Chapter 7 Aaditha - Not the Mint!
Aaditha
Not the Mint!
The world is tilting around me, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
My left hand finds Alia’s right. I grip her tight. She nods; her smile is calm and steadying.
I focus on Amma; her seat faces mine. She is draped in a sap green Kanchi cotton sari, her face is bare, no expression, no make-up, and her topknot is couched in Mangaluru mallige. This is how Amma is dressed most days, save for the emerald and diamond studs and matching bangles.
I like that Amma owns who she is, right down to her clothes – no edits, no second guesses.
Alia tries to suggest a Mysore silk sari, but Amma brushes it off with a shrug.
Classic Amma. Akka is home for a couple of weeks; she has been drafted in for this affair, and she signed on with zero protest. The bright side?
We had a good time over the last few days, after the shopping stress was behind us.
Shortly after Alia’s arrival in Bengaluru, I laid out my tried-and-true pale yellow co-ord set and even presented a few backup options for her approval. She didn’t so much as glance at them. I offered a second outfit, same colour story, but that didn’t merit a look either.
Alia is the family’s style CEO. We’d love to say we aspire to her level, but it takes more commitment than we care to admit.
Amma boarded in her six yards, and Alia, who, like Amma, is lean and tall, also has her game outfit on – a belted houndstooth linen jumpsuit. She wears a diamond bracelet on her wrist and solitaires in her ears.
I changed into a candy-striped off-shoulder dress somewhere mid-air on our hired jet. Alia had chosen it – an almost knee-length chiffon number from a Mumbai designer – after several tedious telephone conversations, where she did all the talking and I was only required to nod.
It arrived two days ago, hand-delivered in a fancy box.
I blink as the doors of the Falcon 20 open.
A flood of light flushes into the jet. A strong gust tousles my hair as we head out.
I take it as a warning, pressing down the dress that is eager to float at the slightest excuse.
This is exactly why I stick to practical clothes.
Ruffles are cute until the wind picks up.
Salwar, slacks, jeans, now that’s real-world fashion.
We are greeted by a lady whose name escapes me. She apologizes that the maharani isn’t able to receive us herself. (As if! I don’t do the eyeroll.)
Three burly men in ash grey uniforms bearing the Rathore crest stand behind her. They’re apparently our security details for the polo match. Imagine that.
I force myself to take in the surroundings. The air is clean, and the sky is a lively blue. Somewhere in the distance, the Aravallis reach up majestically, merging with the expanse of azure.
A couple of Mercedes are parked a few hundred yards from us.
We are escorted to the coffee-brown Maybach limousine. My knees knock as I climb into the vanilla-hued interiors; it smells of fresh peach. I close my eyes and drop my head back. This is a little too much!
I’m a working girl; there’s a tonne of stuff piled up on my desk. But here I am, flying private, to attend a polo match! Something in my life is totally off; my kneecaps agree.
I walk into Appa’s study with nothing more than Chinese takeout on my mind when he makes the announcement. It is a completely ordinary Sunday evening.
‘We’re invited to a polo match. Our Royals side is playing the Rest.’
Our Royals side? We’ve been associated with Ranibagh for but five minutes. And polo? I’ve seen pictures and sketches of men on horseback, swinging mallets, but I didn’t know people still play it.
‘Aaditha and Alia will go to Jaipur to watch Vedveer play,’ he is telling Amma, who is nodding dutifully.
‘Vedveer is playing,’ Appa says, turning to me.
‘So?’ I ask. My mind may be swinging between flat noodles and men with mallets, but I notice Appa has not only roped in Alia but also got her on the guest list. This has been cooking for a while, obviously.
‘Why are you arguing all the time, Aashi?’ Appa asks.
‘It’s a question, Appa, not an argument. I’m allowed to ask a question.’ Even if he thinks it doesn’t merit an answer.
Some five days later, Alia arrives, big bags and bigger smiles. That’s when the weight of it all lands – hard. Until now, I was only thinking awkward conversations and uncomfortable footwear.
I accost Appa in his study later that evening, where he’s mid-conversation with Alia. She is offering him fashion advice, naturally.
‘You know I don’t enjoy watching sporting contests live. I get nervous.’ I break into their conversation. ‘The place will be swarming with photographers, trying to capture my every expression.’
‘She gets very nervous,’ Alia agrees. She’s beside me now, arranging my hair, tucking it behind my ears.
Appa nods. ‘I will let the Rathores know. You don’t have to watch it live.’
Hmm… If I don’t have to watch it live, why are we going to Jaipur? I can watch this episode of men and ponies on my phone.
‘Why are we doing this?’ I ask. ‘We’ve had no communication with them after they were here. So why are we going to some society circus we have assiduously steered clear of all these years?’
‘What communication is needed? That, too, after Vedveer and you were photographed together at a dinner party. What is there left to say?’
‘It wasn’t a dinner party, Appa!’ I come back. ‘And Vedveer has been photographed with at least a hundred different women!’
‘But he’s not marrying them! Or, you know, standing very close to all of them…’
‘Appa, you can say making out. Aaditha is not a child any more,’ Alia chimes in. She has moved away and is looking at me triumphantly.
I give her a dirty stare. ‘We were greeting each other!’ I say.
Appa clears his throat. ‘Whatever. Behave yourselves when you’re there, both of you.’
Alia is all smiles.
‘And don’t give Amma tension. She has agreed to go with you two despite my not being able to make it.’
‘This polo whatever is not important enough for you?’ I turn to Appa.
‘I’m not the one getting married, Aashi.’
No. And it’s not going to be me either.
My eyes open as the wheels slow to a crawl.
We are turning into the gates of the Ranibagh Palace.
My breath catches in my throat; it is a rough knot.
I feel my eyes widen. What is this, a township?
A whole damn planet? My gaze can’t get to the end of it; it is mightier than I could grasp, beyond anything words can hold.
Pale pink exteriors, red accents, golden sun-kissed domes, tall archways, stucco ornamentation… It climbs into the clouds.
We roll down the pathway. On my right are lush green fields edged with sparkling white canopies. The stage is set for my execution!
Little rivulets are running down my face. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that I look exactly like I do every morning after my workout, face puffed and glistening.
Amma looks like she wakes up in a palace every morning, and Alia, chic in a Ralph Lauren suit, fits the part.
My eyes are on the army of photographers who flank a short flight of stairs.
They are jostling for space behind rope barriers, and their cameras are trained on the Maybach.
I feel my body cave into the leather. My head turns to face Alia, who points at the opening car door.
A light afternoon breeze brushes against my bare legs, and my hands splay across the skirt of my dress instinctively.
The thought of pulling my sling over my face crosses my mind, but my hands are otherwise engaged.
There’s a buzz of noise all around me. People jostling, voices shouting instructions and the constant click of cameras. ‘Abhi nahi, baad mein. Photo ke liye time hoga.’
Security personnel open tall doors that lead to a huge hall, where we are greeted by Gauri Elena.
She is styled very differently from the last time I saw her.
Her rose-red, tea-length linen dress has wide arms and a long side slit.
She wears uncut rubies on her ears but nothing on her arms – no bracelets, no watch, just a lone ring catching the light.
‘I love the flowers, Neela,’ Gauri Elena tells Amma. ‘So fragrant. I wanted to tell you when we were in Bengaluru.’
‘I wish I’d known. I would’ve brought some along.’
I inhale the familiar scent of jasmine, holding on to every comforting note it offers.
‘Alia, so nice to finally meet you; you’re every bit as gorgeous as I’m told.
’ Gauri Elena embraces Alia before stepping back, her gaze fixed on my sister.
She’s taking in the details. They are about the same height.
As if 5’9” isn’t tall enough, they’re perfectly poised on stilettos.
I hang behind Amma and Alia. I’m playing for time.
‘Darling,’ Gauri Elena breathes while enveloping me in a hug. I stay in her arms longer than necessary, mostly because I don’t know what else I am supposed to do. The eyes of the room are on me; I feel it.
‘Hi,’ I say, not knowing how to address her. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
What do I call her? Aunty? She’s not my aunt. Ranisa? Gauri Elena? It is a nice enough name, an east-meets-west combination, Guntur-red chilli ravioli, but I’m not sure what the proper way to address these folks is, and I am not about to guess.
Gauri Elena takes me around the room, which has a fashion parade vibe to it, a match-mine-if-you-can bend.
As far as I can tell, there are no photographers around, not even an official one.
I find my shoulders relaxing. There are Bollywood A-listers, models, television anchors, musicians, leaders of industry and even some retired cricketers.
The ladies are mostly in dresses; there are some onesies and formal shorts.
A supermodel, whose name is at the tip of my tongue, lets her eyes roam the room.
Vedveer has been romantically linked to more than one woman in this space, something that malicious rag of a publication TittleTattle will race to confirm.