It is dark outside, save for the lighting. In the distance, guests mingle.
Vedveer walks to where we are seated. His father is on his feet and envelops him in a hug. His mother tries to soothe the lines on his face.
Their boy carries an enormous weight with remarkable lightness.
My feet are steering the Poshak to my room. I walk the corridor of the floor we are living on like a drunk, swaying from side to side, trying to balance the weight around me.
I have the besotted Reema for company, and she can’t stop drooling over her Yuvrajji.
Did you see the way he walked with that sword?
I love the way he walks. It is so royal!
His sherwani was the perfect fit.
Did you see his pearl-embellishedjuttis? Oh my god!
Every other sentence is an exclamation.
Meanwhile, I’m at the end of my tether. This skirt must weigh some thirty kilos at the very least. My hip feels dislocated; there’s the harbinger of a gnarling pain. I enter the room and shut the door on Reema and immediately tug the cord of mylehenga, which comes down around me in a circle. I step over the fabric and toss away theodhaniand blouse. I walk to the couch in a bra and panties, wondering why people would torture themselves so.
I told the maids that I didn’t need help, but looking at the fabric sitting on the floor and considering its weight, I’m thinking I will need help after all.
I have twenty minutes to get ready for dinner.
The phone in my chamber rings. It is Manisha, the lady in charge of the chambermaids.
“Rajkumari,’ she says, ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I wanted to ask if you need our help with putting the Poshak away.’
I want to whoop with joy, but I control myself and behave like a rajkumari. ‘Sure,’ I say calmly, ‘thank you, but please give me a few minutes.’
I put down the phone and race across the floor to my jeans, which I pull on, and reach for a white tee when the doorbell rings. Manisha has given me two minutes exactly.
Manisha and her two eager assistants take charge of the pile of fabric, clearing the room and putting away that mountain of a skirt.
As the girls disappear into the closet space, Manisha asks, ‘Are you excited about Holi tomorrow? It is the happiest day in the palace for us; we have so much fun.’
I nod. What else can I do?
‘You must put the first colour on Yuvrajji, and he must put the first colour on you!’ she urges, her eyes bright.
I blink.
‘This is our tradition, Rajkumari,’ she says. ‘This is how they have done things, maharajas and maharanis, for hundreds of years.’
I nod.
‘The palace staff have a different Holi celebration; it is equal to the one you will go to. The Rathores have always been so kind to the workers,’ she says. ‘The family included my husband for our first Holi, and I hid myself until he found me.Uske liye iseaasaan mat banao!’
My guess is that Manisha is in her forties. She still wears a delightful blush when talking about her husband.
Amma will knock on my door in about ten minutes, after she changes saris, and we will go down together. Appa has dumped us for the senior Rathore.
I change into a deep olive embroidered Indo-Western wear, a fitted skirt and blouse.
I ask Amma what the men were discussing so animatedly earlier in the evening. She says it was cricket for the most part. On my way up, I heard voices in one of the rooms that I crossed; it might’ve been the senior Rathore. If it was Vedveer’s father, then Appa was with him, and they were certainly not talking scores.
After the guests and dignitaries leave, the family, which includes the royal siblings and their offspring, gathers at the dining hall.
