily scripted charade. I should have done it ten days ago, but I was distracted by the exchange of the previous evening.
Father clears his throat to get my attention. ‘Since it’s all out there now,’ he says softly, ‘you and Aaditha and photographs of your late-evening outing, why don’t you invite her to next weekend’s polo match when we play the Rest?’
What is he saying?
The polo match is an annual palace event, where the Royals take on the Rest. It is a Jaipur tradition, a marked date in society circles.
It is when every known face in the country descends on our city.
On second thought, it might actually be a good idea to have Aaditha in the same cloud space; it gives us a chance to talk face to face.
‘Not next weekend; it’s in two weeks’ time, Father.’
‘Even better!’ he says, bringing his hands together in a loud clap. Rajkumar, who is dozing on his feet, opens his eyes in a startled reaction.
‘We should invite the whole family,’ Father adds.
I nod. It’s unlikely that she’d come alone.
This is an opening for me to find out who the real Aaditha is.
Is she the woman I met at her house – self-assured, composed, every bit the business head her father would have us believe?
Or the Aaditha I ran into in the colonnade, the one who knew exactly how to kiss a man back so completely that I can’t get her out of my head even weeks later?
Or maybe she’s the Aaditha of the morning after, nervous, unsteady, like a stage performer who has forgotten her lines, who then goes out for coffee with Romeo, which she promptly advertises.
‘I’ll call Prathap Gowdaji right away, and Mother would like to spend time with…’
‘Neela,’ I offer. ‘Her mother’s name is Neela.’
‘Yes! Mrs Neela Gowda,’ he says, before raising his voice and adding, ‘The day after the match, the palace will release a wedding announcement. All these photographs circulating without context aren’t good for anyone. We have to keep Aaditha’s reputation in mind; she’s a young girl.’
‘Maybe inviting her to the polo match isn’t such a good idea,’ I wonder aloud.
‘Why?’ Father asks, his brow crinkling.
‘Having Aaditha at Ranibagh will stir unnecessary media speculation.’
Father is staring at me and nodding like he gets the point I am making. But is he?
The Gowdas at the polo game, if anything, will confirm the relationship, after which the palace will be hounded for interviews.
The traditional interview of the newly engaged couple done by the national broadcasters will be next on the agenda.
We don’t need this attention, not Aaditha or I, not now.