My suitcase is open, and one of the maids is tugging at my undergarment bag. This is nonsense! I put out my hand, signalling for them to stop.
‘I can manage on my own,’ I tell the maids. ‘If you tell me how the shower works, I’m good.’
The prying twosome are wearing shocked expressions. They change tracks. One of them insists on showing me where the night clothes are (I have brought my own night clothes) while the other one runs the bath.
There are satin sets, in my size, in the walk-in wardrobe. They are wrapped in crisp tissue that are in three different shades of pink. There are style options, too. Pyjamas or shorts or a thigh-length chemise.
In a large box wrapped in metres and metres of tissue is myRajputi Poshak in rose pink.
It is exquisite, but it is over-the-top grand. I run my hand over the fabric; it feels like satin silk. There’s a scroll that has literature on the dress. It has taken thirty artisans to complete the gold thread work.
Just as well the Rathores took charge of what I am to wear this evening. I would never have gone for something this elaborate. I don’t care what social media said about how I dressed, but it obviously matters to these people; theirs is a mighty platform. My option (which I have carried courtesy Alia) is a Mysore silklehengawith an ornate dupatta. Amma says, in her day, it was called a half-sari.
The girls join hands to lift the poshak out of the box and put it on a hanger. I’m grateful for that help. They say it is heavy; it looks like something one might employ a crane to move.
Just before exiting the apartment, the youngest apologizes.
I don’t know what she is apologizing for, but I don’t ask either. I want to be alone.
I shut my eyes, trying to extricate myself from the lavishness of everything around me. I’m only a thousand nautical miles from home, and my parents are a couple of doors from me, but the distance feels irretrievable.
My heart stills momentarily, and images of my parents, sister, her broken life and her expertly built bras, my baby, COFFEE Before Books & Bras, dance before me. I think of my crazy group of friends – Lavanya, Komal and Raju.
That is my world. What am I doing here? What am I giving up?
A business I had built with sweat and wit.
Who am I doing this for? And for what?
I’m sobbing. I let myself have a good cry.
‘Did you rest?’ Navya Mrinalini asks. Her voice is soft and her tone gentle. She is seated next to me on an elevated platform, which faces the gathering.
I nod. My eyes are red. I’d rather the Rathores thought I had slept the afternoon off than cried it away.
‘You’re looking gorgeous,’ she says. Her smile reaches her eyes.
She is adorned in a pink and orange poshak, every inch the princess. She’s demure and savvy in equal portions and is suitably postured. Her back is straight, and her shoulders slope, just a wee bit.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, my right hand on theodhani.‘Thank you!’
‘It is my choice,’ she says. ‘Rani-pink for the rani-to-be. Fully cheesy!’
I choke back her compliment and try to smile.
I’m sandwiched between Gauri Elena and her daughter in an enormous courtyard on which the Aravallis gaze down. Appa is seated next to the senior Rathore, and Amma is by her husband.
The two men appear to be doing well together; every now and then, a laugh rises above the din.
In the centre of our row of seats is an opulent silver throne, on which Vedveer, whenever he appears, will be seated, I’m guessing.
I’m reading the room like it’s a secret-agent movie, hunting for the subtle signals.
The setting sun has brushed the hills in a dull glow that lifts Ranibagh’s sparkle. Every now and then, there is a rustle from the wind that brushes cheeks and pushes back errant strands. The sound system is playing heavy music, a genre of folk songs, perhaps.
Behind us is a row of men, four of whom hold the royalchattas for the king and queen, while the others wavechowries – fans that finish in long, flowy fibres that don’t give us relief from the weather but maybe allow the palace staff to participate in the ceremonies.
Open-air coolers are placed at strategic locations, away from the cameras. It isn’t hot, but the sheer volume of people makes it stuffy.
