‘Not leaves, Father, medicinal herbs,’ I say. ‘He is a little slow these days, maybe, but far from senile.’
Hope barks; it is a high-pitched sound, and a second later, Holiday joins in.
Father leans forward; his feet are on the floor, and his elbows rest on his knees. His back is bent. He stays in that position for some time.
‘You have some thinking to do,’ he says, straightening his back and tapping the cashmere beside him. ‘Think about the proposal and weigh it all.’
A lot of decisions have been made in this room in the horizontal. Legend has it that I was conceived on this very chaise. Might’ve been an uncomfortable exercise.
‘Veer!’ Father calls.
I hear the desperation in his voice; it drags and bounces off the walls. He is faced with a mountain of a problem. His only son, his heir, is going crazy over organic farming.
‘She’s a lovely girl.’
And just like that, we are back to discussing Aaditha. The door to the study opens, and a valet walks in with Father’s pre-prandial whisky.
I push myself up from the chaise and walk up to an ornate mirror that breaks the layout of a stack of books. I stand there for some time before returning to the chaise, which is vacant now. I pick up my phone and unconsciously hit on Instagram and start scrolling. There are a tonne of pictures and reels of Navya and her beau; there’s growing anticipation of a wedding announcement.
I keep scrolling, ignoring the bulk of the reels, until I see Aaditha in one of them.
She’s attacking a plate of fries; this is a recent take. She is at a nightclub in Mumbai. It is an unfair clip, and the comments are worse.
She’s so fat.
Aloo jaisi.
Rich father, no manners or culture.
Look at her eating.
Eating job she has.
Money to spend.
Bonda hai!
Spoilt rich girl. I feel sad for her.
Suddenly, there are more photographs and reels of Aaditha, a medley that includes old pictures, accompanied by various Bollywood soundtracks. The uncropped image of us on that January night has also surfaced.
I go back to that particular picture and hit on the comments. There are quite a few vile ones, but there are an equal number suggesting something is brewing, and pinning my visit to the city to Aaditha.
I go toTittleTattleand stop at the photograph of Aaditha and the mystery man. If the piece is anything to go by, this meeting took place the same day we met.
I’m breathing hard. It bothers me that I couldn’t pin down Aaditha Prathap.
Who is she: CEO or nepo baby? Single or attached? I try to regulate my breathing. It shouldn’t really matter who she is. I’m looking to put an end to this shoddily scripted charade. I should have done it ten days ago, but I was distracted by the exchange of the previous evening.
Father clears his throat to get my attention. ‘Since it’s all out there now,’ he says softly, ‘you and Aaditha and photographs of your late-evening outing, why don’t you invite her to next weekend’s polo match when we play the Rest?’
What is he saying?
The polo match is an annual palace event, where the Royals take on the Rest. It is a Jaipur tradition, a marked date in society circles. It is when every known face in the country descends on our city. On second thought, it might actually be a good idea to have Aaditha in the same cloud space; it gives us a chance to talk face to face.
‘Not next weekend; it’s in two weeks’ time, Father.’
‘Even better!’ he says, bringing his hands together in a loud clap. Rajkumar, who is dozing on his feet, opens his eyes in a startled reaction.
