When Amma and I enter the hall downstairs, we find Appa in conversation with the senior Rathore.
Vedveer is across the room from where I am positioned. From what I can tell, he is the only man in the room who has changed.
The hall, like everything in this palace, is huge. A long dining table, which could comfortably seat twenty people, is the centrepiece of the space. At one end of the room is the bar, while the other end has a crockery cabinet. The room extends into a terrace with open-air seating.
The moment Vedveer sees me, he crosses the room and comes over.
‘How are you doing?’ he asks. His face is fresh. All the stress I noted earlier in the day has disappeared.
I nod. I smile.
I want to tell him that while I admire the lightness with which he bears his responsibilities, I’m caught between two worlds.Vedveer’s and my own, both at a societal and personal level. The freedom of choice my life affords me… But that’s hardly suitable conversation for a preprandial drink.
‘I had the bucket ready,’ I say, ‘but it was a waste of effort.’
Our eyes meet, and Vedveer smiles. ‘It is good to have got that done with. I have watched Father do this every year, and I feel like I know every move, but when you’re doing it yourself, it is very different. Everything is new.’
Vedveer excuses himself to get Amma and me drinks, and as soon as he returns, the senior Rathore clinks a spoon to his whisky glass and says we will all be shown to our seats.
Appa and the senior Rathore continue their animated discussion, and it looks like one of Vedveer’s uncles has joined them.
I wonder what they are talking about. It is not like they are friends. It’s been all of fifteen minutes since they met.
I have Vedveer to my right and Amma to my left, and next to Amma is Appa. Gaurav Rathore Singh is at the head of the table; he is flanked by Vedveer on one side and his wife on the other.
Our drinks are replenished, and entrées follow. One of the plates isdal baatiwith its many sauces. Vedveer whispers‘dal baati’in my ear, just in case I didn’t know what I’m being served. As if.
I can’t believe he actually remembered. On one of my trips to Jaipur, I had the yummiestdal baatiever, a favourite of mine. I told Vedveer that.
Gauri Elena looks dotingly at her son.
‘It’s Aaditha’s favourite,’ Vedveer says as I savour the first.
‘Ninage ishtana?’Amma asks, smiling. Do you like it?
Navya Mrinalini, who is seated opposite me, is clearing her throat. ‘Brother,’ she calls, ‘do you know what my favourite food is?’
‘I know your allergens, sister,’ Vedveer says.
I have never heard siblings call each other ‘brother’ and‘sister’. This is all too posh for usakka-annafolks.
‘Favourites, brother?’ she presses.
Vedveer is trying not to smile. He looks away from his sister, and his gaze strokes my cheeks. I’m trying to swallow that bit of food that is stuck in my throat.
13.
Vedveer
Talking Down Walls
I follow Aaditha to the terrace after dinner. Her hair cascades down her back like a silk curtain caught in a gentle breeze, until her hand snakes back and sweeps it over her shoulder.
It is just us. The families – immediate and extended – have all retired for the night.
I look around the sun deck. My eyes linger on the bar, the carefully scattered tables and chairs, the lone sofa and the stretch of bonsais. I like to think of this space as my benefaction to Ranibagh. This is where I spent long hours as a boy, my eyes transfixed on the Aravallis, which from this position are at eye level, or so it seems. Like a peer, almost.
Aaditha asks for a cup of coffee. She wants to make it two, but I’m not done with my vintage yet.
