Aaditha
Welcome to the Circus
my heart is heavy, and my pulse is racing like thewheelswe are riding on, speeding through New Delhi’s near-empty streets at 8 a.m. on a Sunday.
Amma is next to me; her eyes are on the road. My parents flew in last evening. Appa had dinner with us and left. He was here to check on me. Appa doesn’t worry too much about Alia. She is the sensible one. But his younger daughter, I have a tendency to slip and slide. He keeps an eye on me. Always...
Amma is doing the chaperoning, the heavy lifting. I feel for her. She has never really been away from her husband since they married, but recently, she’s been forced to do more and more of it on my account.
We are headed to No. 9 Lodhi Estate. The driver informs us that we’ll be entering through the back gate, generally used for staff and service vehicles. Charming. He apologizes repeatedly, conveying the Rathores’ appreciation of our understanding of the situation.
As if.
My life as I know it is over; it is a full-blown media circus now. All that I have taken pains to steer clear of. The only thing left is to be seated on a decked-out elephant and troop around.
Vedveer asked me to shift to his place after we were papped at the Four Hundred Club two evenings ago.
One moment, my rear had come down hard on the cold marble floor, and some ten minutes later, we got photographed. The next thing I know, my return date to Bengaluru is pushed back and my parents are ‘invited’ to Delhi.
Vedveer tells me television channels have been chasing the palace for an interview with ‘the couple’ since the polo game. There have been hundreds of calls, apparently (like people have nothing to do with their time), but the good prince has been deferring to ‘give us space’, and that is no longer possible.
He has pushed it too far already, it seems. The Rathores ‘traditionally’ do the engagement interview at Ranibagh, but Vedveer (thankfully) thought flying to Ranibagh would be asking too much of me at this point and that Delhi was the practical option.
Never mind that we are not yet formally engaged. Vedveer has decreed, which means I couldn’t fly back to Bengaluru on Saturday.
The interview is to be recorded at noon today. Molars have jammed against molars, and my fist is opening and closing like the jaws of a shark.
When we launched COFFEE Before Books & Bras, I didn’t do a single interview, not one. Though there was no dearth of requests, courtesy Appa’s position. I didn’t want to put myself out there. I know the difference between media and social media, but I wasn’t giving the trolls any information on me. I believed my baby had a life of its own, and I was confident the brand would talk for itself one day.
And here I am now. Karma is not kind.
The Rathores had parked a Maybach at the hotel for Amma and me to leave well in advance, just to confuse the media, who, they suspected, would gather around No. 9 Lodhi Estate at about10 a.m., a little after the broadcaster announced the interview. I had an eye on the rearview mirror; it was all clear.
Vedveer put me down on a lounge chair in the near-empty reception area of the Four Hundred Club two evenings ago. The lighting in the salon is brighter than the ambient lighting inside the club.
‘Your ankle may be slightly swollen,’ he said, kneeling for a closer look. ‘It could be the shock,’ he added, his hand wrapped around my joint like a brace. He loosened his grip to check flexibility, shifting my foot gently.
‘I think you are going to be fine,’ he said.
‘Yes, Doc.’
Vedveer smiled.
He placed an ice-pack on the ankle with his right hand and summoned a waiter with his left. He asked for a glass of water. ‘Your lips are dry,’ he said. I drank up as soon as the water arrived and requested a second glass, this one iced.
We sat there silently for about ten minutes, his expression settling with his thoughts as the clock behind him ticked.
‘How does the leg feel?’ he asked, moving the ice-pack and cradling my foot in his palms.
In his hands, my foot felt good.
‘I’m not used to wearing footwear like this,’ I said, looking down at my black shoes. ‘I’m comfortable in kitten or block heels or just plain flats. You need a whole different skill set to walk in these!’
‘I’m aware,’ Vedveer said, his lips lifting in a smile. ‘More like self-destructive weapons than footwear.’ He gestured to my shoes.
‘The Conclave has a dress code, and this place, too, has asimilar one,’ I said. ‘Though coming to the Four Hundred Club was a last-minute decision. I didn’t have any other footwear that would pass muster here.’
I patted the skirt of my dress.
