Reema walked me down from my quarters, and on the way, she gave me a brief description of how the evening was expected to pan out.
‘We are all waiting for Yuvraji to light the Holika,’ she said. ‘People love him, you know,’ she added. In case there were any doubts.
In the middle of the courtyard is a mammoth construction of sticks and bricks, about fifteen feet in height. Around it is an elaborate floral decoration in marigold and desert jasmine.
Guests and dignitaries are seated across from us. The crowds are in the distance. Some wave their smartphone torchlights, while others record the space, which they will no doubt upload on social media. Their king is not lighting the Holika tonight; the prince is.
Despite the tension running through me and my reservations on royalty and its many reverberations, I’m appreciative of the ringside seat to what promises to be a hair-raising cultural show.
I’m so tempted to draw up my legs and watch the spectacle unfold that it takes all my determination to sit still.
I’m suddenly all there, all the bits and parts of me, just the way I am when I walk through the doors of COFFEE Before Books & Bras.
I hadn’t seen or heard from Vedveer after he showed me to my room earlier in the afternoon, but I know he is around somewhere by the arched hallways of the palace.
Men with big moustaches and tightly tied turbans, dressed in various shades of white, assemble along the corridor that leads to the courtyard. They are carrying silver staffs that glitter in the light.
Thedholis playing traditionalchaal, an accompaniment to the folk and devotional songs coming through the sound system.
My foot taps the floor unconsciously.
I inhale deeply, grounding myself in the moment. The hair on my arms stands on end.
It is an evening soaked in colour and sound; the air is charged. It could be the music or just the energy of the thronging masses awaiting the prince, who’ll be king one day.
That’s when I spot Vedveer, his presence seizing my gaze. The people standing in front of him instinctively part, swept aside by the power of his lengthy strides.
He is styled in a pearly ivory sherwani that gleams like the moonlight and is adorned with gold buttons. Hissafa, intricate and grand, rises from his head in a fan-like crest, crowned with a shining brooch. In his right hand, he wields a bejewelled purple sword sheath.
A shiver races down my spine, maybe awe or something undefinable. My jaw drops, perhaps stunned by the force of his presence.
Across the courtyard, our eyes lock, slicing through the throng, rising above the chaos of bobbing heads and swirling sound. His face, calm and unreadable, hides everything; mine, however, betrays the storm of emotions raging inside me, the charged pulse of the evening.
Just before he enters the courtyard, chants of ‘Yuvraaaaj Maharaaaaj ki jai’punch the air.
I feel the duet of love – that of the people and their leader.
There’s another round of shouts and loud cheering, the decibel levels hitting new heights, but when Vedveer raises hishead, the calls subside. That appears to be the cue for the drums to start rolling.
He strides in the direction of where we are seated. He looks first at his father and then his mother, his hands folded in prayer, before he steps forward and touches their feet, sword sheath in hand. He glances at his sister, his head slanting in a nod, before his eyes bore into mine, reaching deep. They hold a question I cannot read.
My breath catches in my throat, and I cough into my palms.
There’s an unalloyed steel to Vedveer, hidden beneath his spark.
Sometimes, it feels like I can push him, really wade into him, risk provoking him… and he won’t push back. But then, there’s the other side, the one I saw in the Parivaar Suite at the Rathores’ Delhi residence, when he dismissed the over-eager protocol execs. That side is cutting, composed and unmistakably cold.
This evening, I see another side, a fusion of both: the unwavering light and the icy edge. The command of a leader.
After a brief stop on the dais, Vedveer returns to complete the ceremonies.
He sits on a low silver stool and performs a puja, invoking blessings of divinity.
The songs and drums hit a fever pitch as he performs thearathi,marking the start of an evening that celebrates the triumph of good over evil.
The ritual is completed with Vedveer lighting the torch at the holy pyre and carrying it around the bonfire. When he finally lays the torch on the stick and brick structure, the crowd erupts in a joyous chant that is in sync with the inner gates of the palace opening.
The bonfire rages quickly and aggressively, kissing the darkening night sky. Young boys and grown men light theirsticks before merging in the distance, carrying the fire to their homes. There, they will light their own bonfires, which will burn to ashes, and with it, the idea of evil that threatens them.
