‘Sunlight is good for the eyes,’ Amma mutters but makes the effort to wear it today.
Amma is about to watch an actual match – one that doesn’t take place over the dining table or involve family scores – for the first time in her life.
I pick up a glass of champagne on my way to my seat. Despite my best efforts to avoid the spotlight, I have ended up in the front row. I sip my drink slowly this time. I haven’t eaten all day, but my stomach is adequately lined with anger. I sink into my seat, disappearing behind vintage sunglasses.
So… did Vedveer and I actually kiss that evening?
It’s the fan’s photo that’s throwing me into an existential crisis.
I mean, did a kiss actually happen? Why am I leaning in like that? Why do I look so weirdly comfortable with him?
Maybe he pulled me closer. Or maybe I was just being my usual overly agreeable self.
Angles are deceptive – they can turn fleeting moments into stories that never happened.
Amma leans into me to tell me I’m twisting my lips. My hand moves to cover my mouth instinctively. As I pull it away, I notice nude lipstick on my palm.
Since when has Amma started paying so much attention to me? Most of the time, I’m the adult in the relationship.
‘Alia told me,’ Amma says. I glare at Alia, who shoots me an angelic smile.
Umm… excuse me, what?
‘Are you comfortable?’ I ask Amma.
‘No!’ she says. ‘I’m here only because we couldn’t send yougirls alone.’
I nod, blinking back tears. My emotions are riding the roller coaster, fuelled by expensive champagne. I’m the reason for Amma’s disquiet.
I watched a recording of some polo match last evening to prepare myself; ten minutes was all I could take.
My eyes are on the players on the other side of the grass pitch now, tracking the red shirts. I can’t tell which of them is Vedveer. I look for the tallest man on horseback, but from the distance at which I’m seated, height isn’t easily distinguishable.
I don’t even know why I’m looking for him. The reason I’m in Jaipur is to finish a conversation we left hanging two weeks ago.
The sound from the microphone blasts across the grounds. I turn a deaf ear to it until I hear my name. ‘Aaditha Prathap, Ranibagh’s princess-to-be, is in the audience this afternoon.’
Wait! WHAT just happened?
The champagne turns in my head, and the colour rushes to my cheeks.
Photographers from every nook of this sprawling space turn their lenses at me.
In the last weeks, my popularity has grown to such an extent, I can hardly recognize myself.
Gauri Elena looks at me from under her wide-brim raffia hat. She is smiling, but it is clear from the slightest shift of her brow that emerges from behind her shades that the announcement has surprised her.
I’m breathing hard. I taste the moisture that lines my upper lip.
Amma’s eyes crinkle the way they do when she’s pleased, Alia is beaming, and Gauri Elena puts a comforting hand on me.
There are gasps in the audience, audible sighs. I feel eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head. Is that a wail I hear? Some princess wannabe?
‘Watch where you’re going?’ That’s a shriek from somewhere behind me. A clatter, then silence, the shatter of glass hitting the floor. ‘You’ve ruined my dress!’
Do I get up and see if everyone’s okay, or do I just sit tight, given that an announcement has blown my brains? And maybe that of a few others, too!
Gauri Elena turns to her right and summons her wingman. He’s swiftly dispatched to take care of whatever it is that is happening in the rear of the tent.
