There’s a roar as the teams – one in red tees and khaki breeches and the other wearing navy on white – take the field. Gauri Elena claps, and I join her in the genteel exercise.
I’m careful not to contort my face, or worse, bite my lip like I sometimes do when watching a cheesy romcom.
Vedveer leaps into my vision; he cuts a regal frame on horseback.
My eyes cover his length, the width of his shoulders, pausing at his ripped arms. He stops for a moment and looks my way. His lips widen slightly in a hint of a smile, as if to say thanks for coming, for watching.
Is it just my imagination, the smile bit?
Okay. No. No feelings! My throat is tight, and I exhale a rough gruff.
Gauri Elena turns to see how I’m doing. She has caught the exchange between her son and me. I try to smile but manage a nod. This is exactly why I didn’t want to be seated here, before all of Rajasthan. If that wasn’t enough, they even had an announcer introduce me as the ‘princess-to-be’.
They might as well have fed me to the paps with complimentary champagne!
I pick up my glass; it has been replenished.
I need to message Lavanya, but nobody in the row I’m seated in is fiddling with phones. In the other dome-shaped enclosuresthat flank ours, almost everyone is recording the action. There’s something else I notice about the other guests as my eyes search the stretches, first on our right, then to the left. My stomach plunges, taking my heart along with it. We Prathaps are the only ones without hats.
Alia asked me if she should get us hats, but I shot her down, saying, ‘We’re going to watch a polo game; we’re not invited to some cosplay party.’
I raise the binoculars briefly, catch some of the action, then drop them back into my lap. I don’t really need them. Quite a few of the guests, including Gauri Elena, used these viewing lenses that were placed on our seats, when play shifted to the far end of the field.
The setting is spectacular. The sun has cast its glow on the expanse, lined by blooming bougainvillea in shades from white to plum. The action is swift – horses and men. It plays much faster in person than it did on my computer screen last evening, which was more of a jumbled mess, horses and riders clashing, mallets ripping through the air without making contact, more noise than play.
Gauri Elena has been in conversation for the most part with her sister-in-law, who is seated next to her. She leans into me now. I inhale her perfume for the first time. I can’t detect the notes, but it is an exotic scent. Rose and burnt wood, maybe.
‘He’s running a fever,’ she says of her son, ‘but he had committed to play the game today. Vedveer doesn’t go back on his word.’
I nod. Of course! He’s burning up, yet he’s on horseback like a hero from some Victorian novel. As if being annoying isn’t enough, he has to be heroic, too!
The early chukkers are exciting in terms of action, though Vedveer doesn’t appear to be in the thick of it. Even an amateur could call that. Gauri Elena can’t help herself, spoutinggobbledegook in my ears. It takes me a bit to get into the match, the sound of hooves thundering across the field, mallets meeting, and the crowd erupting in waves of excitement that hinge on the primordial.
The Royals strike first, scoring within the first five minutes. The Rest recover quickly and counter with successive goals. By the end of the third chukker, the score is 4–3 in favour of the Rest.
The sun is warmer than when we arrived, and the helmets the players wear are not helping.
Sweat trickles down Vedveer’s flushed face; his red shirt clings to his sweat-soaked frame.
I take deep breaths and remind myself not to get too involved in the action. I don’t need my face, with its range of comic expressions, to add to the entertainment.
It is a challenge, however, to stay out of it in the fifth chukker as Vedveer gets into the thick of play.
The crowd is on its feet, egging him on with shouts of ‘Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj! Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj!’ bouncing off the Aravallis.
He strikes once, and a couple of minutes later, he latches on to a pass from a teammate. As he manoeuvres his pony to get into position near the goal, Gauri Elena’s fingers sink into my forearm. In the next second, Vedveer sends the ball sailing through the goalposts, sealing the match.
Meanwhile, I try to shake my hand, which is bruising badly.
Chants of ‘Caaaaapppttttaaaaan!’ echo across the grounds.
Joyous scenes break out all over, with players congratulating each other, shaking hands and tapping helmets.
‘Oh, dear,’ Gauri Elena says, her eyes wide in horror, looking at the nail art she has left on my skin.
I’m breathing hard.
‘I’m so sorry. I got carried away.’
