Chapter 21
Vedveer
Colours of Autumn
Father is nursing his afternoon whisky, eyes fixed on an old photograph of mine that Mother had blown up on the wall.
I’m astride Bolt, my favourite steed. The wind is blowing through my hair, and my slightly angled back has soaked up the morning moisture.
‘Remind me again, Veer, who took this photograph?’ he asks.
Gyan, a stable boy who loves clicking photographs, particularly of horses, had caught that frame in a Canon Father gifted him.
Father nods and eyes my empty hands before turning to Bhanu, the butler.
‘Yuvraj isn’t thirsty, hukum,’ he says.
It’s that time of year when we retreat to our country home, Aranya Mahal, for a week’s break before wading into the season’s festivities.
This time, the family has been busy, finalizing dates, circling ceremonies, altering guest lists and being difficult at food tastings, for a wedding neither Aaditha nor I want.
I haven’t contributed to the wedding chatter since my Bengaluru visit four weeks ago, not in the family WhatsApp group or by replying to the emails Mother sends every other minute.
We haven’t heard from the Gowdas, at least not in the way I expected. Had they reached out formally, Father would’ve descended on Ranibagh, where I have been for the most part until a couple of days ago, in a heartbeat.
October at Aranya Mahal, set on a bend of the Banas River, is addictive.
The air is clean, and the light is bright.
This property was hand-picked by my ancestor, Grandfather’s grandfather, Amber Bishan Rathore Singh, in the latter years of his reign as a private hunting lodge and monsoon retreat for the family. It is the wildlife that drew him here.
About a week after I returned from Bengaluru, I caught myself scrolling through social media, looking for Aaditha.
All I found were old reels and photos, some from that polo afternoon.
Her hair was swept over one shoulder, her face without a smudge of make-up, except for a flush-pink lipstick.
I stopped myself more than once. But the more I looked for her name, her face, even a passing mention, the more I regretted how I behaved.
I messaged her. I called her.
She read the messages. She didn’t reply.
She doesn’t pick up when I call.
‘How exactly did this marriage proposal come about?’ I ask Father, employing a casual tone.
Prathap Gowda owes me nothing beyond honouring the Ranibagh contract, which I’ve scrutinized thoroughly.
His daughter, though, should tell me the truth.
Because even if this began as an arranged match, it didn’t stay that way.
It became something more. Something real.
Something that got under my skin (this is not her problem, I know).
But none of that matters now. It’s all in the past.
Father is taken aback for a moment, but his expression hardens quickly.
‘I’m not sure if this is the time for that kind of a question, Veer,’ he says. ‘We’ve finalized dates with the Gowdas, and only the wedding invitations need to be done.’
‘Curious,’ I say, summoning a smile.
‘Prathap Gowda is a top politician and a successful businessman; he and I met in Delhi,’ Father says, pausing to take a sip from his glass. ‘I invited him home, we met again over the next couple of days, and I brought up the alliance with him. We both thought it was an excellent idea.’
‘Who broached the topic of marriage?’ I ask.
‘Why? And why now?’ Father’s face is florid.
‘Why shouldn’t I know the sequence of events?’
‘I take credit. I thought it would work fabulously. And it is, right?’
‘Was that also when you decided on Ranibagh?’ I ask about his decision to lease, something he had been so reluctant to do, literally until now.
Father pushes back in his seat and stretches out his legs. ‘Not right then. It is only after you convinced me that we should lease a section of Ranibagh that I took Prathap Gowda into confidence and asked for his opinion.’
‘And he jumped at the idea, just like he did at the proposal?’
Father turns away, refusing to give my accusation the dignity of a response.
Father and I are at the Darikhana Pavilion, a long hall with arches and pillars, which probably served as an informal audience section in the old days.
Mother has turned it into a family room.
The wall is a busy space – shaded portraits, hand-drawn maps and hunting trophies – detailing the estate’s story.
A striking oil portrait of a bejewelled Amber Bishan Rathore Singh, seated on his throne with a hawk perched on his gloved hand, is the centrepiece of the construction we face.
Flanking him are photographs of princes and royal cousins in riding boots, polo sticks slung over their shoulders.
Another painting, this one sourced by Mother, is colourful, with ladies in saris marching to the riverfront.
I’m looking at the art before me, trying to focus on it, but I’m shifting in my seat and shuffling thoughts in my head.
‘Like me, Aaditha isn’t in the know of the plans made by our fathers?’
Father moves forward in his seat. ‘God, no! The princess-to-be has no idea.’ His eyes widen, and he’s shaking his head. ‘I wanted to play safe with Ranibagh, Veer; that’s why I went to Prathap Gowda.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I ask. I have my doubts. Father is prone to assuming, especially when he trusts someone.
‘We made that pact. Prathap and I.’ Father’s nostrils flare as he speaks.
Father looks away before turning to me. ‘He is a man of his word,’ he says, his right fist landing on his left palm in a punch.
‘I know his ambition has earned him a reputation, but he’s also known as an upright individual in the corridors of power.
I have done my homework. You know I am diligent with that. ’
My throat tightens, the kind of shock that doesn’t show but stays.
‘Are these questions the reason you haven’t shaved?’ Father asks. He is on his feet now.
My fingers are on my chin, sticking into my stubble.
‘It doesn’t suit you, Veer!’
I’m nodding, though I don’t know at what exactly.
Father continues to speak, but my senses are shutting down. I can see him; his mouth is moving, but I no longer hear him.
What have I done? The insults I hurled at Aaditha come back in a steady stream.
I know what exactly you and your father are up to.
Co-conspirator and all…?
Ranibagh is mine; it’s the home of the Rathores, and that’s how it will stay.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had some especially tardy ones, too.
Is that your uniform?
The worst, and the one that comes strongest at me, a left hook, is that she tried to make me understand.
No, Vedveer. I’ll say this just once – you have got it all wrong.
It’s not maths. It’s not even logic. I wasn’t thinking straight. Of course, I wasn’t. Why?
When I walked into her office that morning, she was surprised to see me, as anyone would be when the person you’re engaged to shows up unannounced.
That’s how she was seeing things. Yes, I had called her, but the call didn’t go through, and she hadn’t checked notifications, which, for me, was the final straw that morning.
Aaditha held up her phone and showed me that she hadn’t checked the notifications that were right there.
She was being transparent; she was apologizing. I was bleeding. I was blind with fury.
Looking back at that morning now, she probably thought I was there because of the newspaper article.
When I launched into her – insults flying one after another – she was taken aback. I saw it play on her face then, but I thought she was pretending, manipulating the situation.
We are done here.
Those words have sat heavily on me these last weeks because I can’t do anything about them.
I can’t delete, I can’t proceed.
I signed the lease papers and ploughed ahead with our Green Dream.
The wedding plans are in place, and fortunately for me, there is no move from the Gowdas to end things.
In quieter moments, I have asked myself whether I really couldn’t do anything about breaking this alliance or was it that I did not want to do anything?
The truth is, I didn’t want to follow up on my words, even when I felt that she was in cahoots with her father.
‘Why are you asking me these questions?’ Father asks, clapping his hands, reminding me that he is in the room.
‘I should be in the know of details?’
‘Fair enough,’ he says, turning away from me.
Mother and Navya, who were out for another round of food tasting, this one for the one function we are having at Aranya Mahal, walk into the room. Navya with her sunglasses and Mother with her ever-flushed face.
‘You have been extremely busy this past month. All work and no play is not a good thing, Yuvraj,’ Father says. ‘And please shave. You look like a grief-stricken majnun. You are getting married, not being sent to jail.’
Mother has been doing all the planning for the wedding celebrations, which are to extend across seven days from 16 to 22 December.
Before we arrived at Aranya Mahal, Mother had Ratan Singh (possibly because I had stopped replying to her) mail me a tentative schedule, which read like the grand wedding extravaganza (starring the groom, co-starring culture, with a cameo by the bride and her family).
Even though she amended that quickly, coming up with a swagatham sabha – a welcome with honour on day two – she is now fretting about the food.
She planned a ceremony after consultations with the palace head priest, blending customs of both sides, which was to be followed by a southern-style vegetarian lunch, served on banana leaves.
She is at her wits’ end now because there is no chef in all of Rajasthan who can come up with authentic fare to serve on a banana leaf.
‘We need to have cooks flown in from Bengaluru or other parts of Karnataka for the food tasting,’ she says, sitting up straight. ‘Maybe we’ll invite a few gourmet caterers over the next couple of weeks and make a decision.’