‘We should invite the whole family,’ Father adds.
I nod. It’s unlikely that she’d come alone.
This is an opening for me to find out who the real Aaditha is.
Is she the woman I met at her house – self-assured, composed, every bit the business head her father would have us believe? Or the Aaditha I ran into in the colonnade, the one who knew exactly how to kiss a man back so completely that I can’t get her out of my head even weeks later? Or maybe she’s the Aaditha of the morning after, nervous, unsteady, like a stage performer who has forgotten her lines, who then goes out for coffee with Romeo, which she promptly advertises.
‘I’ll call Prathap Gowdaji right away, and Mother would like to spend time with…’
‘Neela,’ I offer. ‘Her mother’s name is Neela.’
‘Yes! Mrs Neela Gowda,’ he says, before raising his voice and adding, ‘The day after the match, the palace will release a wedding announcement. All these photographs circulating without context aren’t good for anyone. We have to keep Aaditha’s reputation in mind; she’s a young girl.’
‘Maybe inviting her to the polo match isn’t such a good idea,’ I wonder aloud.
‘Why?’ Father asks, his brow crinkling.
‘Having Aaditha at Ranibagh will stir unnecessary media speculation.’
Father is staring at me and nodding like he gets the point I am making. But is he?
The Gowdas at the polo game, if anything, will confirm the relationship, after which the palace will be hounded for interviews. The traditional interview of the newly engaged couple done by the national broadcasters will be next on the agenda. We don’t need this attention, not Aaditha or I, not now.
7.
Aaditha
Not the Mint!
the women of the prathap family –amma, alia andi– arrive in Jaipur beneath an afternoon sun nearing its 2 p.m. arc. We are an hour behind schedule, courtesy Bengaluru’s moody weather. But really, late for what? A bunch of grown men on ponies chasing around a ground?
The world is tilting around me, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
My left hand finds Alia’s right. I grip her tight. She nods; her smile is calm and steadying.
I focus on Amma; her seat faces mine. She is draped in a sap green Kanchi cotton sari, her face is bare, no expression, no make-up, and her topknot is couched inMangalurumallige.This is how Amma is dressed most days, save for the emerald and diamond studs and matching bangles.
I like that Amma owns who she is, right down to her clothes – no edits, no second guesses. Alia tries to suggest a Mysore silk sari, but Amma brushes it off with a shrug. Classic Amma. Akka is home for a couple of weeks; she has been drafted in for this affair, and she signed on with zero protest. The bright side? We had a good time over the last few days, after the shopping stress was behind us.
Shortly after Alia’s arrival in Bengaluru, I laid out my tried-and-true pale yellow co-ord set and even presented a few backup options for her approval. She didn’t so much as glance at them. I offered a second outfit, same colour story, but that didn’t merit a look either.
Alia is the family’s style CEO. We’d love to say we aspire to her level, but it takes more commitment than we care to admit.
Amma boarded in her six yards, and Alia, who, like Amma, is lean and tall, also has her game outfit on – a belted houndstooth linen jumpsuit. She wears a diamond bracelet on her wrist and solitaires in her ears.
I changed into a candy-striped off-shoulder dress somewhere mid-air on our hired jet. Alia had chosen it – an almost knee-length chiffon number from a Mumbai designer – after several tedious telephone conversations, where she did all the talking and I was only required to nod.
It arrived two days ago, hand-delivered in a fancy box.
I blink as the doors of the Falcon 20 open. A flood of light flushes into the jet. A strong gust tousles my hair as we head out. I take it as a warning, pressing down the dress that is eager to float at the slightest excuse. This is exactly why I stick to practical clothes. Ruffles are cute until the wind picks up. Salwar, slacks, jeans, now that’s real-world fashion.
We are greeted by a lady whose name escapes me. She apologizes that the maharani isn’t able to receive us herself. (As if! I don’t do the eyeroll.)
Three burly men in ash grey uniforms bearing the Rathore crest stand behind her. They’re apparently our security details for the polo match. Imagine that.
I force myself to take in the surroundings. The air is clean, and the sky is a lively blue. Somewhere in the distance, the Aravallis reach up majestically, merging with the expanse of azure.
A couple of Mercedes are parked a few hundred yards from us.
