The hedge shearers are on their feet; one of them is cutting the crisp morning air, aimlessly jamming wooden handles.
I’ve just finished a 15 km run; my watch says I did it in just under seventy minutes. The time is neither good nor bad for me.
The morning mist hangs low as it tends to this time of the year in Jaipur. The Indian winter is still receding in early February. North-western, I specify. I spent a good part of my formative years in the south, where the change in seasons could be harsh but with a whole different momentum and time.
‘Hukum.’ Pranav, the butler’s gaze meets mine with an unspoken message: The maharaj is here. I nod, thinking, ‘There goes my post-run stretching.’
I reach for the towel Pranav presents me with. The tray he carries is shined to a sparkle. I pull my tracks over my running shorts before picking up my unzipped jacket.
I hear Father’s voice. The gardeners have heard him, too, which is why they are on their feet.
‘Vedveer,’ (audible pause) ‘Vedveer,’ (audible pause) ‘Vedveer Rathore Singh!’
The pause is tetchy; waiting isn’t his style. When he wantssomething, it has to appear before him right that very moment. The urgency is heightened by the cock crowing somewhere on these endless grounds.
The crew working on colourful beds of dahlias drop their tools and stand up. A little behind the men in green uniforms, swords of gladioli sway to a beat of their own. Only a couple of ducks are upright, flapping their wings in the pond. The rest have their heads bent backwards, catching a nap before their next meal.
The king is in the palace, not a common occurrence with this Rathore, who has a greater affinity for his New Delhi residence than Ranibagh, the seat of his throne, dubbed by a travel magazine as the Palace of Dreams. He is at Ranibagh only that many times in a year, and it’s almost always for an occasion, a duty that he must carry out. Mahashivratri, for which the family gathers here, is weeks away.
Everyone on the grounds has heard Gaurav Rathore Singh, but we have yet to spot him.
‘Vedveer, Vedveer Rathore Singh!’
Father’s voice can rattle doors. His accent, typically British, received pronunciation, commands a ring of authority.
Whenever Father wants to have a word with me, he uses my full name. All three parts of it. We’ve been having a lot of talks lately. Is that why he is here, for another conversation? A telephone call would have sufficed, as it has these last couple of weeks when we demolished data. Gaurav Rathore Singh finally emerges into the open, walking out through a side entrance. He is in traditional gear, kurta and pyjamas, something of a uniform when he visits Ranibagh. The colour is brick red, and the kurta is edged in bold streaks of Leheriya.
I spot Holiday and Hope, the Shih Tzus, bounce along behind their master, yapping at his heel, enjoying the busiest morning of their lives, looking to make trouble for everyone. Even when in Ranibagh, they are rarely let out in the gardens at the rear, which are larger than the other patches of lawn, making it easy for them to disappear.
‘There you are, Yuvraj!’ he says, ambling across the open space, wearing a broad smile.
‘Father.’
He pauses, running his hands over his kurta. His cheeks reflect the colour of his attire. Despite the traits that mark him out as a rebel, there are things local he is committed to. Among them are artisans and theircraft.
His skin crinkles as he smiles, but his eyes don’t light up. Usually, they dazzle like the lights at Ranibagh, which are turned on at 6 p.m. from March through to September and an hour earlier in the winter. Not this morning, though. He probably hasn’t slept the whole night because of the travel in the early hours.
The people around him are energetic: staff scurrying about, a couple of them carrying servers, some wearing troubled expressions and others randomly swinging their arms, hoping to see and be seen. One of them swoops down on Holiday and Hope before I have a chance to get to the Shih Tzus, who are letting their annoyance be heard.
‘How was your run?’ Father asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. He is shielding his eyes from the morning sun, which is yet to make its presence felt at almost nine. As he turns away, I notice a trickle of sweat running down his face, one more trail and then another. I feel my body tense. What is the matter? Why has Father made this unscheduled trip to Ranibagh?
‘Where’s Mother?’ I ask.
He shrugs, surprised by the question. I point at his face. My expression is a giant question mark, but Father chooses to ignore it. He flicks his wrist, dismissing the staff, who are carrying the powder room on their arms. Cold towels, face tissues, sanitizer… they have it all.
Father turns to scan the surroundings, nodding in the direction of the gazebo in the eastern corner. The manpower whose hands are free rush to set the place in order. The king is not only in residence, but he is asking to be seated in a garden on his grounds he has only just discovered.
Father has a vitamin D deficiency. He has been advised by his physician to walk bare-chested outdoors to get some sun in the first half of the day. His response is a late-evening, fifteen-minute laze by the pool. He wasn’t always like this, averse to physical pursuits. I’ve heard tales of his hunting skills as a young man, a crack shot with a bullseye reputation. Father retired from the outdoors in his late forties, hanging up his personalized hunting rifle and turning into a bibliophile. These days, he devours fiction of every hue. Academics isn’t his suit; whisky and cricket on television is his thing.
He once mulled an off-road, high-power Mini to get aroundindoors. From his quarters to his study, I suppose. Mother shot down the suggestion with such overriding alacrity that her husband was sufficiently silenced.
I watch as he lets himself down on the cushioned seat.
His eyes are on me, my puffer vest, which I have zipped all the way to my throat, white tracks and grey running shoes. He’s waiting for the staff, who are laying the tray on the table, to finish and leave. Whatever the reason for his jetting across to Jaipur is, it can’t be shared before the palace staff, who are well versed with the rules we hold dear on these grounds: Hear nothing, say nothing.
As Pranav bends to fill our cups, I hear a yelp, then another, then a shout. ‘Arey unhein pakadiyein.’ It carries across the grounds. ‘Haallleeedaaayyyy… Haaaapeeee.’
Holiday and Hope are speeding away on the freshly manicured lawn.
