Chapter 8
Vedveer
You’ve Got Mail!
painted portraits of kings and queens line one end of the Maharaj’s Library, a section that may have served as a tea room in earlier times.
By the rectangular window that overlooks the koi pond stands a delicately carved settee.
In the centre, a deep-red Persian rug anchors the space, surrounded by an arrangement of plush seating.
I use the Maharaj’s Library more as a study, a place I retire to when there is work to be done. This morning, I’m buried in paperwork, trying to figure out what exactly it would take to convert our properties into organic land.
Raj Kiran, the valet, is at the far end of the room.
The analogue mechanics are pushing towards 10.30 a.m., and Mother and I are scheduled to meet for lunch at noon.
It is four days since the polo weekend, and Mother is yet to return to her husband.
Over lunch, we’ll inevitably rehash last weekend; Mother never bores of a story she’s already told six times. She lives for the details and has the memory of a surveillance drone.
She’s quite fond of Neela and finds Alia ‘TV-beautiful’. (Which, in Mother-speak, is high praise.)
Aaditha? Summed up in two words: book smart. According to Mother, ‘Social media hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface of Aaditha’s… let’s call it “low-visibility charm”.’
As for anyone pitching her as the face of her father’s business savvy? Mother calls that ‘a marketing tragedy’.
‘The only thing she isn’t is the face of the brand; she’s its whole and soul. The child is nowhere in the media. She gets so little credit,’ Mother says.
Raj Kiran spins around the moment the doors to the library swing open. ‘Ranisa,’ he says, stepping back and bowing.
Mother is in blue denims and a white shirt. She is carrying the morning newspaper, which she places before me.
‘Good morning, Mother.’ I’m on my feet. ‘It’s okay to knock, you know.’
‘What? I didn’t knock?’ She gives me her broadest grin, pointing at the announcement.
His Royal Highness Gaurav Rathore Singh is delighted to announce that Crown Prince Vedveer is to wed Aaditha Asha Prathap later this year at Ranibagh.
Palace Spokesperson
The Ranibagh Palace, Jaipur
A photograph of Aaditha and me, taken at the Gowda residence in Bengaluru, was dispatched along with the palace announcement last evening.
Aaditha’s middle name took me by surprise when I read the draft yesterday. At first, I thought it was a mistake, but that was not the case, obviously.
In an interview, Prathap Gowda revealed that his wife named their second daughter Asha. But their firstborn, Alia, thought the name sounded old-fashioned.
Alia had her own suggestion, Aaditha. A name she’d picked up at one of her school birthday parties and lobbied for relentlessly.
There is more of an explanation in the newspaper this morning, which details the wedding announcement.
Neela watched her husband slave, trying to make ends meet, and named her daughter Asha (hope in Hindi), with a wish that her birth would herald better days for their family.
I move away from the desk and walk to the back of the room, where my eyes find the koi pond. It is a soothing sight.
Aaditha and I couldn’t be more different.
We are polar opposites, with clashing personalities, conflicting cultures and lives shaped by separate worlds.
And yet, somehow, those worlds have collided.
I am next in line to the throne living in a modern democracy; she is the daughter of a senior politician, raised in the heart of power, fluent in its language.
It’s a rare kind of fire that burns when the world is handed to you, and still, you choose to create something that’s entirely yours. She’s probably had huge help from Prathap Gowda, but people are not buying her coffee because her father has money.
Aaditha. I say her name in my head.
Aaditha has had chances to end this, too, but hasn’t.
She says we should call it off but hasn’t acted on it. She accuses me of folding but is equally guilty of toeing the line. She even watched the polo game, sitting beside Mother, despite her father saying she gets extremely nervous and ‘didn’t want to be on display’.
There might have been some passive–aggressive coercion from the Rathores, but Aaditha could’ve stood her ground. She’s capable of it.
Then there’s the kiss that burned itself in me, which she has forgotten. And yet, when we’re together, I can’t believe she feels nothing.
My fingers are tapping my elbow rhythmically.
Is there another man in her life?
The one who sends her red roses, whom she later has coffee with, yet pretends not to know who the flowers are from.
What about me? Why can’t I, who sees our differences so clearly, be the one to say no? What’s stopping me from calling it off?
A small voice cuts through the noise because, deep down, I don’t want it to end, maybe. Not after the kiss.
I return to my desk and ask Raj Kiran to ring for coffee and tea and give us some privacy.
Mother waits for Raj Kiran to close the door behind him. ‘I feel bad we didn’t advise them to bring hats for the game. We have a whole collection in the cloakroom for guests who may have forgotten hats,’ she says.
I shrug. I’m not sure the Gowdas really cared.
‘It didn’t strike me until the game started, and then, I didn’t want to make a show of it,’ Mother pushes ahead. ‘TittleTattle has gone to town on the Gowdas not wearing hats.’
‘I’m not sure the Gowdas are overly concerned. They have lives, Mother.’
‘It’s different for a woman, Veer. When people gossip about our choices, it becomes personal.’
I nod.
‘I feel bad for the child; she gets such bad media.’
‘Social media. Media and social media are two different things.’
‘I know, I know, but optics. Maybe we should hire a style-savvy intern to help Aaditha,’ Mother suggests, leaning back in her seat.
‘Help her with what?’
‘Clothes, primarily; her style is too plain. We’re royals; she’s got to look like she belongs. Candy stripes are juvenile,’ she says, her eyes moving expressively. After a long pause, she adds, ‘And also maybe protocol; we need to brief her.’
‘I’ll do the briefing if and when required,’ I say quickly, ‘but I’m not sure we can thrust a stylist on anyone.’
Mother is smiling. ‘Even someone who is almost family?’
‘Mom, stop!’ She wants to end it.
Mother’s eyes widen.
‘That’s why I said an intern. Maybe we can pick someone from a design school.’
I shake my head. This business of wanting to change her wardrobe is completely over the top. We need to dial down.
It is time to shift the conversation, take it away from style and dressing.
‘I haven’t checked with Ratan, but I’m sure we are already inundated with interview requests from media houses.’
Mother’s face lights up. ‘Oh yes! I forgot that; I was so nervous. We did it right here in this room,’ she says, looking around her and pointing at the wall adjacent to the window. ‘You should plan that soon, Vedveer, for reasons of security.’
I nod. Mother raises a valid point; only, I’m not sure if this is what Aaditha and I need right now.
The wedding announcement has just been made.
We need to deal with that, especially Aaditha.
Then, to appear on national television, answering questions together about each other, would be too much at this stage.
It will keep the media at bay for a while, sure, but at the moment, she needs her space.
‘Lunch at noon,’ Mother says, tapping her dial. ‘It is our last on this visit. I leave tomorrow.’
I’m on my feet to walk her to the door. She has obviously waited only because the wedding announcement was to appear in today’s newspaper.
My phone pings. It’s an email from Aaditha.
From: Aaditha (aaditha_is_aaditha@)
Subject: Pros that is as clear as a bell. I hoped that for all the protocol and noise around me, she would see me somewhere.
I shake my head and smile as my eyes fix on the moniker. Has she saved my contact details on her phone as Annoying-VRS?
I look at my watch; it’s not yet 11 a.m. Aaditha is at her office, maybe, dark hair dropping around her shoulders, fingers on a keyboard, punching out a pros and cons list on me.
But who is the mail meant for? Who is she going to call?
An hour slips by before my phone tears through my thoughts. It’s Aaditha.
‘Hello, Vedveer, Aaditha here. Is this a good time?’
Her voice is soft and businesslike, but even at the best of times, there is an edge to her tone.
I don’t realize it, but I’m smiling.
‘Hello, Aaditha, how are you?’
‘I’m good,’ she says after a longish pause, before adding, ‘and you?’
‘Not bad.’
‘This has been a crazy day!’ she says.
‘Has it?’ I can’t stop smiling.
‘Can you ignore the mail I sent you? I mean, delete it from your memory, pretend you haven’t read it?’ The words come out in a rush.
‘What mail?’ I feel like giving her a hard time. You can’t just have no recall of that kiss?
I hear the breath that escapes her lips. For a moment, she buys into what I say, only for a moment.
‘Please,’ she says, ‘can we at least pretend? I’m so embarrassed. I don’t think I have ever done something like this.’
‘What? Lists?’
Aaditha laughs. ‘Stop it, Vedveer! You are evil.’
‘No! Come on! I make lists, too!’
Her laugh hits a soft, musical note.
‘How have you been?’ I ask.
‘Not bad. Busy. The usual, just some stuff to be done, put together,’ she says.
‘Like lists?’
‘You are not going to let me forget this, are you?’
I shake my head. I know I am on an audio call.
‘Are you in Jaipur?’ she asks.
‘Yeah,’ I say before throwing the question back at her. ‘Are you in Jaipur?’
‘No, no,’ she replies a little too quickly.
‘Are you in Bengaluru?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, in my office.’ she says.
She’s probably wrapping and unwrapping her fists. Her nervous tic is relentless.
‘Just checking,’ I say. ‘Didn’t want to bump into you by accident and owe you a tea I didn’t sign up for.’
There’s an audible silence at the other end before she goes, ‘Teeeaaaaa?’
I laugh out loud.
I’m not sure when I get on my feet and start walking around the room, but that’s what I’m doing now. I move towards the lounge chair on the other side of the desk and settle on it.
My finger accidentally hits the Instagram app; notifications are popping up like corns in an oven. Our wedding announcement is everywhere.
@TittleTattle has posted another picture of Aaditha; this was three minutes ago. It is another old shot from her college days in Ohio. She is wrapped in a puffer jacket and walking hand in hand with the same dude she had coffee with at her café.
‘I just saw the announcement,’ she says.
Just saw? Prathap Gowda hadn’t told her about it two days ago, when the palace got in touch with his office?
‘I saw it earlier yesterday, before it was sent out to the media.’
She is about to say something but holds back. I can tell by the sharp intake of breath. ‘It’s all a bit crazy,’ she says slowly.
‘The pace is whirlwind,’ I agree with her. I wait for her to talk, to tell me something about how she feels.
‘I’m worried I’ll be married off before I inhale again!’
I nod. I laugh. It is a light sound.
‘It is gratifying to know that it isn’t the case,’ she says.
I nod and let the silence stretch, willing her to speak.
‘So, you’re really going through with it?’ she asks in the same tone she’d use to enquire about the weather.
I hold back for a few seconds, letting the charged quiet settle. ‘Is this you pretending you’ve never taken a decision and hoping I’ll blink first?’
I hear her inhale.
‘This engagement can’t work.’ Her voice bursts through the line. ‘We come from completely different worlds, Vedveer. Yours… your life is alien to me.’
I inhale. The midday air feels heavier than it should.
‘Right,’ I say, keeping my voice level. ‘Alien is one way to put it.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘You didn’t choose this, Aaditha, I get that. Neither did I,’ I say. ‘But we’re in it now.’
The silence is loud and telling.
‘Don’t you want out too?’ She asks a question I’m not ready to answer.
‘Who takes the fall?’ I ask after what feels like an eternity. I feel a pull somewhere inside me; it’s physical. If she’s choking, then it has got to be me; that goes without saying.
‘Both of us! Let’s figure out how to end this,’ she says. ‘This arrangement, planned by our families, is suffocating me.’
I pause. A beat too long, maybe. ‘Okay!’ I commit. ‘Let me know when you have a plan.’