There’s a light knock on the door, and two women walk in. One of them is slightly older and is draped in a sari, and the other is wearing a salwar, both of them with prominent name badges.
I’m on my feet, coffee cup in hand.
‘Please sit down,’ I say and take a seat opposite them in the lounge area.
They smile and nod but continue to stand, which is making me uncomfortable.
The older lady, whose name badge reads Smita, starts talking. ‘We have to brief you about a few things – like how to sit and stand when you’re in public, how you exit a vehicle and how to climb into it,’ she says, looking at my posture. I’m sitting on my left leg, which I have drawn up. ‘Also, what to wear when you’re in public. The Rathores have a legacy in style, so certain attire, especially for female members of the family, is better to leave out of the wardrobe.’
‘What about distressed jeans?’ I ask. A rebellion is brewing inside me. ‘That is only for common people,’ Smita says, ‘andyou’re not common any more.’
Who decides that I am common and not common any more?
‘What about underclothes?’ I am intent on pushing the knife deeper.
Smita’s face contorts. ‘Only things that can be seen,’ she says. ‘If you have any doubts, please run your clothes by us at any time, and we’ll let you know if they meet palace standards. It is not a problem.’
It is a problem for me!
‘There are royal titles that you need to be aware of so that you address people appropriately. Also how you bow to the king and queen. The Rathores don’t like excessive bowing, but there are rules you need to follow.’
Smita takes a breath, and I try to summon a smile.
‘Rajkumari, if you will please stand up,’ she says, walking towards me, to maybe take the cup from my hand. ‘Sapna will give you a demonstration, and you can practise it.’
I put up my hand to tell Smita I can handle a cappuccino cup. I’m resorting to hand signals only because I can’t trust myself to speak. I feel the tears at the back of my eyes.
As Sapna steps back to prepare for the demonstration, there is a knock on the door, and before I can respond, the eight-foot slab of teak is swung open.
I stare at Vedveer’s advancing figure. His eyes spark a question. The women bow promptly.
‘Yuvraj, we are here for the palace protocol briefing. How the rajkumari needs to address the maharaj, ranisa and you, how she needs to bow,’ Smita says.
‘Not required.’
‘We were told—’
‘Leave now, please.’ His tone is polite but firm, and his smile has hit sub-zero temperatures.
‘We’ll come back a little later when the rajkumari is free.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘Listen to me very carefully. Anything to do with the rajkumari has to go through me, and only me.’
Vedveer turns to the ladies-in-waiting and requests them to leave the room. ‘Thank you for attending to the Rajkumari,’ he says as they bow to take their leave.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ he says, turning to me as the doors close behind the staff.
I nod.
‘Cappuccino?’ I ask and turn quickly. My back is facing him.
‘Yes,’ he says slowly, ‘coffee.’ He may be smiling now.
When I turn to face him, coffee cup in hand, considerably more in control, he takes the cup from me and places it on the side. He takes my hands in his and makes me sit down. I feel a tremor in my palm; his are firm around mine.
‘I apologize for the manner in which I have disrupted your life, Aaditha,’ he says.
‘That’s meant to scald you,’ I say, pointing at the coffee with my eyes.
