‘Aaditha Prathap,’ Raju announces. He likes tacking on my father’s name to mine every now and then as if it were a condiment he’s adding for taste. ‘What has happened to you?’
I can read the lines on his otherwise happy face. The more disquieted he is, the brighter his smile becomes.
‘A nightmare!’ I say.
His brows scrunch, replicating the ruling of a notebook.
I lounge in my room wearing my brightest smile.
My song list is playing… Dua Lipa.
Diamonds under my eyes
Turn the rhythm up, don’t you wanna just
Come along for the ride?
An imaginary circlet that readsSuper Proud Momis sitting on my head.
COFFEE Before Books & Bras is on the verge of going international.My baby.I exhale – a full-body whoosh of joy.
We’re in four metros – Chennai, Mumbai, Delhi and Kolkata – plus Bengaluru. We’ve locked locations at two major tourist destinations – Goa and Jaipur. And if all goes well, we’ll be inNew York in twelve months.
The intercom cuts through my euphoria, jolting me. It’s late.
‘We want to chat with you,’ Appa says. There’s an odd lightness to his voice. ‘We are coming to your room.’
I spoke with my parents after I signed the papers, so I’m not sure what this conversation at almost 11 p.m. is going to be about.Talkingisn’t exactly a Prathap family pastime. We show up for each other, yes, but real conversations? Those only happen when something has to besaid.
Appa is in customary whites, and Amma’s sari is a non-committal beige. They are still in their day clothes.
‘Is Akka okay?’ I ask of Alia, my older sister. We are a decade apart in age and separated by oceans; she lives in sunny California. Her marriage of almost eleven years is as cold as the meat in the freezer. There’s a new calm to her voice these days. I don’t trust it, but it’s better than the silence that filled our conversations.
‘Yes.’ The breathless answer comes from Amma. Alia is okay. Amma’s eyes are bright as she attempts to square her sloped shoulders, the only physical feature of hers I seem to have taken after.
‘Aashi,’ Appa says, bringing my second name, Asha, into that the mix, before adding with a smile, ‘there’s…’
He pauses. A second that drags forever.
‘Yes?’ I urge, my heart pounding. This does not sound good.
‘A boy.’
‘A boy?’ I shriek in horror, knowing fully well what those words mean.
It’s part of the curriculum in girls’ schools. The chapter is titled ‘When your parents tell you there’s a boy’. The legend reads shipwrecked. Guidance: Run.
My heart drops to the floor of my stomach and lies there, dead weight.
What are they thinking? I don’t want to get into an anodyne arrangement. This family doesn’t need another.
Who? Where? Why? The Ws rattle against my parietals. If I ask the question, I ratify the reason they walked in here for, but I need information to put an end to this.
‘The boy,’ Appa repeats slowly, like he is raising the bidding price at an auction.
‘He has a nice, long name – Vedveer Rathore Singh – and he’s an excellent young man. I believe royals have long names; it is tradition. Maybe that’s why you, too, have a first and second name!’
Appa tries to slip the royal bit casually, but that’s the peg he hangs his smile on.
