Chapter 11 Vedveer - Seasons and Reasons
Vedveer
Seasons and Reasons
I haven’t seen Father at a breakfast table ever. If we are to travel early, he grumbles at the world, having spent the night resenting the morning in advance.
It is at breakfast that Mother tells me that her husband wants to have a word. It is to be the first order of business. She asks Navya to be there too.
‘One o’clock in the study?’ I ask, wondering what this is about. The family is in Jaipur to oversee Holi preparations.
‘Hanji, Yuvraj!’
Navya nods. I doubt she has heard Mother; she is busy punching her phone keyboard.
Mother’s Hindi is heavily accented, a strain of Russian and British accents standing out like a linguistic palimpsest each time she opens her mouth.
It cannot have been easy for her to not just learn a foreign language but also embrace a culture that was foreign to her.
The world wasn’t so connected in the ’80s, and distance is real.
Gaurav Rathore Singh, whom she calls Gaurav, with a little lisp, enjoyed a Western lifestyle, which also means Mother didn’t have much of a warning of what to expect when she arrived in India.
Hindi is a tonal language; the retroflex and nasal sounds also take some getting used to.
Just as well that Mother is uncommonly good with languages.
Her diligence in trying to remove every trace of her ‘foreignness’, from how she dressed to what she ate and drank, to how she moved in a crowd, isn’t unnoticed, especially by her husband.
If not for her colouring and accent, it would be hard to tell her apart.
The breakfast room at Ranibagh is a happy space. The angled sunroof allows for a flush of natural light, not something Navya enjoys. This morning, she is wearing oversized sunglasses.
I’m standing by an arched window, teacup forgotten in hand, watching the late-morning light flood the garden that is starting to stir – jasmine buds, gulmohar blossoms and frangipani in full bloom.
My mind goes to Aaditha. The outdoors doesn’t call out to her like it does to me; she made that amply clear on our first meeting at her office, but she likes flowers. The vases in her house and workplace are full.
Would she stop to smell the jasmine?
I exhale. I have watched trees change with the seasons every year, how the green deepens and then darkens.
Autumn arrives quietly here. Would she notice how the bougainvillea clings to summer, defiantly pink?
I imagine her walking these paths – not as a guest – wrapped in a shawl, the winter breeze stroking her cheeks.
The palace has always been mine, yet suddenly, it feels like something I want to share with her.
There’s only the small matter of her wanting us to come up with a plan to break this engagement.
I never expected to bump into Aaditha in Delhi, not even after Navya told me she had won ‘The Initiator’ award.
It was a regular Friday meeting with friends at the Four Hundred Club.
I greeted the familiar faces as I entered the room, making my way to our table. Kairi had ordered my drink, and I took a sip even before I took my seat. I felt rushed for no apparent reason.
I was momentarily distracted by the almost-naked back on a barstool. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. The posture was defined, and the shape was striking.
I took another sip of Jaboulet Red and tasted the grenache, feeling the sweet burn of liquid in my mouth.
It is not like I knew the back, even though the frame was familiar. Tiny. Slightly rounded scapula, upright. An earthenware pot placed upside down. I struggled to stay put in my seat.
Onyx. The colour of the dress was the red herring. I had only seen Aaditha in quiet tones of white, echoing a promise of committing to a nunnery. I had no problem with the colour. Butter is lip-smacking, but to restrict yourself to one colour 90 per cent of the time is a bit skewed.
I have no idea how she ended up sprawled on the ground, though. She said her foot got entangled with the leg of the stool. I’m not sure about that, but she came down hard, and we’re lucky there were no broken bones.
Aaditha wasn’t pleased with the hurried scheduling of the interview, even though she didn’t contest it. Her expression said it all – lips tightened and a shutter dropped over her eyes. She wanted to say something, but her determination overrode her instinct.
The point is, the interview had to be done.
It is tradition, but the reason I pressed ahead, after stalling for weeks, is because it was the best way to get the press off our backs.
I felt we could give them something and walk away.
They would hound Aaditha otherwise, late in the evening, early in the morning, and that was not something I was willing to risk.
I walk into the Maharaj’s Library just after 1 p.m. Father is seated behind the grand desk at the far end. He has sheets of paper in his hands but is staring at the heavy curtains that cover the window that faces him.
I walk up to the curtains and tap the switch that draws the drapes apart. ‘You need the sun,’ I tell him, even as he scrunches his nose at me.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, picking up the papers he places on the table. There are a couple of numbers scribbled on the first sheet – 5,000 and 50.
‘That’s what they are offering us,’ Father says. He is signalling to Raj Kiran, for sunglasses, which are duly placed on him.
I’m looking at Father with a question I haven’t asked.
‘Five thousand crores for a fifty-year lease for a section of Ranibagh and the grounds at that end.’
My brain is doing the maths.
‘My title and all it encompasses,’ he says, his hands behind his head as he pushes back.
He takes a sip of his whisky and returns the glass to the coaster, placing it perfectly in the centre. He is silent.
‘A section of Ranibagh and the grounds that run alongside,’ I say.
I turn the figures over in my head. This is our best shot at a sustainable future. We can’t continue financing our exorbitant lifestyle just by relying on smart investments, most of which are gained from disposing of land.
We’d need a gold mine just to raise the capital to start cultivating our lands.
The acreage is vast, and nearly 60 per cent of it has to be prepared from scratch.
Some estates are in serious decay; others, in more favourable locations, have reverted to forest. It could take anywhere from five to ten years before we see any kind of return.
‘Lease is a good thing; at least that way, we don’t lose our land,’ I say.
Father throws a curious glance my way before shifting some ten degrees in his seat.
‘This way, we can at least hit a pause button on selling our land.’
‘That happened a long time ago. I put a stop to it long ago,’ he insists.
The time he stresses on is five years ago, to be precise.
‘I give Ranibagh away, just like that?’ he asks, his voice unusually subdued.
Somewhere in this vast space we are treading – properties, legacy, tradition and custom – I meet my father and feel for him.
For as long as I can remember, he only travels to Jaipur twice or thrice a year. Still, it is his seat, and his taking exception to leasing it out is understandable.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘But it’s still my palace; Ranibagh is the seat of my throne.’ His voice quivers unsteadily.
I put the papers I have been scanning aside and lift myself from the lounge chair. I walk across the room, away from where he is seated, before turning back. I need to word this carefully.
‘It stays in the family; it always will. It is your seat and will continue to be your seat, lease or no,’ I say, bending over the desk and looking directly at him.
‘But look at what we can give our people if we develop the land. It’s livelihood, and it will always be your gesture to them.
They need their king to work for them, Father. ’
What I don’t tell Father is that the Rathores need it, too. We need our land to work for us.
He nods. I use that as encouragement and press ahead.
‘They will be appreciative that their maharaj is using all his resources to give them a better life; when opportunity and money come their way, they will be forever grateful,’ I say. ‘This is why a lease would work; we return the principal amount and get our property back at some point.’
Father looks out of the window. He has such an aversion to light, I wonder how he is handling so much of it.
‘Do you know who this party is?’ I ask.
‘A foreign conglomerate. They acquire boutique properties and turn them into luxury hotels without altering the structure.’
‘Is there a minimum period when we can break the lease?’ I ask.
Father points at the papers I had set aside. ‘I think twenty years. There’s an out after ten, but that’s in an extreme circumstance, and it comes with a huge penalty.’
I nod. ‘Twenty years is enough time. We should be making good profits by then.’
Father smiles. I’m aware that the only reason he is considering the lease is because I’m pushing him to it.
Ranibagh is my most favourite corner on the globe. This is where I come to get away from everything. Navya and I rushed here to be with Grandfather on every school break. It is where I feel love, the ground below my feet and all it holds.
Some of my fondest memories growing up are at the maharaj’s apartment, a floor above where I’m standing now.
In the spring, I used to sit on the swing on the terrace that overlooks an ornamental lake, thinking it was the brightest spot ever.
In the winter, the water had a stealthy touch to it.
The sun, bashful at that time of the year, came out later in the morning.
Grandfather would point that out to me, and I would laugh hysterically.
‘You look like the sun now, Veer,’ he would tell me.
Ranibagh, with a living area of 80,000 square feet, is the largest palace in India.
It has sixty bedrooms and ten ultra-luxurious royal suites, each with additional living areas and private balconies.
It has nurseries, libraries, reception halls, dining and tea rooms, a movie theatre, games rooms and a sprawling spa and wellness centre. An economy by itself.
‘We are not turning over Ranibagh in its entirety,’ Father says.
I shake my head. ‘The royal suites, the Maharaja’s Library, a reception hall, the kitchens and dining spaces and the staff areas stay with us.’
‘The sixty living rooms go to them.’
Ranibagh is built latitudinally, where the royal suites and the children’s nurseries overlook a section of the waterbodies, while the other part of the construction, the area we will be leasing, runs alongside the grounds.
‘The account books say Ranibagh is a strain on the finances,’ I say, swallowing guilt.
‘I found a way to manage.’
We have to do better than manage, and Father knows that. ‘If, for the time being, a part of it becomes someone else’s problem,’ I say, ‘it will work for us.’
He is non-committal, but as I turn to him, I see the blood rush to his face.
‘We should wait,’ he says.
I nod. That he hadn’t said no is a victory.
Raj Kiran opens the door, and Navya walks in, armed with her sunglasses.
She settles into the seat I vacated and tells Father that she is also considering marriage, maybe in a year. Her tone is casual, like she is telling us about the next pair of glasses she wants to buy.
‘Wedding.’ Father considers the word like it is a collector’s item he is turning over to check its veracity. ‘We have Veer’s first.’
As a family, we don’t do emotions very well. Definitely not that part of the family that is in the room. Drama is never far away.
‘When do you want to get married, Rajkumari?’ Father asks.
‘I’m giving you advance notice,’ she says.
Father looks pointedly at me, and I turn to the window. It is my turn to take some sun.
I’m finally able to read between the lines of his reluctance. The wedding celebrations are high on the list of reasons he is so at odds with leasing the property. He has made elaborate plans in his head to get both his children married in pomp and style. And scaling down isn’t him.
‘Aaditha and you are all over social media after the interview, brother,’ Navya says. ‘Everyone is swooning, saying “how sweet”, “how cute”, “how into each other they are” and all the rest of it.’
‘Yes!’ Father is finally smiling. ‘I saw that, too!’ His laugh is a roar. ‘And here I’m worrying that Vedveer has lost his charm!’
‘You are blushing, brother!’ Navya is pointing at me and laughing.
I turn to the door, looking to make haste.
‘I have a favour to return,’ I tell Navya.
Father taps his fingers on his desk, calling the attention of the room.
‘Yuvraj,’ he says slowly. ‘Choti Holi is yours. You will light the first Holika next week.’
‘Why?’ This is unexpected. I turn right back and return to the room.
‘I will take your place on the dais and do the watching. I want you to take over,’ he says and takes a deep breath. ‘You are the maharaj all over again. It’s time you start taking over responsibilities.’
‘This is a huge responsibility,’ he adds, his hands around his head, motioning the crown. ‘The best way to do it is slowly, when I’m still around and able to help you take over.’
‘Why don’t we invite Aaditha for Holika Dahan?’ Navya is on her feet and looking at Father.
Mother walks into the room as Father gets on his feet, applauding his daughter. ‘What’s happening?’ she asks, looking pointedly at me.
Father has already discussed my lighting the first Holika with his wife, and so he tells her about Navya’s idea of inviting Aaditha.
‘We must invite the whole family,’ Mother says, ‘all four of them, that’s if Alia is in the country.’
‘Goes without saying. She’s hardly going to arrive here alone,’ Navya says.
Mother is insistent that we share the dress code with them.
‘We don’t want a repeat of the polo game,’ Navya says. ‘They took it in their stride, but it’s not fair; TittleTattle is mean.’
I agree. There’s no harm in loose guidelines.
Father shakes his head. ‘We should let them be, invite them and not issue a dress code.’
‘Suit yourselves,’ Navya says. ‘I’m inviting Aaditha for the Indian League game, which is the day after Holi. Hopefully, she can stay for an extra day. I’ll tell her to bring an extra dress or two with her.’
‘That’s a good idea. She packs frugally. You’d think they’re weighing her bags!’ Mother rolls her eyes.
‘Mother! No judging!’ Navya is right on cue.
‘She packs like the CEO she is, Mother!’ I back my sister.
The remaining Rathores in the room roar.