Chapter 22 #2
The room is quiet for the most part, save for the din of intermittent conversation.
Instrumental music is playing in the background.
Every once in a while, a newbie in the business buzzes into the room holding an iPad, saying, ‘The embroidery’s en route from Lucknow!
’ or ‘The veil has reached Amritsar!’ as if announcing positions of drivers in a cross-country rally.
I cough softly into my hand, feigning an allergy I obviously don’t have, to keep the make-up artists at bay.
A lady whispers into my ear, ‘Soft glam; we’ll keep it light and make it quick.’ I decline with another bout of coughing; this time, it’s an exaggerated sound. ‘It’s persistent,’ I say, brushing my nose with the back of my hand.
I have to dress up this evening, and there is no way I’m having someone paint my skin so early in the day, only to take it off and put it on a few hours later. It’s my skin, not a brick wall waiting for a coat of primer.
I walked in wearing tinted sunscreen on blue jeans, and that is exactly how I’m going to walk out of this place in an hour or two, hopefully.
I have already warned: no nail extensions for me. I don’t want to call out for help each time I need to peel off a sweat-soaked sports bra. I keep my nails short; they are shaped square always. That is non-negotiable.
I only have to nod, and they’ll be fixing fake eyelashes on me.
I’m finally in the ivory lehenga I’d been eyeing since I walked into the room. It weighs as much as me.
I have diamonds on my neck and chandeliers in my ears. I get on my feet, only to sink back into the divan before pushing myself back on my feet.
I’m before a full-length mirror. I like how I look, except that it is laborious.
‘Can you take the necklace and earrings off, please?’ I request Reema.
I want to walk around in the lehenga and the warrior princess blouse, which goes perfectly with my mood.
‘Rajkumari,’ Reema says slowly, making no attempt to relieve me of the jewellery, ‘aabh bahut pyaaree lag rahee ho.’
I beam my brightest smile and point at my neck.
Amma is on her feet, adjusting her pleats. ‘Nanu idhara sanna konege hoguttiddene.’ She has had enough of this demonstration and is retiring to the antechamber.
I’m going to follow her there as soon as I can lose these people. I want to FaceTime Alia and show her this outfit, without the over-the-top contraption around my neck. I’m not planning to give it away, though, rest assured; it could sponsor my next store.
If this wedding actually goes through (because you never know), I hope these folks understand I’m getting married, not walking the ramp for a jewellery store.
Reema works the sparkling necklace off me slowly, and I feel lighter instantly. Now all I need are pockets in my lehenga and a pair of kitten heels. I’d be good for a round of Kalari.
I wander out of the room barefoot through an unguarded back entrance, careful not to catch anyone’s attention.
I’m looking for the antechamber Amma disappeared into.
I emerge at one end of a high-ceilinged corridor with old hunting swords mounted above long teak mirrors.
In a corner, on a settee not far from where I’m standing, an embroiderer is hand-stitching the Rathore crest onto a silk pocket square.
As I make my way down the marbled flooring, looking for the door that could lead me to the antechamber, I notice some commotion down the other end. My step slows down, my heart is racing, people are rushing around, stepping over things and speaking in raised voices.
Someone has lost the turban pin that belonged to Vedveer’s great-grandfather.
My eyes wander, and I spot him – Vedveer Rathore Singh – my obnoxious fiancé who didn’t miss a beat before marching into my office and berating me six weeks ago.
He is coming through a hallway wearing an ivory bandhgala.
It is the first time, since he was in my office, that we are in the same postcode.
‘It’s on me,’ he announces, and just like that, the rush around him recedes.
I’m right across from him. He hasn’t seen me yet and is moving forward in my direction. There’s a lengthy floor space between us.
It’s the tinkle of the anklets I wear that catches his attention, and he looks up at my effortlessly contorted face. He’s not smiling, his mouth is slightly open, and he’s breathing hard. He waves to me, gesturing for me to stop.
I hitch the lehenga and hasten my step. I’m a couple of feet away from a door that I think might lead me to the antechamber, and Vedveer pauses mid-stride.
Our eyes meet for a split second.
His lips are a straight line, and my heart is hammering madly.
‘Aaditha,’ he says. I hear him breathe. ‘You arrived last evening.’
These are the first words he has said to me after telling me, We are done here.
He called, sent me a few tepid messages that didn’t really scream accountability or say I am sorry. In the last couple of weeks, there were more messages. I stopped reading them.
‘Rajkumari.’ I hear Reema; she is behind me somewhere.
I need my phone but realize that it is with Reema. I turn around to face her and use my right hand to signal telephone.
‘Phone!’ she exclaims and darts in the direction of the hall.
When I turn, I’m face to face with Vedveer. I hadn’t realized, but I’d been walking on my toes to accommodate the length of the skirt, perhaps. I sway slightly to my right, trying to balance as I let myself down. Vedveer reaches out to steady me, and I instinctively take a step back.
‘Aaditha,’ he says softly, attempting a smile. The mid-morning light catches his eyes, only for a moment.
I feel the corners of my lips betray me before I clamp down on them and turn to the direction of what I think is the antechamber. It has to be one of these doors.
I want to say, I thought we were done, but I am not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that those words singed.
As I open the door, I notice Vedveer’s gaze has dropped to my hand. At first, I think his eyes are on the armlet, but I realize his gaze is on my fingers. I lift my ring-free hand and wave a dismissive goodbye at him.
You and Kairi Gaur can waltz into the sunset for all I care!
I hope he knows he has lost me as a friend – and anything more we possibly could have been.
Amma is stretched out on a recliner sofa in the antechamber; her feet are bare, and her hands are toying with her phone. She is alone in the room.
Where is Reema? I need my phone.
‘Reema,’ I call, knowing fully well she is not around. As if on cue, the main door opens, and Reema, who is wearing a frazzled expression, stumbles into the light. She is clutching my phone.
‘Where was it?’ I ask.
‘It was on the tray,’ she says.
‘What tray?’
‘Jalebi tray!’
I laugh out loud even as I wonder what a tray of juicy jalebis is doing in a room full of pinched waistlines.
I sit down and click on WhatsApp.
Me: Ran into VRS, trying to talk. Duh!
Lavanya is online but takes a minute to start typing.
Lovey: Why are you only messaging now? Worried sick! I was about to call Neela Aunty and check if you guys are ok.
Lovey: Reaction?
Me: Icy. I waved my ringless fingers at him! More later.
I put my phone down and twirl for Amma, who is wearing an uncertain expression. It’s the colour of the dupatta, she says, before dialling Alia.
I remove the third dupatta of the morning with a frustrated sigh that I hope echoes across these grounds and beyond. I’m annoyed, but I’m also feeling alive suddenly.
Reema picks up a peach dupatta with flap-happy birds in French knots and brings it to me.
Alia, who is nudged awake by her ringtone, says, ‘Try that.’ She is pointing at the fabric Reema is holding up.
‘I’ve tried three shades of “sunset blush” in two hours,’ I say.
‘One more won’t hurt then,’ my sister comes back. She’s sitting up on her king-sized bed, her body wrapped in a quilt. ‘This is for the evening, yeah?’
I nod.
Reema leaves the room and returns with a different pair of earrings in the hope that they will make a difference.
‘These earrings weigh more than my opinions.’
Alia laughs, sounding more like the sister I know.
‘I can’t really say if it’s working. I’m not getting a full picture because when you step back, the image blurs,’ she tells me, peering into her phone. ‘I love the lehenga; you can’t go wrong with ivory. It’s the dupatta that I’m not sure about.’
I return to the Sahitya Sabha, and I try on lehengas and saris in every shade the human eye can register and a few it probably shouldn’t.
Meanwhile, I’m one drape away from collapsing into a pile of sequins.
I’m fed bites of salad between my trials, but I need more. I stab my fork into a cherry tomato sitting on a pile of greens and shove it into my mouth. The salt in the crumbled feta is life-giving. I repeat the exercise twice, thrice before reaching for the rose water.
My eyes are on the doorway. I need to lose Reema and get out of here. A door opens, and late-afternoon light spills into a narrow passage. My eyes follow the light, and my feet respond to the cue. It’s an opening. I look over my shoulder; I can’t see Reema anywhere. I make a dash for the exit.
I cross another corridor. This one is narrower, and I enter a rectangular room. I’m welcomed by the soft scent of sandalwood. The room feels cooler than the space I just exited.
I settle on a sofa and look around me. The wall is lined with portraits of women, queens, maybe. I sigh and shut my eyes. Barely a minute passes when I hear the creak of the door, which is followed by a flood of light, as if to announce an entry.
‘Here you are, Aaditha.’ It is Gauri Elena’s voice. ‘That child, the intern, is running all over the palace looking for you.’
I blink.
‘She must have told you I was looking for you and forgot all about it! She’s just twenty-two but can’t remember a thing!’
I’m on my feet, deferring to Gauri Elena, who takes a seat next to me. She’s dressed in soft silks and pearls and is carrying a velvet box, which she flicks open before reaching over and placing it before me. An uncut polki kada, set in gold, fills the box.
‘This was given to me by my mother-in-law,’ she says. Her back is straight, and her eyes are soft. ‘She gave it to me on the morning of my wedding.’
I nod.
‘She didn’t say much; she wasn’t a woman of many words,’ the ranisa continues, lifting the thick bangle and placing it on my wrist. ‘But she reminded me that women like us carry a huge weight, but we must always bear it with grace.’
I wonder what the ranisa is getting at. Is this a reaction to the TittleTattle story?
‘We don’t expect you to wear it every day,’ Gauri Elena says with a smile. ‘But every time you look at it, let it remind you of who you are and who you represent.’
I’m being told off, and I’m not pleased.
I want to say, I don’t need this added weight. My own is more than enough, and I don’t need a piece of jewellery to remind me of who I am.
My eyes drop to my wrist and skim the gold; it is solid, full and slightly oversized. A perfect fit, somehow.
‘Thank you,’ I say reluctantly.
‘Welcome to the family, Rajkumari,’ she says, her fingers warm on my cheeks, when the door behind me opens.
‘There you are, Rajkumari. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ My phone is in Reema’s hand.
The ranisa smiles. ‘You are so forgetful. You told Aaditha to wait for me here but forgot all about it!’
Reema is confused. I could’ve clarified that I was running away from Reema, but I let it pass.
The door opens again. I almost curse. This time, it is Vedveer.
‘Aaditha,’ he exhales. His gaze goes over Reema but doesn’t reach his mother.
Reema spins around, bows to the prince and rushes out of the room.
‘Are you looking for your bride, Yuvraj?’ Gauri Elena asks.
Vedveer nods and walks towards me. His eyes are dark, and regret is etched on his features.
I’m on my feet. ‘We met earlier and had a long conversation,’ I say, smiling at the mother first and then the son. ‘I think he’s looking for you.’ My voice is honey-smooth.
Vedveer opens his mouth and then shuts it; his eyes are glued on me.
Gauri Elena is beaming. ‘Yuvraj,’ she says, directing her gaze at the sofa I just vacated.
‘Now go and rest some before you head out for the evening. All eyes will be on the both of you,’ she says of the grand premiere of the Hollywood epic that was shot in Jaipur. ‘Go away before someone comes at you with another piece of cloth.’
Her laugh is rhythmic; it floats around me as I leave the room.