I took another sip of Jaboulet Red and tasted the grenache, feeling the sweet burn of liquid in my mouth.
It is not like I knew the back, even though the frame was familiar. Tiny. Slightly rounded scapula, upright. An earthenware pot placed upside down. I struggled to stay put in my seat.
Onyx. The colour of the dress was the red herring. I had only seen Aaditha in quiet tones of white, echoing a promise of committing to a nunnery. I had no problem with the colour. Butter is lip-smacking, but to restrict yourself to one colour 90 per cent of the time is a bit skewed.
I have no idea how she ended up sprawled on the ground, though. She said her foot got entangled with the leg of the stool. I’m not sure about that, but she came down hard, and we’re lucky there were no broken bones.
Aaditha wasn’t pleased with the hurried scheduling of the interview, even though she didn’t contest it. Her expression said it all – lips tightened and a shutter dropped over her eyes. She wanted to say something, but her determination overrode her instinct.
The point is, the interview had to be done. It is tradition, but the reason I pressed ahead, after stalling for weeks, is because it was the best way to get the press off our backs. I felt we could give them something and walk away. They would hound Aaditha otherwise, late in the evening, early in the morning, and that was not something I was willing to risk.
I walk into the Maharaj’s Library just after 1 p.m. Father is seated behind the grand desk at the far end. He has sheets of paper in his hands but is staring at the heavy curtains that cover the window that faces him.
I walk up to the curtains and tap the switch that draws the drapes apart. ‘You need the sun,’ I tell him, even as he scrunches his nose at me.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, picking up the papers he places on the table.There are a couple of numbers scribbled on the first sheet – 5,000 and 50.
‘That’s what they are offering us,’ Father says. He is signalling to Raj Kiran, for sunglasses, which are duly placed on him.
I’m looking at Father with a question I haven’t asked.
‘Five thousand crores for a fifty-year lease for a section of Ranibagh and the grounds at that end.’
My brain is doing the maths.
‘My title and all it encompasses,’ he says, his hands behind his head as he pushes back.
He takes a sip of his whisky and returns the glass to the coaster, placing it perfectly in the centre. He is silent.
‘A section of Ranibagh and the grounds that run alongside,’ I say.
I turn the figures over in my head. This is our best shot at a sustainable future. We can’t continue financing our exorbitant lifestyle just by relying on smart investments, most of which are gained from disposing of land.
We’d need a gold mine just to raise the capital to start cultivating our lands. The acreage is vast, and nearly 60 per cent of it has to be prepared from scratch. Some estates are in serious decay; others, in more favourable locations, have reverted to forest. It could take anywhere from five to ten years before we see any kind of return.
‘Lease is a good thing; at least that way, we don’t lose our land,’ I say.
Father throws a curious glance my way before shifting some ten degrees in his seat.
‘This way, we can at least hit a pause button on selling our land.’
‘That happened a long time ago. I put a stop to it long ago,’ he insists.
The time he stresses on is five years ago, to be precise.
‘I give Ranibagh away, just like that?’ he asks, his voice unusually subdued.
Somewhere in this vast space we are treading – properties, legacy, tradition and custom – I meet my father and feel for him.
For as long as I can remember, he only travels to Jaipur twice or thrice a year. Still, it is his seat, and his taking exception to leasing it out is understandable.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he says. ‘But it’s still my palace; Ranibagh is the seat of my throne.’ His voice quivers unsteadily.
I put the papers I have been scanning aside and lift myself from the lounge chair. I walk across the room, away from where he is seated, before turning back. I need to word this carefully.
‘It stays in the family; it always will. It is your seat and will continue to be your seat, lease or no,’ I say, bending over the desk and looking directly at him. ‘But look at what we can give our people if we develop the land. It’s livelihood, and it will always be your gesture to them. They need their king to work for them, Father.’
What I don’t tell Father is that the Rathores need it, too. We need our land to work for us.
