During a mid-game break, Aaditha and Kairi Gaur, the royal ex, were snapped in the same frame. Kairi, in a ruby-pink tea-length dress, looked straight out of a glossy cover shoot. Aaditha? Zero make-up, and not even a hint of jewellery. Ears as bare as the day she was born… One word. Why?
Just 24 hours earlier, she had dazzled us all. We started to believe she might actually belong beside the Rathores. But the next day? Back to boardroom beige.
Was that a flicker of envy in her eyes when she locked eyes with Kairi? TT won’t say it loud, but we’re thinking it.
Look, we get it. Aaditha’s the Coffee Queen – bright, brilliant, built for the boardroom. But this isn’t just any man. It’s a prince. And she’s stepping into a palace, not a quarterly assessment call. Kairi knows how to read a room. She knows when to turn up the sparkle, how to wield colour and cut. The quintessential fashionista. Meanwhile, Aaditha remains undercooked vanilla.
15.
Aaditha
JaiPour: COFFEE Before Books & Bras
COFFEE Before Books & Bras is about a week from debuting in Jaipur. I’m standing in the middle of the 5,000-square-foot café, looking around me at what resembles a wrecked construction site.
One half of the floor reflects the effort of the workers, who have tried to make it presentable – half-painted walls in a shade that is goat milk maybe or just primer – while the other side looks like a ransacked warehouse.
A worker on a ladder is engaged in a passive-aggressive struggle with a light fixture that is swinging like it is auditioning for a haunted house. The far corner is a mess. Carton boxes ripped apart, parts of tables yet to be assembled, with the instruction manual serving as a coaster for a half-empty plastic bottle with accented fingerprints that gives the illusion of a cup sleeve.
The espresso machine sits on the counter surrounded by the wreckage of screws, tape and six different sizes of screwdrivers. A worker in overalls is crouched behind the bar, making unintelligible grunting sounds.
Paint cans double as stools, and painters have used brand-new coffee mugs to dip brushes.
When I first visited the site seven months ago as a prospective customer, I was optimistic partly because of its prime location, directly opposite the gates of the iconic Ranibagh Palace, and partly because of the expansive open space. We ultimately chose this building because the area is a well-established tourist hub, which is always good for business. The palace, a deep source of local pride, naturally draws traffic, especially on weekends and holidays.
Even as someone from Bengaluru, where royalty isn’t woven into the cultural fabric quite like it is in Mysuru, I could see the potential. We’d scouted several locations across the city, but market analysis pointed to this spot being well worth the investment. (All of this happenedwell beforethe Rathores sashayed into my life, back when I knew they were royalty, and Vedveer was a name I’d heard and read about. Our worlds hadn’t crossed yet.)
I imagined the whole place with a warm, earthy ambience, a prominent wall adorned with intricate Jaipuri block prints. A mix of terracotta pinks and mustard yellows on the floor, and indigo tiles skirting the corners. Low-hanging lanterns made of coloured glass throwing golden shadows across the room. I wanted eclectic furniture, locally sourced, carved wooden chairs, distressed vintage tables, stand-alone pieces, a space balanced by aesthetics.
A section with cushioned floor seating in bold textile patterns, where caffeinators lounged with a book or lay on their backs, striking up conversations. A traditional charpoy could complete that space.
I want the uniforms to appeal as much to Rajasthanis as to tourists. I look at my watch. The uniforms are scheduled to arrive today. The coordinates are all black, with zardozi embroidery on the tips of collars, paired with pink aprons edged in mirror work.
I hitch up my jeans as I make my way across the store. The feel of denim in my hands brings a smile to my face; it feels familiar, a mix of hard and soft.TittleTattlewould call it ‘pageboy’ attire, not fit to be photographed alongside the Rathores, who, if they wore denims, would come at the cost of all that lay locked in the treasury building. Royal backsides need so much more.
I’m walking to the back of the site, where the restrooms, the staff room and the manager’s cabin are located. I say a small prayer as I put one foot in front of the other. ‘Please, God, please, let some part of this store be done at least.’
I feel my jaw drop as I pause at the entrance. The room seems to be having an identity crisis; one wall has shiny new tiles, and the other is flaunting industrial décor, raw brick and no more. I poke at a brick, half-expecting it to shift, but it holds up. The mirror is leaning awkwardly on the white sink, like it just gave up and decided to sit down. Pipes peep out of walls.
I wanted this store to be different from my others because of the flavour of the city, its distinct pink landscape, forts, palaces and vibrant bazaars. From where I’m standing now, it certainly looks different. It is a horror show.
We were initially supposed to launch in March, in time for Holi, but the work was badly stalled, because of which we were forced to push the opening to May.
We hired Bhanwar Lal, a reputed local contractor, in March, after we found that the initial team we signed with was dragging its feet. While there has been progress, we are clearly nowhere near where Bhanwar Lal is telling us we are in his daily updates. He had been briefing Mohit Mohan, my MVP in COFFEE Before Books & Bras,every evening, but he was obviously just painting a picture.
I’m scheduled to come in for the day, a week before the launch, like I usually do. I visit the site, tick boxes and make a list before I head home. Fortunately for me, maybe becauseAlia’s ‘a girl needs options’ is playing in my head, I pulled out an overnight case and threw in extra clothes just in case.
I told Vedveer I would be in his city for the day before the staff from Bengaluru took over in the lead-up to the opening. The plan is for him to pick me up from the café and drive me to the airport. That seems unlikely this evening. There is too much to be done and even more to be monitored.
As I make my way across the floor, I consider calling Mohit. He is expected here a couple of days before the launch, but the sooner we fly him to Jaipur, the better it is for my mental health. He is the only person I can trust to take this space from a construction-site setting and drag it across the finish line in a week.
I need to find a place to sit down before I make the SOS call to him.
‘Sambhaal kar utaren, behen!’ someone barks as I duck just in time to avoid a swinging light fixture.
He speaks in Hindi, not Kannada. I’m far, far away from home; I feel the distance. I stumble sideways into a stack of chairs that are placed upside down; it clatters onto the floor like an applause track.
The air smells of paint fumes. Sawdust is everywhere, on countertops, in my hair, in my lungs, possibly.
