‘Why not? It’s about time we have that conversation.’
‘We’ve let our lands waste away for too long!’ I say, holding Father’s gaze. He is across the room from me.
We are looking to upscale our considerable acreage into 100 per cent organic ground. The Green Dream is Rawal Rathore Singh’s vision. Grandfather was before his time.
I’ve been immersed in our holdings since returning from Bengaluru. We have records dating back to the early 1600s. The plan is to survey the palace property first so that we have an estimate of what is required to transfigure our lands. About 60 per cent of our agricultural assets have been wasting for decades, since Grandfather’s health deteriorated.That we haven’t already owned and serviced the land that is ours is a crying shame.
‘Why are you resisting, Yuvraj?’ Father asks. ‘This is the right age, and we are fortunate to have found a suitable match.’
He is toying with a colourful crown-shaped paperweight that is part of the palace memorabilia collection. He is trying not to make eye contact.
Father is so caught up in his own dance – books and whisky – that he wouldn’t know a mall rat from a tree hugger, never mind if Aaditha and I are suited for each other or not.
Gaurav Rathore Singh worships at the altar of indulgence. He’s not a collector of the uber-luxe; no, he lives it. Wheels, wings and whisky, especially if it’s rare, refined and ruinously expensive. But he’s notcurating a museum; he’s savouring an experience.
His dopamine rush hits the moment his back sinks into the buttery Italian leather of his sofa or when a Yamazaki single malt glides down his throat.
Father won’t put a name to it. Won’t call it excess, or even desire. Because to define it would be to limit it, and to rein it in would mean denying himself the one thing he truly loved.
It wasn’t just a taste for the finer things. It was an affair. A full-throttle, all-consuming one.
He heaves himself up from the chair and steps away from the desk. He is preparing for the next question – you can tell by the intensity of the activity. He continues standing, hands crossed over his chest.
The door to the study opens, and Holiday and Hope stroll in. They try to settle against their lounging pillows by the divan before finding spots at the feet of the two humans in the room.
‘Aaditha is a very smart young woman,’ he is saying, ‘to have come up with this idea of a café chain and make such a roaring success of it.’
Prathap Gowda had burnished Aaditha’s abilities to such a fine shine that it reflects in Father’s eyes. There’s no other way he’d know anything about her. There’s nothing much on her anywhere; I have looked.
As far as I can tell, it is the same set of three photographs of Aaditha that are doing the rounds on social media. They are old shots. One is an airport picture, the second one also looks like an airport image, but it could’ve been at a restaurant or hotel, and the third is definitely at a Bengaluru restaurant. They aren’t complimentary shots, but she has done nothing to change the image.
That is the only content on her. COFFEEBefore Books & Bras has a tonne of reels, but Aaditha isn’t in any of them. She has chosen not to.
Aaditha Prathap is a looker. Social media has got it so wrong, the joke is on them.
Her dark hair, parted in the middle and tucked behind her ears, frames her face. The bulk of her hair is swept over one shoulder and left there in a heap, like some industrial arrangement.
Father’s eyes fix on me. It’s as if he’s trying to read my mind like those mentalists in the works of fiction he devours.
Holiday arches his back.
Father walks to the chaise and settles on it.
‘Tell me, what is your impression of Aaditha?’ he asks.
‘Yes, yes, please tell us.’ Mother waltzes into the room, adding to the clutter. ‘I like that picture of the two of you; you’ll look good together,’ she says, waving her index finger at me.
‘What picture?’ Father asks. He’s surprised.
Mother promptly opens her phone and passes it to her husband, who she is seated next to. Her eyes are on me.
‘Charming!’ Father says, looking pointedly in my direction. ‘You are protesting after taking the lady out to dinner?’
‘Protesting?’ Mother asks.
‘We didn’t go out for dinner. We bumped into each other in the hotel lobby, and we spoke.’ I’ve had years of practice at being strait-laced. It comes easy now.
‘This photo doesn’t look like two people who have just bumped into each other.’
