Vedveer laughs. It sounds like relief.
‘No kindness for the wicked.’
His eyes carry questions that bore deep into mine. I can never tell what he thinks and why he leans a certain way. He is a man of few words and even fewer expressions. Except when he laughs. That is a dangerous thing.
Vedveer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box, which has two rings in it. One is an emerald piece studded with diamonds, and the other is a rock, a solitaire.
I inhale his perfume, wondering what this is about. We can’t be exchanging what looks like engagement rings in the Parivaar Suite when it is just the two of us.
‘We can’t go into the interview without rings,’ he says, returning to his feet.
My emotions are on a crazy roller-coaster ride.
‘I think the size is right. It’s my grandmother’s.’
On one hand, this feels natural, an intimate moment for which Vedveer made sure we are alone… but that is only one part of the story. I try to smile.
Vedveer puts the ring on my finger; it fits perfectly. Like his grandmother, I have scrawny fingers.
‘This,’ he says, pointing at the rings – I see the brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes, but he decides to plough ahead – ‘is a tradition, something I would not foist on you, but I hope you come to appreciate it.’
His eyes meet mine, and for a minute, I forget to be mad at him.
Vedveer’s hands shake; my finger is firm as we exchange rings.
I slide the solitaire on Vedveer’s finger. His eyes are on mine, and my heart has fallen to the pit of my stomach.
His thumb brushes my finger momentarily before I pull it back.
‘Umm… sorry. I…’ He is on his feet, looking away. ‘I’ll let you have a moment and wait for you outside.’
I take in what just happened. He put a ring on my finger because we were papped and not because there is anything else at play. Only because it is tradition… It turns in my head like a whirlpool, dragging me down the dark end.
I really like what I’m wearing. Navya Mrinalini does have great taste.
Vedveer’s sister spotted it even before the designer, Sara Khiani, brought it out and placed it on the display table.
‘This is a good colour,’ she said, turning it over and looking pointedly in my direction. Navya Mrinalini was meditating.
I wasn’t particularly impressed at that point. It is a pure silk sleeveless dress in the palest green.
‘It’s inspired by the spring forests of Rajasthan,’ Sara told us, pointing at the embroidered pears and falling leaves of different shades that were pinned with sequins.
Just as well Amma had brought her emerald earrings along; they go perfectly with the dress. They also match the ring Vedveer put on my hand.
As I pat down the dress, it occurs to me that the Rathores might have sounded my parents out about the ring Vedveer put on my finger. Maybe that’s why Navya Mrinalini had chosen this dress for me.
When she was looking at me, she was deducing what I made of the outfit, not how it would look on me, which is something fashionistas (read: Alia and Lavanya) do when they help you pick a dress. They’re imagining how it looks on you. There was no other dress in green at the Khiani home outlet. There were a lot of plums and yellows, blacks and the white family, but no greens, not in Western attire.
I hear Vedveer at the other end of the room, but even before his voice reaches me, I can tell by the shift of energy on the floor that he is here. He is in a suit of a similar hue.
I wonder if it is also new or if he had picked the ring after looking at his wardrobe.
‘Aaditha.’ He breathes my name, and his breath fans the top of my ear.
I don’t know why, but I get the feeling that he says a prayer before saying my name every time.
It’s a simple name, three syllables.
