Chapter 10 #2
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
I nodded. I inhaled.
‘Does she know the pick-up point for tomorrow?’ Navya Mrinalini asked.
I was given a detailed briefing on how to get to the car park in the morning and at what time. Not for the first time.
Some twenty hours later, I’m settled on a sofa in the lounge area of the Parivaar Suite, considering a coffee. Amma is seated beside me; she hasn’t said much this morning.
The chambermaids are fluttering around the room, complimenting me on the dress I will wear later. They tell me a make-up artist will be here in an hour to get me ready.
I’m doing a lot of inhaling and exhaling.
There’s a knock on the door, but before I can react, the door is pushed open.
It is Gauri Elena. She sweeps into the room, dropping compliments as she walks – Amma’s sari, the cut of my (non-distressed) jeans.
Amma and I are on our feet, and Gauri Elena’s hand is on Amma’s bony arm.
She asks us to join her and her son in the breakfast room.
Navya Mrinalini is apparently out for a photo shoot.
I excuse myself respectfully. I want a moment on my own. I need to catch my breath.
I pick up a coffee and settle on the sofa in the bedroom as soon as they are out of the door.
I remember the launch of COFFEE Before Books he said the brand could do with the publicity and I could fix my public image that way.
I’d rather take whatever vitriol they throw at me than twist myself into an impression that isn’t me.
The landline rings. I let one of the staff get it.
‘This is for you, Rajkumariji.’
I blink. Rajkumari? It is the palace staff. They apparently want to give me a protocol briefing. There goes my ‘me time’.
There’s a light knock on the door, and two women walk in. One of them is slightly older and is draped in a sari, and the other is wearing a salwar, both of them with prominent name badges.
I’m on my feet, coffee cup in hand.
‘Please sit down,’ I say and take a seat opposite them in the lounge area.
They smile and nod but continue to stand, which is making me uncomfortable.
The older lady, whose name badge reads Smita, starts talking.
‘We have to brief you about a few things – like how to sit and stand when you’re in public, how you exit a vehicle and how to climb into it,’ she says, looking at my posture.
I’m sitting on my left leg, which I have drawn up.
‘Also, what to wear when you’re in public.
The Rathores have a legacy in style, so certain attire, especially for female members of the family, is better to leave out of the wardrobe. ’
‘What about distressed jeans?’ I ask. A rebellion is brewing inside me. ‘That is only for common people,’ Smita says, ‘and you’re not common any more.’
Who decides that I am common and not common any more?
‘What about underclothes?’ I am intent on pushing the knife deeper.
Smita’s face contorts. ‘Only things that can be seen,’ she says. ‘If you have any doubts, please run your clothes by us at any time, and we’ll let you know if they meet palace standards. It is not a problem.’
It is a problem for me!
‘There are royal titles that you need to be aware of so that you address people appropriately. Also how you bow to the king and queen. The Rathores don’t like excessive bowing, but there are rules you need to follow.’
Smita takes a breath, and I try to summon a smile.
‘Rajkumari, if you will please stand up,’ she says, walking towards me, to maybe take the cup from my hand. ‘Sapna will give you a demonstration, and you can practise it.’
I put up my hand to tell Smita I can handle a cappuccino cup. I’m resorting to hand signals only because I can’t trust myself to speak. I feel the tears at the back of my eyes.
As Sapna steps back to prepare for the demonstration, there is a knock on the door, and before I can respond, the eight-foot slab of teak is swung open.
I stare at Vedveer’s advancing figure. His eyes spark a question. The women bow promptly.
‘Yuvraj, we are here for the palace protocol briefing. How the rajkumari needs to address the maharaj, ranisa and you, how she needs to bow,’ Smita says.
‘Not required.’
‘We were told—’
‘Leave now, please.’ His tone is polite but firm, and his smile has hit sub-zero temperatures.
‘We’ll come back a little later when the rajkumari is free.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Listen to me very carefully. Anything to do with the rajkumari has to go through me, and only me.’
Vedveer turns to the ladies-in-waiting and requests them to leave the room. ‘Thank you for attending to the Rajkumari,’ he says as they bow to take their leave.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he says, turning to me as the doors close behind the staff.
I nod.
‘Cappuccino?’ I ask and turn quickly. My back is facing him.
‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘coffee.’ He may be smiling now.
When I turn to face him, coffee cup in hand, considerably more in control, he takes the cup from me and places it on the side. He takes my hands in his and makes me sit down. I feel a tremor in my palm; his are firm around mine.
‘I apologize for the manner in which I have disrupted your life, Aaditha,’ he says.
‘That’s meant to scald you,’ I say, pointing at the coffee with my eyes.
Vedveer laughs. It sounds like relief.
‘No kindness for the wicked.’
His eyes carry questions that bore deep into mine. I can never tell what he thinks and why he leans a certain way. He is a man of few words and even fewer expressions. Except when he laughs. That is a dangerous thing.
Vedveer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box, which has two rings in it. One is an emerald piece studded with diamonds, and the other is a rock, a solitaire.
I inhale his perfume, wondering what this is about. We can’t be exchanging what looks like engagement rings in the Parivaar Suite when it is just the two of us.
‘We can’t go into the interview without rings,’ he says, returning to his feet.
My emotions are on a crazy roller-coaster ride.
‘I think the size is right. It’s my grandmother’s.’
On one hand, this feels natural, an intimate moment for which Vedveer made sure we are alone… but that is only one part of the story. I try to smile.
Vedveer puts the ring on my finger; it fits perfectly. Like his grandmother, I have scrawny fingers.
‘This,’ he says, pointing at the rings – I see the brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but he decides to plough ahead – ‘is a tradition, something I would not foist on you, but I hope you come to appreciate it.’
His eyes meet mine, and for a minute, I forget to be mad at him.
Vedveer’s hands shake; my finger is firm as we exchange rings.
I slide the solitaire on Vedveer’s finger. His eyes are on mine, and my heart has fallen to the pit of my stomach.
His thumb brushes my finger momentarily before I pull it back.
‘Umm… sorry. I…’ He is on his feet, looking away. ‘I’ll let you have a moment and wait for you outside.’
I take in what just happened. He put a ring on my finger because we were papped and not because there is anything else at play. Only because it is tradition… It turns in my head like a whirlpool, dragging me down the dark end.
I really like what I’m wearing. Navya Mrinalini does have great taste.
Vedveer’s sister spotted it even before the designer, Sara Khiani, brought it out and placed it on the display table.
‘This is a good colour,’ she said, turning it over and looking pointedly in my direction. Navya Mrinalini was meditating.
I wasn’t particularly impressed at that point. It is a pure silk sleeveless dress in the palest green.
‘It’s inspired by the spring forests of Rajasthan,’ Sara told us, pointing at the embroidered pears and falling leaves of different shades that were pinned with sequins.
Just as well Amma had brought her emerald earrings along; they go perfectly with the dress. They also match the ring Vedveer put on my hand.
As I pat down the dress, it occurs to me that the Rathores might have sounded my parents out about the ring Vedveer put on my finger. Maybe that’s why Navya Mrinalini had chosen this dress for me.
When she was looking at me, she was deducing what I made of the outfit, not how it would look on me, which is something fashionistas (read: Alia and Lavanya) do when they help you pick a dress.
They’re imagining how it looks on you. There was no other dress in green at the Khiani home outlet.
There were a lot of plums and yellows, blacks and the white family, but no greens, not in Western attire.
I hear Vedveer at the other end of the room, but even before his voice reaches me, I can tell by the shift of energy on the floor that he is here. He is in a suit of a similar hue.
I wonder if it is also new or if he had picked the ring after looking at his wardrobe.
‘Aaditha.’ He breathes my name, and his breath fans the top of my ear.
I don’t know why, but I get the feeling that he says a prayer before saying my name every time.
It’s a simple name, three syllables.
Vedveer’s hand is on my back as we walk together into his father’s study a little after noon. The room is dark for the most part, except for where we are to be seated, a cream-coloured two-seater on which light pours.
We are introduced to our interviewer, Naveen Sharma, with whom we chat briefly before the cameras roll. Sharma, a senior (political) journalist, speaks for a few minutes, making introductory remarks, before he turns on us.
Sharma sits upright, holding up his height, which almost matches Vedveer’s, whose posture is relaxed.
He starts engaging by making a show of the rings we are wearing.
Sharma says the ornaments are ‘steeped in tradition’.
The solitaire wasn’t presented by the Gowda family, as is custom for some communities, but was worn by Maharaj Rawal Rathore Singh, while the emerald ring belonged to his wife, Maharani Pavitra Hansa.