I messaged. I called. I’ve been virtually stalking her. She refuses to take my calls. Hell, she refuses to look at me even.
She ignored me all morning and afternoon, and now we’re walking side by side. My palm rests against the bare warmth of her back, but the silence between us is louder than ever. She’s built a quiet boundary, and even in this closeness, I can feel the distance she’s determined to keep.
I look at her hands again, needing to be sure. They are bare, completely. My heart slams against my chest, pushed towards a truth it’s not ready to hold. My breath grows shallow.
Aaditha knows I have noticed; she looks up at me and smiles. The only piece of jewellery she has on is a pair of ornate earrings, which I may have seen on Mother.
I take a deep breath. I have to play the part for the next few minutes, and then we will talk. I’m determined.
Aaditha and I are the guests of honour at the premiere of the Hollywood movie shot in Jaipur.
The five-minute drive to the Art Deco Cinema is done in an unquietsilence. I can’t make up my mind on how exactly to word the question playing on loop in my head.
Where is your engagement ring? That would be too direct. Borderline rude, maybe.
I’m staring at Aaditha’s palm, which is opening and closing, maybe because I think that she has hidden it in her clasp.
Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring? Authoritarian?
I arrive at something somewhat cooler: Lost your ring?
By the time I pick the tone, we have reached.
I get around the hood of the car quickly, lending her a hand as she steps out onto the red carpet. This time, she mouths a thank you, her gaze holding mine. Her fragrance, jasmine in bloom, fills me.
We move together and wave at Jaipur. She isn’t hitching the skirt of her gown now.
Aaditha wears her brightest smile for the people before turning sharply in the direction of the Art Deco Cinema.
The drone cameras are at work above us; searchlights sweep across the sky. At the other end, paparazzi bulbs flash at us.
Waves of ‘Yuvraj, Rajkumari, Yuvraj, Rajkumari’ charge the late-evening air.
My palm is on the small of her back. I feel her shudder.
We pose for the cameras, perfectly in sync. I’m standing by her, closer than usual, maybe because I want to make up for the fact that she isn’t wearing her engagement ring or that the crowds are only 60–70 yards away from us, and I fear she will float away into the night.
As we pause one more time on the carpet, the photographers are shouting both our names. ‘Yuvrajji, Rajkumari’, ‘please look here’,‘ek baar aur’.
Inside, the hall is a blur of velvet seats and champagne flutes. We take our places in the front row while the director makes his speech on ‘the spirit of Jaipur’ and ‘how generous and gracious the royal family has been.’
‘Have you lost your ring?’ The tone is harsher than I intended it to be, and I regret it immediately.
‘Which ring?’ she asks, looking surprised and straightening her back, all at the same time. ‘The one you put on me for the paparazzi?’
I hear myself exhale. She is being deliberately flippant. ‘What are you saying?’ I ask
She pats my hand gently, her eyes directed to the screen. ‘We’re at the cinema, Your Highness.’
I choke back a snort.
The lights dim, the film starts. A sweeping shot of the Aravallis fills the screen, but all I can see are Aaditha’s naked fingers, which are now waving at me from the armrest between us.
TittleTattle
Gupshup Column
The Case of the Missing Ring. YIKES!
