I shrug. Father has read too much fiction.
‘And who is this fellow she’s having coffee with at her café?’
‘What fellow?’ My tone is even, but the question breaks out before I have time to consider what I’m saying.
‘There’s a picture of them in the gossip pages your mother reads.’ Father huffs.
‘That’s the last time you’re getting any intel from me.’ Mother looks at her husband adoringly.
‘It seems,’ Father drawls, looking at his wife, ‘our son knows nothing about his fiancée’s other meeting!’
‘Are we playing snakes and ladders here?’ Mother is all smiles.
I’m wading through social media, looking forTittleTattle.
Who isthisguy she’s having coffee with in the open while I’m shoved deep into a bunker-like space she calls an office? I read the piece and learn that the same bloke sent her the roses.
Why did Aaditha pretend like she didn’t know who the flowers were from? There were lilies and verdant fronds, but there were red roses, too. She even asked if I had sent them to her.
‘He’s a good-looking chap,’ Father is saying. ‘Maybe Vedveer is losing his charm!’
‘No way!’ Mother says and ambles across the room to throw her arms around me.
‘Do you like her?’ Father prods.
‘We are very different people.’
‘Opposites attract, right?’ That is Mother sounding like a giddy sixteen-year-old on a night out. ‘I like her, her coffee is great, the family is lovely, even though their house is so bare. Didn’t you think?’
She is looking at me. I nod.
‘I couldn’t get over the interiors. Did you spot a curio even?’
Father laughs.
‘Also, her dressing, very plain, like the walls of her home,’ Mother says.
I didn’t want to counter because that would take this conversation out of orbit.
Aaditha’s style is understated; it goes well with her personality, which is powerful.
Her apparelling is straight and simple, even on a night out with her friend at Kempe Crown. Not the ripped jeans, though, which is more rebel schoolgirl than pathbreaking CEO. Her lips were glossed but shorn of colour. Lush and 2× lovely.
‘I dropped by only to check if you’re here,’ Mother is telling her husband. ‘I’ll be back.’ She pats his hand, and he takes hers to his lips.
I let the room settle.
‘I’m here to talk about our land, Father,’ I say after Mother’s perfume follows her out of her husband’s study. ‘It’s high time we start farming on the acreage that has been wasting away for decades.’
I got on a call with a friend of my grandfather – Prakash Chandra, the last word on organic farming. The octogenarian had visited us for the last time before Grandfather’s health took a turn for the worse in the late 90s.
Prakash Chandra advised that while organic farming afforded sustainable growth, it is only in the long run that it would pay. For now, while it would improve soil structure, water retention and nutrient content, it would send the budget through the roof. Especially given the expanse we are looking at.
The good thing about Father is that he didn’t pretend to be anything he isn’t. Titled and entitled. He takes care of his people and hopes that they take care of the land that is assigned to them. He’s never out in the fields or where the action is; he goes by all that is listed when the accounts come to him at the end of the week. As for the estates that are wasting away, he doesn’t even want to look at those because that mightmean accepting their existence. The reigning monarch is generous and much loved among staff and tenants. He has little or no expectations from them.
‘I’ve been speaking to Prakash Chandra.’
His expression tightens at the mention of the name. ‘The nonsense the old man fills your head with. He is senile. He chews on every piece of leaf he can lay his hands on. What do you expect?!’
