Chapter 7 Aaditha - Not the Mint! #2
Vedveer has had his share of women. The one he is most often seen with is Kairi Gaur, who is of a noble lineage from the region.
He has been photographed with her multiple times at events all over the country, at Bollywood parties, movie premiers and Delhi society dos.
She on his arm, his arm around her waist. There are shots of them holding hands, firmly, hers in his, which to me is a clue, not if people hold hands but the way couples hold hands.
There’s a difference when it’s a declaration.
My pulse is racing. Why should it matter when and where Vedveer is photographed with Miss Whoever? It has nothing to do with me. I only have to push that button that will force him to bow out of this ridiculous act.
‘This is Aahhdithhhaa,’ Gauri Elena is saying, lending to the carnage of my name. ‘This is her sister, Alia, and Mrs Neela Gaaaudaa.’
‘How pretty you are, wearing a sari,’ someone is telling Amma, pointing at her drape, like Amma doesn’t know what she’s wearing. The voice is squeaky and over the top in decibels.
I can tell Gauri Elena is the only one from her family in this space. Her husband has excused himself, and the daughter is travelling with her beau; the son will be on a horse in less than an hour, trying to score.
The hall is huge; it could probably take in a city.
I look around me. This is the by-invitation crowd, I gather, and there are some five hundred people.
The seating is banquet style, and above every table, a rose gold circular ring lighting drops.
The rear wall is laden with photo frames of what look like polo games through the ages.
At one end of the floor is a bar. Servers in black and white are carrying trays of champagne glasses.
‘You should sit with me and watch the game,’ Gauri Elena tells me, her hand on my wrist. ‘I will be right by you; we’ll have a good time together.’
My heart is thudding erratically. Where is she watching the game from? Unlikely that it is from the privacy of her chambers.
I made it clear to Appa that I’m uncomfortable watching the game in person with dozens of paparazzi cameras pointed at me. I didn’t want my anxiety to be turned into a public spectacle.
This was the condition I set before agreeing to make the trip. I’m barely here, and we are already negotiating. I feel Alia’s grip firm on my elbow. I read her gesture.
‘Come, come now, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Gauri Elena presses.
I nod. What else can I do? If I stand my ground, I’ll be called dramatic. Difficult. Problematic.
I manage to give Amma and Alia the slip. I need a breather.
I head to the back of the room, my skirt swishing about my bare legs as I move away.
I pick up a glass of champagne and position myself behind a pillar.
A gulp of liquid courage hits the back of my mouth and burns my throat.
I take another gulp and feel my engines rev.
I leave the crystal on an empty serving trolley and walk away.
It is a crackling February afternoon, bathed in warm, golden light. I’m flanked by the mothers, Gauri Elena on my left and Amma on my right. Alia is on Amma’s left.
Amma looks swish in her new sunglasses. She has never been one for glares, preferring the sun directly on her face. She owned a pair once, years ago. It was rarely worn and has long since vanished. Alia brought her a trendy pair this time.
‘Sunlight is good for the eyes,’ Amma mutters but makes the effort to wear it today.
Amma is about to watch an actual match – one that doesn’t take place over the dining table or involve family scores – for the first time in her life.
I pick up a glass of champagne on my way to my seat.
Despite my best efforts to avoid the spotlight, I have ended up in the front row.
I sip my drink slowly this time. I haven’t eaten all day, but my stomach is adequately lined with anger.
I sink into my seat, disappearing behind vintage sunglasses.
So… did Vedveer and I actually kiss that evening?
It’s the fan’s photo that’s throwing me into an existential crisis.
I mean, did a kiss actually happen? Why am I leaning in like that? Why do I look so weirdly comfortable with him?
Maybe he pulled me closer. Or maybe I was just being my usual overly agreeable self.
Angles are deceptive – they can turn fleeting moments into stories that never happened.
Amma leans into me to tell me I’m twisting my lips. My hand moves to cover my mouth instinctively. As I pull it away, I notice nude lipstick on my palm.
Since when has Amma started paying so much attention to me? Most of the time, I’m the adult in the relationship.
‘Alia told me,’ Amma says. I glare at Alia, who shoots me an angelic smile.
Umm… excuse me, what?
‘Are you comfortable?’ I ask Amma.
‘No!’ she says. ‘I’m here only because we couldn’t send you girls alone.’
I nod, blinking back tears. My emotions are riding the roller coaster, fuelled by expensive champagne. I’m the reason for Amma’s disquiet.
I watched a recording of some polo match last evening to prepare myself; ten minutes was all I could take.
My eyes are on the players on the other side of the grass pitch now, tracking the red shirts. I can’t tell which of them is Vedveer. I look for the tallest man on horseback, but from the distance at which I’m seated, height isn’t easily distinguishable.
I don’t even know why I’m looking for him. The reason I’m in Jaipur is to finish a conversation we left hanging two weeks ago.
The sound from the microphone blasts across the grounds. I turn a deaf ear to it until I hear my name. ‘Aaditha Prathap, Ranibagh’s princess-to-be, is in the audience this afternoon.’
Wait! WHAT just happened?
The champagne turns in my head, and the colour rushes to my cheeks.
Photographers from every nook of this sprawling space turn their lenses at me.
In the last weeks, my popularity has grown to such an extent, I can hardly recognize myself.
Gauri Elena looks at me from under her wide-brim raffia hat. She is smiling, but it is clear from the slightest shift of her brow that emerges from behind her shades that the announcement has surprised her.
I’m breathing hard. I taste the moisture that lines my upper lip.
Amma’s eyes crinkle the way they do when she’s pleased, Alia is beaming, and Gauri Elena puts a comforting hand on me.
There are gasps in the audience, audible sighs. I feel eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head. Is that a wail I hear? Some princess wannabe?
‘Watch where you’re going?’ That’s a shriek from somewhere behind me. A clatter, then silence, the shatter of glass hitting the floor. ‘You’ve ruined my dress!’
Do I get up and see if everyone’s okay, or do I just sit tight, given that an announcement has blown my brains? And maybe that of a few others, too!
Gauri Elena turns to her right and summons her wingman. He’s swiftly dispatched to take care of whatever it is that is happening in the rear of the tent.
There’s a roar as the teams – one in red tees and khaki breeches and the other wearing navy on white – take the field. Gauri Elena claps, and I join her in the genteel exercise.
I’m careful not to contort my face, or worse, bite my lip like I sometimes do when watching a cheesy romcom.
Vedveer leaps into my vision; he cuts a regal frame on horseback.
My eyes cover his length, the width of his shoulders, pausing at his ripped arms. He stops for a moment and looks my way. His lips widen slightly in a hint of a smile, as if to say thanks for coming, for watching.
Is it just my imagination, the smile bit?
Okay. No. No feelings! My throat is tight, and I exhale a rough gruff.
Gauri Elena turns to see how I’m doing. She has caught the exchange between her son and me. I try to smile but manage a nod. This is exactly why I didn’t want to be seated here, before all of Rajasthan. If that wasn’t enough, they even had an announcer introduce me as the ‘princess-to-be’.
They might as well have fed me to the paps with complimentary champagne!
I pick up my glass; it has been replenished.
I need to message Lavanya, but nobody in the row I’m seated in is fiddling with phones.
In the other dome-shaped enclosures that flank ours, almost everyone is recording the action.
There’s something else I notice about the other guests as my eyes search the stretches, first on our right, then to the left.
My stomach plunges, taking my heart along with it.
We Prathaps are the only ones without hats.
Alia asked me if she should get us hats, but I shot her down, saying, ‘We’re going to watch a polo game; we’re not invited to some cosplay party.’
I raise the binoculars briefly, catch some of the action, then drop them back into my lap. I don’t really need them. Quite a few of the guests, including Gauri Elena, used these viewing lenses that were placed on our seats, when play shifted to the far end of the field.
The setting is spectacular. The sun has cast its glow on the expanse, lined by blooming bougainvillea in shades from white to plum.
The action is swift – horses and men. It plays much faster in person than it did on my computer screen last evening, which was more of a jumbled mess, horses and riders clashing, mallets ripping through the air without making contact, more noise than play.
Gauri Elena has been in conversation for the most part with her sister-in-law, who is seated next to her. She leans into me now. I inhale her perfume for the first time. I can’t detect the notes, but it is an exotic scent. Rose and burnt wood, maybe.
‘He’s running a fever,’ she says of her son, ‘but he had committed to play the game today. Vedveer doesn’t go back on his word.’
I nod. Of course! He’s burning up, yet he’s on horseback like a hero from some Victorian novel. As if being annoying isn’t enough, he has to be heroic, too!