Chapter 18 Aaditha - Coming Apart Beautifully
Aaditha
Coming Apart Beautifully
Aaditha’s Journal
Bittersweet Brew: Notes from the In-Between
Was out all day yesterday. Mohit and I left for Kodagu early in the morning (4 a.m.) to look at coffee estates.
The plan has always been that COFFEE Before Books one of the estates just came up in the market, and I thought it was best to make a move.
I’ve been meaning to tell Vedveer about this, take his advice even. Maybe I’ll chew his brains on it tomorrow now that I have the details.
Meanwhile, things are happening.
So, we finally know why Appa went for this proposal… to serve his political ambition. I, of all people, should’ve known. Like Appa, I dream big. Like Appa, I don’t know when to stop; we keep going and going. There’s always the possibility of reaching the top.
Appa probably sees the Rathores as a passage to political prominence on the national stage.
He doesn’t need to win an election in the north; his own brilliance and popularity here are enough, and he knows that.
What he needs is approval in the corridors of power in New Delhi.
That’s where the Rathore nod might come into play.
I was so busy questioning why the Rathores would be okay with an alliance that’s so culturally distant from them, I forgot to ask the same question of Appa (all in my head, of course; I wasn’t knocking on doors, asking questions).
But the question about the Rathores still sticks: Why did they agree to this proposal? The truth is, they approached us. So why?
The newspaper report raised the question halfway through the story and answered it in the very next line. The alliance is linked to a friendship between the fathers.
What friendship? Alia and I were never introduced to this family.
No mention was ever made of the Rathores of Jaipur, growing up or even in recent years.
The Rathores of Jaipur were part of the curriculum; the section was called The Royal Families of Independent India, and the Rathores had an entire chapter to themselves.
I only read the article late last night after Alia alerted me to it. I wonder if Vedveer has read it too.
My heart feels heavy, like a boulder is sitting on it.
I lean back in my seat and listen to the rain for a bit.
It’s almost 9 a.m., and the rain is behaving like a rebellious intern, showing up early and throwing everyone off.
In Bengaluru, even the skies have a routine.
A respectable drizzle around 6 p.m. or 7 p.m., just as half the city is trying to get home without becoming soup.
Sometimes, we get a little early morning drama, but the skies usually clean up their act before we step out for work.
The rain is manageable when we start out, but en route, it comes down so hard we actually stop for twenty minutes.
I am appreciative of these Ikea wheels – that are carrying physical weight while supporting the heaviness inside me. There’s a knock on the door. Before I swivel around in my chair, thinking, Whoever it is, I will ask them to come back later, the door opens.
Vedveer – in blue denims and a buttoned-up navy shirt, face wiped clean of a smile – is standing there.
I shake my head and exhale. In that moment, I’m grateful that it is him and he is here. I don’t know why. My face reflects gratitude.
‘Hello,’ Vedveer says. His voice is rough, like the weather. It is a plain hello, no Aaditha… which is how he always greets me, saying my name like he is memorizing it.
‘Hi!’ I reply. ‘What brings you to Bengaluru?’ I ask, and before he can reply, I say, ‘Not our best weather today.’
Do I need to come around my desk and greet him?
This morning, he and I are not a good vibe. Just as well that we have this massive mahogany desk between us.
Vedveer is looking at me like I’m a book, the pages of which he is trying hard to read.
He’s probably here because of the newspaper article. If that’s the case, I suppose it’s decent of him to show up at my door – unannounced, sure – but still better than just calling. Though, to be honest, a phone call might’ve done the job just fine.
I’m opening and closing my palm, and Vedveer’s eyes are on my hand.
He pulls back a chair and takes a seat; he is breathing hard. My feet are bare and are shifting under the table, looking for my kitten heels.
‘Looking for your footwear?’ he asks.
I laugh, and he finally smiles. He had fished out my sandals from under the table the last time he was here.
‘Coffee?’ I ask without thinking but correct myself quickly. ‘Tea? Masala chai?’
Vedveer nods. His second attempt at a smile this morning is a shoddy half-effort. His eyes are without their characteristic sparkle; they look spent.
I should’ve maybe explained that the tea is freshly brewed, because who knows how these finicky folks drink their tea. I’m second-guessing myself.
Vedveer’s eyes haven’t left my face, nor has the troubled strain diluted. He clenches his jaw.
I pick up the intercom and place the order. ‘One masala chai, one cappuccino, for me,’ I say, before adding, ‘and yes, the bakery basket.’ Mohit is trying to tell me something, which I realize only after I disconnect the intercom.
‘How have you been?’ I ask.
‘Things,’ he says slowly. ‘I’ve been busy.’
Things. He’s always economical with words, but today, he is penurious.
You don’t travel a thousand miles by air unless something’s really eating at you.
The newspaper article?
Something else?
Is it etiquette that forbids him from bringing up whatever it is he has come here to talk about until the tray has come and gone? Is that a royal custom?
‘I’ve been caught up with work,’ he clarifies, looking around the room.
The silence is awkward, but I let it lie, allowing it to extend, seconds into minutes.
There is a knock on the door; the beverages arrive. I look at my watch; it has been seven minutes since I placed the order. The wait is longer than usual, because of the tea, I presume.
No sooner is the tray placed on the table than I notice Vedveer inhaling the aroma.
I pat my back mentally; our tea is on par.
I look more closely at the cup. It isn’t masala chai; it is a yellowish liquid.
Has Mohit served turmeric tea when I specifically asked for masala chai?
Is that what he was trying to tell me, that we had run out of masala chai, when I hastily disconnected the phone?
Vedveer picks up his cup and raises it on a celebratory note before sipping his beverage.
‘That’s not masala chai,’ I say. I’m sure he’s aware; he’s a connoisseur, but still, I should let him know.
‘It’s oolong,’ he says with a flicker of a smile. ‘You should try it sometime; it’s very good.’
I nod. Drink tea, that is the only thing left for me to do!
Vedveer takes another sip of this ‘very good’ oolong tea, which I didn’t know we had on our menu, and reaches for the banana bread cookie I’m eyeing.
There are three cookies, but only one is banana bread. He hasn’t bothered offering me before helping himself. So what if he’s the guest or if he is hungry?
I pick up the phone and ask for another banana bread cookie. Our eyes meet across the table for a brief moment.
I’m looking at Vedveer from the corner of my eye. I’m breathing hard, and the colour on my cheeks heightens. I feel the burn.
The single 60-gram banana bread cookie arrives on our signature cookie plate. I pick up the biscuit and bite into it.
I push back in my seat, draw one foot up on the chair and cradle the mug in my hand.
‘Aadheethha.’ He says my name for the first time in the morning. ‘I called you yesterday.’
I blink. ‘I didn’t get a call from you,’ I say.
Actually, I didn’t get a call from anyone. I called Appa and then Alia later in the night.
Vedveer is locking and unlocking his fingers. ‘It didn’t ring,’ he says, ‘but you would have got notifications.’
For most of the day, wherever we were yesterday, the reception was poor, but I didn’t get any notifications. I pull out my phone to show him why I had no idea that he had called, when I find six missed call notifications from Vedveer. Six.
‘I’m sorry, I was out on a day trip to Kodagu, and I didn’t check the notifications after we returned,’ I say, holding up my phone, acknowledging my mistake.
He nods. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
For a moment, I think he is asking why I hadn’t told him I was going to Madikeri, when I realize that he’s talking about the newspaper article. ‘Because I didn’t know.’
‘How?’ he asks, gesturing with his hands and shoulders, which rise in a befuddled expression.
‘How would I know what Appa’s political ambitions are?’
Vedveer is shaking his head disbelievingly.
‘Too late,’ he says, breathing hard. I watch his chest heave. ‘I know what exactly you and your father are up to.’
My eyes widen with shock. I lift the mug to my mouth; my hand shakes, and a drop of coffee dribbles down the cup.
‘It is in the newspapers!’ I say slowly. ‘If you’ve come all the way to tell me something, I hope it’s worth my time at least.’
Vedveer leans back and takes another sip of his oolong tea. ‘You could have just told me,’ he says. The colour of his eyes doesn’t appear different at this moment. They are both dark and distant.
‘Co-conspirator and all…?’
How on earth could I have scripted Appa’s political dreams? Seriously, is this who he thinks I am?
‘First, you want me to come up with a break-up plan; you are so desperate to end things,’ he says, his voice calm. ‘Then you announce the location of your café in Jaipur during the interview without so much as mentioning it to me, even though you signed on that well before I came into your life.’
What is he saying? I shake my head.
‘An elaborate, layered plan.’
A plainly worded accusation, that I positioned COFFEE Before Books & Bras just outside the gates of his precious palace to anchor myself in his life.