Chapter 12 Aaditha - Holika!
Aaditha
Holika!
I inform the Lakshmi Bar Devotees (aka LBDs) about my Jaipur trip only after we touch down in the Pink City.
I’ve been in such a funk in the days leading up to this that I forgot to tell them. Prescriptive traditions and elaborate ceremonies make me nervous.
Only Komal knows, and that is because we had a yoga session this morning.
Me: Landed in Jaipur with parents. Back day after.
Lavanya calls a minute later. ‘Remind me again why you’re in Jaipur,’ she asks. She sounds like she’s in the middle of a few things.
I mentioned the trip to Jaipur to her as soon as I slotted it in my calendar, but I hadn’t told her why.
‘Have you heard of Choti Holi?’
‘Hmmm…’
‘I didn’t think so.’
Appa, who is sitting across from me, turns away, pretending like he hasn’t heard.
Raju messages.
Raju: Baby of the group is getting married.
Me: No one is getting married. I’ll find a way to get out of this. Just you wait!
I am deeply offended that my grand announcement of the opening of the COFFEE Before Books he’ll be lighting the Holika for the first time.
Appa thinks Gaurav Rathore Singh is rolling out succession plans. Apparently, it is not common for a king to entrust royal duties to the next in line when he is still healthy.
I’m stretching out the fingers of my right hand and balling them up. I repeat.
There will be more cameras, a whole crowd of people, endless staff, talk of heritage, culture, practices… I tell myself this isn’t about me, not this moment. I have to show up for my family now. Later, there will be an out. There has to be one at some point.
I spot the Rathores – father, mother and son – flanked by a small army of uniformed staff, waiting at the palace foyer as we step out of the vehicles that ferried us from the airport.
The parents are caught up in polite greetings. Then, from behind them, Vedveer appears, cutting through the stillness with purposeful strides.
My heart stumbles in my chest.
‘Aaditha,’ he says, his voice low. His right hand brushes my forearm.
His face is drawn, almost pale, like he hasn’t slept.
The noise around us – conversations, murmurs, shuffling footsteps, clanking luggage – fades.
For a second, it’s just him and me, caught in the quiet tension of something unsaid.
‘The staff will show you to your chambers,’ the senior Rathore says. Vedveer insists on escorting me to my room.
He is wearing a white shirt on blue jeans, with sleeves pushed back just enough, giving his gait a workman-like edge. He has thrown my tote over his shoulder without ceremony, having taken it from one of the staff.
We walk side by side, the silence between us taut, not awkward. Like a thread that connects two people.
‘Apologies for pulling you away from work and disrupting your routine,’ he says.
I nod, mostly because I can’t quite find my voice.
Does he actually believe COFFEE Before Books she couldn’t wear it any wider, even if she tried.
How many queries would one have? Did they need to hire someone to answer my questions? There are already one too many people running around this place anyway.
I wait for Reema to walk away.
‘I could just call you if I need anything,’ I say. ‘I mean, I could just ask you, no?’
Vedveer raises an eyebrow before his face breaks into a smile. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘you can, anytime.’
I nod. There’s a question I cannot quite read in his eyes.
‘Are you nervous about lighting the Holika for the first time tonight?’ I ask.
‘What’s there to be nervous about?’ he scoffs. ‘Just centuries of tradition and everyone’s eyes on me and the very real possibility that I trip and set my kurta on fire.’
I grin. ‘Wow! I like the confidence. Should I keep a bucket of water handy?’
Vedveer’s smile falters as his eyes darken. ‘It’s a lot. Not just the lighting of the fire or the people watching; it’s what it means. Like carrying something bigger than me, something that’s supposed to bring light after darkness. I… I don’t want to mess up.’
My eyes are on Vedveer. The weight of tradition and expectation is a complicated maths sum.
‘You won’t mess up,’ I say quietly.
‘But keep that bucket of water ready, just in case?’ he says and turns briefly before making his way out.
‘Is there anything you need, Rajkumari?’ Reema asks.
I need to be left alone. The only thing on my wish list at the moment.
I tell Reema I will call if I need anything. She leaves her card on the table.
Two of the maids are young and all smiles; the older lady’s gaze is firm. I meet her eyes squarely.
The two younger maids start moving my baggage around, giving an already pristine space more order, if that is even possible. They then disappear into the bathroom and return giggling.
They want to unpack my bags, but I’m not unpacking.
I haven’t packed my entire wardrobe – just a couple of options for the events and outings that are planned. The extras are only because of Alia, who is sitting in the United States and running my life.
‘A girl needs to have options’, she says.
Gauri Elena isn’t taking chances and has ordered my outfit for this evening, the idea of which has me in splits.
My suitcase is open, and one of the maids is tugging at my undergarment bag. This is nonsense! I put out my hand, signalling for them to stop.
‘I can manage on my own,’ I tell the maids. ‘If you tell me how the shower works, I’m good.’
The prying twosome are wearing shocked expressions. They change tracks. One of them insists on showing me where the night clothes are (I have brought my own night clothes) while the other one runs the bath.
There are satin sets, in my size, in the walk-in wardrobe. They are wrapped in crisp tissue that are in three different shades of pink. There are style options, too. Pyjamas or shorts or a thigh-length chemise.
In a large box wrapped in metres and metres of tissue is my Rajputi Poshak in rose pink.
It is exquisite, but it is over-the-top grand. I run my hand over the fabric; it feels like satin silk. There’s a scroll that has literature on the dress. It has taken thirty artisans to complete the gold thread work.
Just as well the Rathores took charge of what I am to wear this evening.
I would never have gone for something this elaborate.
I don’t care what social media said about how I dressed, but it obviously matters to these people; theirs is a mighty platform.
My option (which I have carried courtesy Alia) is a Mysore silk lehenga with an ornate dupatta.
Amma says, in her day, it was called a half-sari.
The girls join hands to lift the poshak out of the box and put it on a hanger. I’m grateful for that help. They say it is heavy; it looks like something one might employ a crane to move.
Just before exiting the apartment, the youngest apologizes.
I don’t know what she is apologizing for, but I don’t ask either. I want to be alone.
I shut my eyes, trying to extricate myself from the lavishness of everything around me. I’m only a thousand nautical miles from home, and my parents are a couple of doors from me, but the distance feels irretrievable.
My heart stills momentarily, and images of my parents, sister, her broken life and her expertly built bras, my baby, COFFEE Before Books & Bras, dance before me. I think of my crazy group of friends – Lavanya, Komal and Raju.
That is my world. What am I doing here? What am I giving up?
A business I had built with sweat and wit.
Who am I doing this for? And for what?
I’m sobbing. I let myself have a good cry.
‘Did you rest?’ Navya Mrinalini asks. Her voice is soft and her tone gentle. She is seated next to me on an elevated platform, which faces the gathering.
I nod. My eyes are red. I’d rather the Rathores thought I had slept the afternoon off than cried it away.
‘You’re looking gorgeous,’ she says. Her smile reaches her eyes.
She is adorned in a pink and orange poshak, every inch the princess. She’s demure and savvy in equal portions and is suitably postured. Her back is straight, and her shoulders slope, just a wee bit.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, my right hand on the odhani. ‘Thank you!’
‘It is my choice,’ she says. ‘Rani-pink for the rani-to-be. Fully cheesy!’
I choke back her compliment and try to smile.