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 ivorylehengaI’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 requestReema.
I want to walk around in thelehengaand the warrior princess blouse, which goes perfectly with my mood.
‘Rajkumari,’ Reema says slowly, making no attempt to relieve me of the jewellery, ‘aabhbahut 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 arepockets inmylehengaand 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 ivorybandhgala. 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 thelehengaand 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.
