They were quite the couple on the couch, and TT hopes you didn’t miss the moment when the Crown Prince took Aaditha’s hand in his, midway through the interview. It floored us.
The glances they exchanged during the 17-minute exercise carried a quiet intensity; sparks danced in the silence between them. It is hard to believe they have only known each other for two or three months.
Why would HRH Vedveer, with such a tall dating resume, agree to an arranged match?
We have a burning question, dearies. Is it possible they were already in love? From the way they looked at each other, it certainly seemed so.
There was somegupshupthat the interview was hastily arranged, given that it was announced only an hour or so before the recording.
The Rathores do what they want to do, when they want to do it.
The interview was rescheduled from the traditional prime-time slot to noon at the behest of the Palace. No explanations were given.
11.
Vedveer
Seasons and Reasons
For most adults, 1 p.m. is lunch hour, time to break for midday sustenance. But for Gaurav Rathore Singh, even though the clock flipped to PM an hour ago, it’s still the early hours of his day. He generally retires around two or three o’clock in the morning and rarely surfaces before noon.
I haven’t seen Father at a breakfast table ever. If we are to travel early, he grumbles at the world, having spent the night resenting the morning in advance.
It is at breakfast that Mother tells me that her husband wants to have a word. It is to be the first order of business. She asks Navya to be there too.
‘One o’clock in the study?’ I ask, wondering what this is about. The family is in Jaipur to oversee Holi preparations.
‘Hanji,Yuvraj!’
Navya nods. I doubt she has heard Mother; she is busy punching her phone keyboard.
Mother’s Hindi is heavily accented, a strain of Russian and British accents standing out like a linguistic palimpsest each time she opens her mouth.
It cannot have been easy for her to not just learn a foreign language but also embrace a culture that was foreign to her. The world wasn’t so connected in the ’80s, and distance is real. Gaurav Rathore Singh, whom she calls Gaurav, with a little lisp, enjoyed a Western lifestyle, which also means Mother didn’t have much of a warning of what toexpect when she arrived in India.
Hindi is a tonal language; the retroflex and nasal sounds also take some getting used to. Just as well that Mother is uncommonly good with languages. Her diligence in trying to remove every trace of her ‘foreignness’, from how she dressed to what she ate and drank, to how she moved in a crowd, isn’t unnoticed, especially by her husband. If not for her colouring and accent, it would be hard to tell her apart.
The breakfast room at Ranibagh is a happy space. The angled sunroof allows for a flush of natural light, not something Navya enjoys. This morning, she is wearing oversized sunglasses.
I’m standing by an arched window, teacup forgotten in hand, watching the late-morning light flood the garden that is starting to stir – jasmine buds, gulmohar blossoms and frangipani in full bloom.
My mind goes to Aaditha. The outdoors doesn’t call out to her like it does to me; she made that amply clear on our first meeting at her office, but she likes flowers. The vases in her house and workplace are full.
Would she stop to smell the jasmine?
I exhale. I have watched trees change with the seasons every year, how the green deepens and then darkens. Autumn arrives quietly here. Would she notice how the bougainvillea clings to summer, defiantly pink? I imagine her walking these paths – not as a guest – wrapped in a shawl, the winter breeze stroking her cheeks.
The palace has always been mine, yet suddenly, it feels like something I want to share with her.
There’s only the small matter of her wanting us to come up with a plan to break this engagement.
I never expected to bump into Aaditha in Delhi, not even after Navya told me she had won ‘The Initiator’ award.
It was a regular Friday meeting with friends at the Four Hundred Club.
I greeted the familiar faces as I entered the room, making my way to our table. Kairi had ordered my drink, and I took a sip even before I took my seat. I felt rushed for no apparent reason.
I was momentarily distracted by the almost-naked back on a barstool. I tried to look away, but I couldn’t. The posture was defined, and the shape was striking.
