Amma is on her feet suddenly. It is almost 11 a.m.; the Rathores will arrive shortly.
‘I’ll hang here until you’re done, and we’ll head out together,’ Lavanya tells me as I pull myself up. ‘I want to think he’ll want an out too…’
I nod. ‘Is that our best bet?’
‘We can make him hate you! Come on, show us some of that Aaditha sass!’
There are four animated people in the room – the maharaj, the maharani and my dear parents. They are all wearing broad smiles and sparking an effusive energy.
The two ladies have not uttered a significant word. They are beaming, nodding and agreeing with everything their husbands are saying. The other two people in this room of generous dimensions, the dude in a duck-egg-blue suit included, have other places they’d rather be.
For all the currents – the nascent and the strong – running through me these past two weeks while contemplating what this proposal could do to my life, this happy vibe is the one pressing against my trachea. I’m suffocating. It isn’t just Amma and Appa who want this alliance to work; the other set of parents match tones. But why? The question pokes at me, not for the first time.
The three Gowdas in residence were in position when the Rathores entered. The visitors were also three in number. They weren’t accompanied by walkie-talkie-powered security details, though a small army of men in charcoal grey had come to secure the premises at No. 5 MG Road before their arrival.
I stand up to greet the guests and am contemplating returning my rear to the sofa when Maharani Gauri Elena (that’s how she is introduced) takes hold of a gold-coloured tray from a liveried attendant, who has just walked through the doorway.
Gauri Elena steps forward in my direction, her expression sunny. I turn nervously to Amma, not knowing what to do. Amma nods before taking my hand in hers and moving it forward to accept the tray bearing gifts.
The wordrokastings my mind; a shiver goes down my back.
The platter, covered in gold net, is carrying what looks like a large jewellery box. It is placed carefully on the table between Amma and Appa, away from me. I look down at my toes and force myself not to think of the tray. The situation can behandled, I remind myself. I have an ally in Vedveer Rathore Singh, though at this point it is only imaginary. I need to push the right buttons, and he’ll bow out of this alliance.
We are seated opposite each other. The men occupy independent seats, and the two women and their offspring are in roomy two-seaters. Our eyes haven’t met, but from his profile, which exceeds the pictures on social media, I can tell that this is one I would drag and drop in the supermodel folder. Not that looks or the lack of it changes anything.
I was clear at the outset itself that I’m not making a dramatic entry, balancing a tray and tripping over the hand-knotted carpet. Amma argued relentlessly, saying there wasn’t going to be a tray; I was only required to walk, one foot in front of the other; they were royals. I stood my ground. This was for me; I was not taking chances. I was not about to wipe the floor with my abs with an audience in attendance.
I was warned not to carry my phone with me. It is in my tote, feeling abandoned.
The brocade curtains are drawn back, and the mid-morning light floods the room. The senior Rathore blinks; the light is too harsh for him, perhaps. My smile broadens at the sight, not because I find it funny, which I would have in normal circumstances, but because my anxiety is triggering strong reactions.
After the initial exchange of greetings, which between Vedveer and me is a couple of nods and half-hearted half-smiles, which I suspect is because neither want to appear interested (hugely encouraging), the conversation swings to geopolitics.
The senior Rathore, who is introduced simply as the maharaj, and Appa are chatting merrily, like old acquaintances. Appa, being Appa (read over-enthusiastic), tries to draw Vedveer into the conversation but is met with little or no success. Some of the baits are ridiculously plain, a cheeryWhat do you think, Yuvraj?A question that may have got a nod or a smile for an answer. I don’t know because I’m not looking.
And why is Appa calling him Yuvraj? Doesn’t he have a name? So what if his father calls him Yuvraj? You are not his dad!
Gauri Elena’s posture defines angles; her legs are folded to the side, knees touching and back erect. Her bejewelled hands are locked in a gentle clasp on her lap. She is in ivory, top to toe, a silk kurta with delicate gold embroidery. A painter’s muse.
If she and I were papped, like her son regularly is, the annotation would have the word ‘twinning’ somewhere in it.
Amma is comfortable; her long arms are wrapped around her right knee, and she is gently rocking back and forth in her seat. She is working off nervous energy. Her head is positioned such that she has everyone except her daughter in full view. A thick string of Mangalurumalligeadorns her thick bun. Amma is bathed in my perfume. She had forgotten to spray herself and so helped herself to generous pumps of jasmine when she dropped by my room – not that she needed it with the flowers in her hair. That is the only fragrance I could tell in a room of mixed scents.
As our long-standing help, Yellamma, rolls the coffee cart into the room, Gauri Elena blinks before her lips lift in a smile. Is she missing her glares? Yellamma’s sari sparks more colours than a Deepawali evening. My nickname for our much-loved Yellamma is ‘Yellacolour’.
Yellamma is among the first helps Amma hired twenty years ago. Initially, she only did the cleaning, but as Appa’s stock soared and we moved to a larger space, she started cooking, too. Now she’s the housekeeper. Yellamma is in her brightest sari today, and her smile matches the drape every inch.
Yellamma, on whom every pair of eyes in the room is fixed, pauses in the middle. She tilts her head in my direction, holds up her hand and says, ‘Baby,tumba muddu.’ Very cute.
Only because it is Yellamma, I didn’t wish the floors below meopen and swallow me. I beam her my first smile of the morning; it is most likely my last for this AM.
Vedveer’s eyes meet mine for the first time this morning, and his lips break into a smile. I don’t think he, like his parents, understands what Yellamma is saying, but he, unlike them, has read the expression. No returning smiles, I’m determined.
Appa takes over from Yellamma, and Vedveer is on his feet too, handing out the beverages. Freshly baked cookies and muffins are passed around, with thank yous and pleases tossed about, but no one is touching a thing, not even the melt-in-the-mouth Mysore Pak. ‘Too early to eat,’ the senior Rathore says, adding that they are not a family who eats breakfast together.
Harmonious, I think, until I notice a teapot in the mix; there are teacups, too. I wonder if it is just an option or if there is indeed a tea drinker in the room.
Gauri Elena takes a sip of her bone-dry cappuccino and looks pointedly at me. She takes another sip and is glaring at me now. Are we about to come to blows?
