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-strickenmajnun.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 aswagatham 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 ofKarnataka 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.’
‘I will ask Neela for help; maybe she can fly in for a day or send Aaditha on her behalf,’ Mother says, winking at me. ‘Wouldn’t you like that!’
‘Why don’t you just let the palace office take care of it?’ I tell her.
‘It is your wedding, Vedveer, the biggest event on the social calendar this year and maybe for a few years!’
I nod.
Navya takes off her sunglasses and looks pointedly at me. ‘You look a mess! Are you unwell, Brother?’
Mother turns to Navya with a what-are-you-talking-about stare. ‘He works too hard,’ she says.
‘You’ve lost weight! What’s up?’ Navya asks.
‘I haven’t shaved, that’s all.’
‘He doesn’t have time,’ Mother says.
‘I’m sure it helps to know that your fiancée is living her best life,’ Navya says.
How does she know? What does she know?
Navya’s eyes shift between Father and me; she is gauging us.
‘What? No one in this family has readTittleTattlein the last week?’
‘It’s not exactly the holy book!’ Father says.
Nayva laughs out loud. ‘It isn’t,’ she agrees, looking at Mother, who appears equally mystified.
I haven’t been on social media for a couple of weeks. I had seen the picture with Kairi, typicalTittleTattlegarbage, but otherwise, I had steered clear. I was out on the field, getting projects on our various properties rolling.
Right now, my fingers are itching to click on the article. If I pull out my phone now, everyone will not only know what I’m doing, but they will also know that Aaditha and I haven’t been in touch in this time.
The parents exchange glances, and Mother reaches for her phone, but Navya decides to put us out of our misery.
She pulls out her tablet, clicks the screen a couple of times and holds up her iPad like a school teacher before her class.
From where I’m seated, I read a headline about someone caught in cosplay.
I look out of the window at the rose garden – yellow, pink, orange and red blooms.
‘You all are unable to read from this distance,’ Navya says, putting her iPad down on her lap. ‘But before I pass my tablet around, I have to say, I’m fascinated by my to-be sister’s ability to live life. She absolutely refuses to be held back.’
The article carries a bunch of photos from Aaditha’s late-evening outing with friends. The disguise is good. I try to keep a straight face. It’s hard to tell it’s her, at least in these pictures. Unless you know the location of the bar.
It is possible to identify her by elimination. The real giveaway is Lavanya Patil, recognizable in society circles. And by association, it won’t take long before someone starts asking who the girl in the baseball cap is.
