Little rivulets are running down my face. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that I look exactly like I do every morning after my workout, face puffed and glistening.
Amma looks like she wakes up in a palace every morning, and Alia, chic in a Ralph Lauren suit, fits the part.
My eyes are on the army of photographers who flank a short flight of stairs. They are jostling for space behind rope barriers, and their cameras are trained on the Maybach. I feel my body cave into the leather. My head turns to face Alia, who points at the opening car door. A light afternoon breeze brushes against my bare legs, and my hands splay across the skirt of my dress instinctively. The thought of pulling my sling over my facecrosses my mind, but my hands are otherwise engaged.
There’s a buzz of noise all around me. People jostling, voices shouting instructions and the constant click of cameras. ‘Abhi nahi, baad mein.Photoke liyetimehoga.’
Security personnel open tall doors that lead to a huge hall, where we are greeted by Gauri Elena. She is styled very differently from the last time I saw her. Her rose-red, tea-length linen dress has wide arms and a long side slit. She wears uncut rubies on her ears but nothing on her arms – no bracelets, no watch, just a lone ring catching the light.
‘I love the flowers, Neela,’ Gauri Elena tells Amma. ‘So fragrant. I wanted to tell you when we were in Bengaluru.’
‘I wish I’d known. I would’ve brought some along.’
I inhale the familiar scent of jasmine, holding on to every comforting note it offers.
‘Alia, so nice to finally meet you; you’re every bit as gorgeous as I’m told.’ Gauri Elena embraces Alia before stepping back, her gaze fixed on my sister. She’s taking in the details. They are about the same height. As if 5’9” isn’t tall enough, they’re perfectly poised on stilettos. I hang behind Amma and Alia. I’m playing for time.
‘Darling,’ Gauri Elena breathes while enveloping me in a hug. I stay in her arms longer than necessary, mostly because I don’t know what else I am supposed to do. The eyes of the room are on me; I feel it.
‘Hi,’ I say, not knowing how to address her. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
What do I call her? Aunty? She’s not my aunt. Ranisa? Gauri Elena? It is a nice enough name, an east-meets-west combination, Guntur-red chilli ravioli, but I’m not sure what the proper way to address these folks is, and I am not about to guess.
Gauri Elena takes me around the room, which has a fashion parade vibe to it, a match-mine-if-you-can bend. As far as I cantell, there are no photographers around, not even an official one. I find my shoulders relaxing. There are Bollywood A-listers, models, television anchors, musicians, leaders of industry and even some retired cricketers. The ladies are mostly in dresses; there are some onesies and formal shorts. A supermodel, whose name is at the tip of my tongue, lets her eyes roam the room.
Vedveer has been romantically linked to more than one woman in this space, something that malicious rag of a publicationTittleTattlewill race to confirm.
Vedveer has had his share of women. The one he is most often seen with is Kairi Gaur, who is of a noble lineage from the region. He has been photographed with her multiple times at events all over the country, at Bollywood parties, movie premiers and Delhi society dos. She on his arm, his arm around her waist. There are shots of them holding hands, firmly, hers in his, which to me is a clue, not if people hold hands but the way couples hold hands. There’s a difference when it’s a declaration.
My pulse is racing. Why should it matter when and where Vedveer is photographed with Miss Whoever? It has nothing to do with me. I only have to push that button that will force him to bow out of this ridiculous act.
‘This is Aahhdithhhaa,’ Gauri Elena is saying, lending to the carnage of my name. ‘This is her sister, Alia, and Mrs Neela Gaaaudaa.’
‘How pretty you are, wearing a sari,’ someone is telling Amma, pointing at her drape, like Amma doesn’t know what she’s wearing. The voice is squeaky and over the top in decibels.
I can tell Gauri Elena is the only one from her family in this space. Her husband has excused himself, and the daughter is travelling with her beau; the son will be on a horse in less than an hour, trying to score.
The hall is huge; it could probably take in a city. I look around me. This is the by-invitation crowd, I gather, and there are somefive hundred people. The seating is banquet style, and above every table, a rose gold circular ring lighting drops. The rear wall is laden with photo frames of what look like polo games through the ages. At one end of the floor is a bar. Servers in black and white are carrying trays of champagne glasses.
‘You should sit with me and watch the game,’ Gauri Elena tells me, her hand on my wrist. ‘I will be right by you; we’ll have a good time together.’
My heart is thudding erratically. Where is she watching the game from? Unlikely that it is from the privacy of her chambers.
I made it clear to Appa that I’m uncomfortable watching the game in person with dozens of paparazzi cameras pointed at me. I didn’t want my anxiety to be turned into a public spectacle.
This was the condition I set before agreeing to make the trip. I’m barely here, and we are already negotiating. I feel Alia’s grip firm on my elbow. I read her gesture.
‘Come, come now, there’s nothing to worry about,’ Gauri Elena presses.
I nod. What else can I do? If I stand my ground, I’ll be called dramatic. Difficult. Problematic.
I manage to give Amma and Alia the slip. I need a breather.
I head to the back of the room, my skirt swishing about my bare legs as I move away. I pick up a glass of champagne and position myself behind a pillar. A gulp of liquid courage hits the back of my mouth and burns my throat. I take another gulp and feel my engines rev. I leave the crystal on an empty serving trolley and walk away.
It is a crackling February afternoon, bathed in warm, golden light. I’m flanked by the mothers, Gauri Elena on my left and Amma on my right. Alia is on Amma’s left.
Amma looks swish in her new sunglasses. She has never been one for glares, preferring the sun directly on her face. She owned a pair once, years ago. It was rarely worn and has long since vanished. Alia brought her a trendy pair this time.
