I can bet my parents hadn’t laid eyes onTittleTattleuntil the incognito story broke. They may have heard whispers of the kind of gossip that features onTittleTattle, especially after our association with the Rathores became a thing of national interest, but it isn’t a page they would click to read ever.
I’m almost certain Alia is the one who told my parents about the article.
I had consciously kept the Lakshmi Bar meetings from my sister because I knew she’d lose it, and sure enough, she did the moment she saw the pictures.
‘I don’t understand why you’re encouraging thisrowdybehaviour,’ Amma scolded Appa.
Appa took his cue and turned on me. ‘What if a fight broke out?’ he asked. ‘What would you have done?’
Even restaurants where you pay two or three thousand bucks for a smooth cocktail have seen violence. If a fight had broken out, we would’ve left immediately; that’s the plan always.
At first, theTittleTattlepiece made me angry. I was outraged; it was an invasion of privacy. That this happened in the city I call home was hard to digest, not that boundaries haven’t been violated in Bengaluru before, but this felt like a loss of ground.
Raju told me that Lakshmi Bar’s clientele had doubled and trebled since the story broke. A neighbourhood watering hole had become a place of great curiosity, even in Bengaluru, where folks just go about their own business. A younger demographic in general, and more women, particularly, visit Lakshmi Bar these days.
I couldn’t help thinking that to the LBDs, this hidey-hole was gone forever…
Raju did some digging and concluded that it was thewatchman at the bar who may have unwittingly pointed the paps in my direction.
Apparently, there had been enquiries a few days earlier about an Aaditha Prathap, whohad been frequenting Lakshmi Bar. Since no one there knew me, let alone as the finance minister’s daughter, the answer was a firm no. But the question was floating in the wind. Eventually, the watchman, even if unknowingly, gave the game away by pointing at the group.
I was already mad at Vedveer before theTittleTattlepiece dropped, and with good reason. But this, the uproar his presence in my life has caused, has taken it to a different level.
Stylists, designers and jewellers are reaching for me from every direction. Bangles are being replaced by armlets, somebody else is fixing anklets, I feel fingers on my earlobes and a pair of hands in my hair.
I’m nudged to a standing position, like I am a display doll. I’m half-draped in a cloud of silk, an outfit that covers one shoulder and falls to the floor in a heap. It is a lot of fabric, only some of which is on me.
I try to smile, looking for humour in a cluttered space that is steadily crushing my spirit.
Amma, whose allergy is threatening, is trying hard not to sneeze into a length of Banarasi tissue that stands next to her. She brushes her nostrils with her index finger, knuckling it, looking for relief.
There arelehengas in every shade of gold – rose gold, dusky gold, champagne gold, confused gold – and I’ve been encouraged to ‘feel the energy’ of every colour before I make a choice.
There’s a blouse on the railing that looks more like an upholstered cushion. I giggle, and Reema turns to ask if I need anything.
On my left, a slightly built man, dressed in a quilted skirt, grunts as he holds up alehenga. I shudder; it must weigh a tonne.
‘It’s minimal by Rathore standards,’ he cajoles, turning to face me.
I was introduced to the folks who are looking to dress me up as soon as I arrived: ‘so, so and so from the House of Dadlanis,’ or ‘she, she and he from Malini & Mehta’. I stop trying to put names to the faces because of the numbers I’m dealing with.
Behind the quilted skirt, an employee from acouturelineand aKanjeevaramadvocate with an accent are locked in a silenttussle, trying to stare down the other.
Reema is using a rose water sprinkler, which she came armed with, a little too generously.
She is stretched, managing delicate egos and rising decibels. She moves around the room slowly, brokering peace and pleading for patience; when nothing else works, she leans on the rose water.
‘Ranisa said everybody will get a chance,’ she implores.
‘She should wear her heritage,’ an anglicized accent declares. The Kanjeevaram advocate?
If I were ever to get married, I would definitely wear Amma’s beloved yarn – Mysore and Kanjeevaram – for a couple of events, but I’m not going to finalize those drapes from this mix. That’s like travelling to Jaipur to eat Mysore masala dosa.
It would be cruel to drop that on them now, so if they want to believe I am going to advertise their style and workmanship, I’m happy to humour them for the time being.
Never before in my life have I been held captive in the manner I am this morning. Every time my hand is free, I use it to reach for the glass of rose water, which is placed on a sparkling silvercoaster. I even pull off a few neck rotations to ease the anxiety.
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.
