Chapter 12 Aaditha - Holika! #2
I’m sandwiched between Gauri Elena and her daughter in an enormous courtyard on which the Aravallis gaze down. Appa is seated next to the senior Rathore, and Amma is by her husband.
The two men appear to be doing well together; every now and then, a laugh rises above the din.
In the centre of our row of seats is an opulent silver throne, on which Vedveer, whenever he appears, will be seated, I’m guessing.
I’m reading the room like it’s a secret-agent movie, hunting for the subtle signals.
The setting sun has brushed the hills in a dull glow that lifts Ranibagh’s sparkle. Every now and then, there is a rustle from the wind that brushes cheeks and pushes back errant strands. The sound system is playing heavy music, a genre of folk songs, perhaps.
Behind us is a row of men, four of whom hold the royal chattas for the king and queen, while the others wave chowries – fans that finish in long, flowy fibres that don’t give us relief from the weather but maybe allow the palace staff to participate in the ceremonies.
Open-air coolers are placed at strategic locations, away from the cameras. It isn’t hot, but the sheer volume of people makes it stuffy.
Reema walked me down from my quarters, and on the way, she gave me a brief description of how the evening was expected to pan out.
‘We are all waiting for Yuvraji to light the Holika,’ she said. ‘People love him, you know,’ she added. In case there were any doubts.
In the middle of the courtyard is a mammoth construction of sticks and bricks, about fifteen feet in height. Around it is an elaborate floral decoration in marigold and desert jasmine.
Guests and dignitaries are seated across from us. The crowds are in the distance. Some wave their smartphone torchlights, while others record the space, which they will no doubt upload on social media. Their king is not lighting the Holika tonight; the prince is.
Despite the tension running through me and my reservations on royalty and its many reverberations, I’m appreciative of the ringside seat to what promises to be a hair-raising cultural show.
I’m so tempted to draw up my legs and watch the spectacle unfold that it takes all my determination to sit still.
I’m suddenly all there, all the bits and parts of me, just the way I am when I walk through the doors of COFFEE Before Books the air is charged. It could be the music or just the energy of the thronging masses awaiting the prince, who’ll be king one day.
That’s when I spot Vedveer, his presence seizing my gaze. The people standing in front of him instinctively part, swept aside by the power of his lengthy strides.
He is styled in a pearly ivory sherwani that gleams like the moonlight and is adorned with gold buttons. His safa, intricate and grand, rises from his head in a fan-like crest, crowned with a shining brooch. In his right hand, he wields a bejewelled purple sword sheath.
A shiver races down my spine, maybe awe or something undefinable. My jaw drops, perhaps stunned by the force of his presence.
Across the courtyard, our eyes lock, slicing through the throng, rising above the chaos of bobbing heads and swirling sound. His face, calm and unreadable, hides everything; mine, however, betrays the storm of emotions raging inside me, the charged pulse of the evening.
Just before he enters the courtyard, chants of ‘Yuvraaaaj Maharaaaaj ki jai’ punch the air.
I feel the duet of love – that of the people and their leader.
There’s another round of shouts and loud cheering, the decibel levels hitting new heights, but when Vedveer raises his head, the calls subside. That appears to be the cue for the drums to start rolling.
He strides in the direction of where we are seated.
He looks first at his father and then his mother, his hands folded in prayer, before he steps forward and touches their feet, sword sheath in hand.
He glances at his sister, his head slanting in a nod, before his eyes bore into mine, reaching deep. They hold a question I cannot read.
My breath catches in my throat, and I cough into my palms.
There’s an unalloyed steel to Vedveer, hidden beneath his spark.
Sometimes, it feels like I can push him, really wade into him, risk provoking him…
and he won’t push back. But then, there’s the other side, the one I saw in the Parivaar Suite at the Rathores’ Delhi residence, when he dismissed the over-eager protocol execs.
That side is cutting, composed and unmistakably cold.
This evening, I see another side, a fusion of both: the unwavering light and the icy edge. The command of a leader.
After a brief stop on the dais, Vedveer returns to complete the ceremonies.
He sits on a low silver stool and performs a puja, invoking blessings of divinity.
The songs and drums hit a fever pitch as he performs the arathi, marking the start of an evening that celebrates the triumph of good over evil.
The ritual is completed with Vedveer lighting the torch at the holy pyre and carrying it around the bonfire. When he finally lays the torch on the stick and brick structure, the crowd erupts in a joyous chant that is in sync with the inner gates of the palace opening.
The bonfire rages quickly and aggressively, kissing the darkening night sky.
Young boys and grown men light their sticks before merging in the distance, carrying the fire to their homes.
There, they will light their own bonfires, which will burn to ashes, and with it, the idea of evil that threatens them.
It is dark outside, save for the lighting. In the distance, guests mingle.
Vedveer walks to where we are seated. His father is on his feet and envelops him in a hug. His mother tries to soothe the lines on his face.
Their boy carries an enormous weight with remarkable lightness.
My feet are steering the Poshak to my room. I walk the corridor of the floor we are living on like a drunk, swaying from side to side, trying to balance the weight around me.
I have the besotted Reema for company, and she can’t stop drooling over her Yuvrajji.
Did you see the way he walked with that sword?
I love the way he walks. It is so royal!
His sherwani was the perfect fit.
Did you see his pearl-embellished juttis? Oh my god!
Every other sentence is an exclamation.
Meanwhile, I’m at the end of my tether. This skirt must weigh some thirty kilos at the very least. My hip feels dislocated; there’s the harbinger of a gnarling pain.
I enter the room and shut the door on Reema and immediately tug the cord of my lehenga, which comes down around me in a circle.
I step over the fabric and toss away the odhani and blouse.
I walk to the couch in a bra and panties, wondering why people would torture themselves so.
I told the maids that I didn’t need help, but looking at the fabric sitting on the floor and considering its weight, I’m thinking I will need help after all.
I have twenty minutes to get ready for dinner.
The phone in my chamber rings. It is Manisha, the lady in charge of the chambermaids.
“Rajkumari,’ she says, ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I wanted to ask if you need our help with putting the Poshak away.’
I want to whoop with joy, but I control myself and behave like a rajkumari. ‘Sure,’ I say calmly, ‘thank you, but please give me a few minutes.’
I put down the phone and race across the floor to my jeans, which I pull on, and reach for a white tee when the doorbell rings. Manisha has given me two minutes exactly.
Manisha and her two eager assistants take charge of the pile of fabric, clearing the room and putting away that mountain of a skirt.
As the girls disappear into the closet space, Manisha asks, ‘Are you excited about Holi tomorrow? It is the happiest day in the palace for us; we have so much fun.’
I nod. What else can I do?
‘You must put the first colour on Yuvrajji, and he must put the first colour on you!’ she urges, her eyes bright.
I blink.
‘This is our tradition, Rajkumari,’ she says. ‘This is how they have done things, maharajas and maharanis, for hundreds of years.’
I nod.
‘The palace staff have a different Holi celebration; it is equal to the one you will go to. The Rathores have always been so kind to the workers,’ she says. ‘The family included my husband for our first Holi, and I hid myself until he found me. Uske liye ise aasaan mat banao!’
My guess is that Manisha is in her forties. She still wears a delightful blush when talking about her husband.
Amma will knock on my door in about ten minutes, after she changes saris, and we will go down together. Appa has dumped us for the senior Rathore.
I change into a deep olive embroidered Indo-Western wear, a fitted skirt and blouse.
I ask Amma what the men were discussing so animatedly earlier in the evening.
She says it was cricket for the most part.
On my way up, I heard voices in one of the rooms that I crossed; it might’ve been the senior Rathore.
If it was Vedveer’s father, then Appa was with him, and they were certainly not talking scores.
After the guests and dignitaries leave, the family, which includes the royal siblings and their offspring, gathers at the dining hall.
When Amma and I enter the hall downstairs, we find Appa in conversation with the senior Rathore.
Vedveer is across the room from where I am positioned. From what I can tell, he is the only man in the room who has changed.
The hall, like everything in this palace, is huge. A long dining table, which could comfortably seat twenty people, is the centrepiece of the space. At one end of the room is the bar, while the other end has a crockery cabinet. The room extends into a terrace with open-air seating.
The moment Vedveer sees me, he crosses the room and comes over.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks. His face is fresh. All the stress I noted earlier in the day has disappeared.
I nod. I smile.
I want to tell him that while I admire the lightness with which he bears his responsibilities, I’m caught between two worlds. Vedveer’s and my own, both at a societal and personal level. The freedom of choice my life affords me… But that’s hardly suitable conversation for a preprandial drink.
‘I had the bucket ready,’ I say, ‘but it was a waste of effort.’
Our eyes meet, and Vedveer smiles. ‘It is good to have got that done with. I have watched Father do this every year, and I feel like I know every move, but when you’re doing it yourself, it is very different. Everything is new.’
Vedveer excuses himself to get Amma and me drinks, and as soon as he returns, the senior Rathore clinks a spoon to his whisky glass and says we will all be shown to our seats.
Appa and the senior Rathore continue their animated discussion, and it looks like one of Vedveer’s uncles has joined them.
I wonder what they are talking about. It is not like they are friends. It’s been all of fifteen minutes since they met.
I have Vedveer to my right and Amma to my left, and next to Amma is Appa. Gaurav Rathore Singh is at the head of the table; he is flanked by Vedveer on one side and his wife on the other.
Our drinks are replenished, and entrées follow. One of the plates is dal baati with its many sauces. Vedveer whispers ‘dal baati’ in my ear, just in case I didn’t know what I’m being served. As if.
I can’t believe he actually remembered. On one of my trips to Jaipur, I had the yummiest dal baati ever, a favourite of mine. I told Vedveer that.
Gauri Elena looks dotingly at her son.
‘It’s Aaditha’s favourite,’ Vedveer says as I savour the first.
‘Ninage ishtana?’ Amma asks, smiling. Do you like it?
Navya Mrinalini, who is seated opposite me, is clearing her throat. ‘Brother,’ she calls, ‘do you know what my favourite food is?’
‘I know your allergens, sister,’ Vedveer says.
I have never heard siblings call each other ‘brother’ and ‘sister’. This is all too posh for us akka-anna folks.
‘Favourites, brother?’ she presses.
Vedveer is trying not to smile. He looks away from his sister, and his gaze strokes my cheeks. I’m trying to swallow that bit of food that is stuck in my throat.