Chapter 7 Aaditha - Not the Mint! #3
The early chukkers are exciting in terms of action, though Vedveer doesn’t appear to be in the thick of it.
Even an amateur could call that. Gauri Elena can’t help herself, spouting gobbledegook in my ears.
It takes me a bit to get into the match, the sound of hooves thundering across the field, mallets meeting, and the crowd erupting in waves of excitement that hinge on the primordial.
The Royals strike first, scoring within the first five minutes. The Rest recover quickly and counter with successive goals. By the end of the third chukker, the score is 4–3 in favour of the Rest.
The sun is warmer than when we arrived, and the helmets the players wear are not helping.
Sweat trickles down Vedveer’s flushed face; his red shirt clings to his sweat-soaked frame.
I take deep breaths and remind myself not to get too involved in the action. I don’t need my face, with its range of comic expressions, to add to the entertainment.
It is a challenge, however, to stay out of it in the fifth chukker as Vedveer gets into the thick of play.
The crowd is on its feet, egging him on with shouts of ‘Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj! Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj!’ bouncing off the Aravallis.
He strikes once, and a couple of minutes later, he latches on to a pass from a teammate. As he manoeuvres his pony to get into position near the goal, Gauri Elena’s fingers sink into my forearm. In the next second, Vedveer sends the ball sailing through the goalposts, sealing the match.
Meanwhile, I try to shake my hand, which is bruising badly.
Chants of ‘Caaaaapppttttaaaaan!’ echo across the grounds.
Joyous scenes break out all over, with players congratulating each other, shaking hands and tapping helmets.
‘Oh, dear,’ Gauri Elena says, her eyes wide in horror, looking at the nail art she has left on my skin.
I’m breathing hard.
‘I’m so sorry. I got carried away.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I say, summoning a smile I didn’t know existed in my reserves. ‘Great work!’ I add, looking at the field.
A section of the crowd are out of their seats and almost on the field, celebrating the victorious Royals. Gauri Elena is also on her feet; so are Amma and Alia. I climb out of my chair hurriedly and start clapping (because everyone else is).
The winning team ride their ponies together, doing a slow victory pass, with Vedveer, their captain, leading the way.
‘There is going to be a prize distribution ceremony,’ Gauri Elena leans into me and says while looking adoringly at her son. ‘I will be handing the Rathore Challenge Cup to Vedveer again. The Royals haven’t lost since Vedveer started playing for them when he was just eighteen.’
Gauri Elena’s cheeks are blush pink. ‘You have to join me now,’ she says. ‘We’ll walk to the middle. Next year, you can do the honours.’
I exhale. Next year I won’t be anywhere near here.
I follow Gauri Elena to the dais for the presentation ceremony. I hear wild cheering from one end of the ground, shouts, screams and a lot of noise, but I don’t lift my head. My eyes are on the turf I cover step by dainty step. The last thing I need is to go headlong and embrace the grass.
Vedveer walks towards the dais as the announcements are being made.
‘Mother,’ he says as he leans over and places a kiss on her cheek. She reaches up and presses her lips on his forehead and hands him the trophy.
Vedveer steps aside and faces me; our eyes lock for a moment before he lowers himself and brushes a kiss on my cheek. I hold myself still, inhaling his scent. He smells of energy.
‘Thank you, everyone, for joining us today,’ Vedveer says, pointing the trophy at the spectators, who are still cheering lustily.
‘Rest, you absolute legends, you pushed us to bring our best game. Great show, guys! Royals, I wasn’t sure how today would go, but you rose to the occasion and made this victory possible.
Let’s celebrate before we remember how sore we are going to be tomorrow,’ he finishes with a laugh.
There’s a general rush of activity soon after the prize distribution. The crowd begins to move in, looking to be a part of the celebration, while the staff swiftly clears the ground. A teammate relieves Vedveer of the trophy, and Gauri Elena drifts towards the society folk.
Vedveer reaches out for me, his hand finding my elbow, motioning me to walk with him.
‘You look lovely,’ Vedveer says. I feel his breath on my neck and the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
‘Aren’t you wet?’ I shout out above the noise. What am I saying? What am I saying?
Vedveer lets out a chuckle.
‘I mean, aren’t you sweating? You are definitely sweating.’ I’m out of control.
Vedveer smiles. ‘The sun is out. I was playing. It happens.’
I nod, letting the rush of words that escaped my mouth settle on the grass around us.
You are hot, and no, the weather has nothing to do with it, I think as we stand facing each other.
His arms are folded across his chest, legs parted in an easy, open stance.
The red tee, sweat-stained and heavy, hangs on him, while the breeches cling low at his waist, drawing the eye. The riding boots pull it all together.
Vedveer’s gaze travels slowly over me before settling on my eyes. We snap out of the moment when his palm cups my elbow, coaxing me away from the others.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Vedveer says. ‘I’m not sure if sport or polo is your thing, and I hope you weren’t bored!’
‘You are welcome,’ I grin, my eyes meeting his, ‘but don’t expect me to start wearing your jersey!’
‘Fair enough, for the moment! But someday? Is that too much to hope?’
‘Don’t push your luck, Captain!’
Vedveer feigns dismay, his lips dipping in a pout.
‘The mint with a hole is suing, copyright infringement and all,’ I say.
Vedveer’s head tips back, laughter bursting from him. A little behind, Jaipur’s late afternoon sun hangs.
Hmm… God must look like this.
‘We’ll have our legal team look into it,’ he says.
Vedveer’s eyes are like the sea, which changes colours with the seasons. Or reasons.
‘The match-winning goal was fantastic,’ I say. I’m laughing hysterically now.
‘You had fun?’ he asks. The light in his eyes is soft.
I’m opening and closing my right palm.
‘Why do you do that?’ he asks, reaching for my hand hesitantly and then looking at my palm as if he were reading it.
My palm curls and flexes on its own whenever I’m nervous, but that’s not something I’m going to enlighten Vedveer about.
His eyes drift up my forearm, where the marks his mother’s nails left on me are still visible.
‘What’s this?’ he asks, his gaze sharpening.
‘Your mother was… very nervous,’ I say lightly.
‘No. That’s ridiculous.’ His voice tightens, and his eyes darken. He presses his fingers gently against the marks.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘Not now,’ I say, offering a smile. ‘It’s fine, Vedveer. I am fine.’
My stomach lurches, and my heart is beating erratically.
‘Are you staying the night?’ he asks.
I shake my head. We aren’t staying.
‘We need to talk, you and I,’ he says. ‘There is going to be a wedding announcement soon.’
And just like that, the champagne fizz is lost. Another announcement? I rock back on my pointed footwear.
Vedveer’s hand is firm on my elbow.
‘Whose wedding?’ I ask.
‘Ours,’ he says, ‘yours and mine.’
I hear the silence. It’s banging on my eardrums.
‘Excuse me?’
He nods once. Barely. ‘Tomorrow, or the day after, the palace will make the announcement.’
This is a hostage situation! ‘Why?’
Vedveer exhales.
‘We both knew this was coming,’ he says. His shoulders drop to a resigned slant.
‘I knew they’d push; I didn’t know you’d fold,’ I say.
Vedveer doesn’t answer. I hear the rattle of his breath.
‘So that’s it?’ I ask, leaning into him. ‘No conversation? No choice? Just… congratulations, Your Highness, you’re now engaged to someone you barely know?’
His eyes are locked on mine as he steps closer. Too close.
‘Is that what you’re angry about?’ he asks. ‘That I barely know you?’
I stare at Vedveer like I’m seeing him for the first time.
Vedveer and I are not and never will be a couple. This mighty palace, these great grounds, this antiquated sport he excels in are so far from my world that we may as well be living on different planets.
I excuse myself from Vedveer as his friends gather around him; my fingers linger on his arm a touch longer than would pass as cordial. I break from the crowd and walk towards the restrooms. I need a moment.
I head to the last stall of an empty restroom, bolt the door and click on Instagram. There are loads of pictures of Vedveer atop a chestnut pony. Photographic evidence that he can exist without female accompaniment!
I hit the message icon to start a conversation with Lavanya.
Me: They introduced me as the ‘princess to be’. Can you imagine?!
A chat bubble pops. Lavanya is writing. Amen.
Lovey: What?
Me: So VRS tells me the palace will make the wedding announcement soon. As in the next day or two.
Lovey: What? Why is everything moving at such a dizzying pace?
Me: I don’t think VRS is interested in this alliance, but I don’t think he’s doing anything to back out.
Lovey: Why do you say that?
Me: I tried to push him to take a stand, but he somehow seems reluctant.
Lovey: Hmm… That doesn’t mean he’s not interested. Listen, I think you guys did kiss.
Me: Maybe we did. But how can I have no recollection of it?
Lovey: Where are you?
Me: In the ladies’ room, sitting on the throne and messaging you. Anyway, laters. I think I have company!
I hear voices, hushed words and laughter. It is getting closer.
I look down to check if the door is full length when I notice the flooring; it is eye-catching, white and gold vitrified tiles with a streak of indigo running through it.
‘Ozempic, you think?’ Speaker A is saying. ‘I read a comment from a post, quote, “She is onto something; no one changes so much in such a short time.” Maybe surgery to woo the prince, who can have any woman.’
That’s when I decide not to walk out.
Speaker B: ‘Possible. This is not how she looked even a few months ago. I’m tempted to say weeks. She generally wears really funny clothes. Auntyji-type clothing.’
Speaker A: ‘What she’s wearing today is decent, though. How old do you think she is?’
Speaker C (male voice): ‘Thirty–thirty-five maybe; she looks that.’
Did I wander into a common restroom?
Speaker B: ‘Must’ve bought it today.’
Speaker B: ‘Wait a minute, who is the chaperone? 1970s streetwear fashion!’
Giggles and laughter.
Speaker C: ‘So out of place for a polo match.’
Speaker A: ‘The other two were her mother and sister. Not one of them was wearing hats. It’s like they googled what to wear for a polo match and forgot to buy hats from the Bengaluru market!’
More mean-people laughs.
Speaker C: ‘In that Instagram pic where she’s all into him, she looks about the same size. Maybe she cleaned up in time for him. Her dad is new money, and she’s the face of the café chain.’
Speaker B: ‘Does she grow the beans?’
Right at that moment, my music app comes alive. Justin Bieber is singing, ‘You think I’m crying on my own, well I ain’t…’
I let Bieber run for a bit before I open the door and walk out to a trio of frozen faces.
Tiffany Govind, a supermodel, dark-haired, light-eyed, with legs that run for miles, is leaning against the sink.
She is wearing a body-hugging dress. Standing beside Tiffany in a pale pink ensemble is Kavya Aulakh, heir to Aulakh Steel.
She is Speaker A. Speaker C is Aroon Pai, a notorious cross-dresser with a raspy voice.
I now know the society crowd, thanks to social media and Vedveer.
‘Cosmetic surgery, ah? Not that important. Also, people, Ozempic is last season,’ I say before turning to face Aroon Pai. ‘Women tearing down women – tiring. Men chiming in – embarrassing.’
I’m seething. Things are exploding in my head, and my feet are barely moving. I purposely did not bring up Amma and Akka; we are so above this shoddy lot.
This is precisely why I didn’t want to be here in Jaipur, on royal territory, parading for a position I DID NOT want, dragging my family through the mud in the bargain. We don’t need this. I’m more determined than ever to push Vedveer to break it off.
Next year, there will be a different ‘princess-to-be’ at the Rathore Challenge Cup.