It’s that time of year when we retreat to our country home, Aranya Mahal, for a week’s break before wading into the season’s festivities. This time, the family has been busy, finalizing dates, circling ceremonies, altering guest lists and being difficult at food tastings, for a wedding neither Aaditha nor I want.
I haven’t contributed to the wedding chatter since my Bengaluru visit four weeks ago, not in the family WhatsApp group or by replying to the emails Mother sends every other minute.
We haven’t heard from the Gowdas, at least not in the way I expected. Had they reached out formally, Father would’ve descended on Ranibagh, where I have been for the most part until a couple of days ago, in a heartbeat.
October at Aranya Mahal, set on a bend of the Banas River, isaddictive. The air is clean, and the light is bright. This property was hand-picked by my ancestor, Grandfather’s grandfather, Amber Bishan Rathore Singh, in the latter years of his reign as a private hunting lodge and monsoon retreat for the family. It is the wildlife that drew him here.
About a week after I returned from Bengaluru, I caught myself scrolling through social media, looking for Aaditha. All I found were old reels and photos, some from that polo afternoon. Her hair was swept over one shoulder, her face without a smudge of make-up, except for a flush-pink lipstick. I stopped myself more than once. But the more I looked for her name, her face, even a passing mention, the more I regretted how I behaved.
I messaged her. I called her.
She read the messages. She didn’t reply.
She doesn’t pick up when I call.
‘How exactly did this marriage proposal come about?’ I ask Father, employing a casual tone.
Prathap Gowda owes me nothing beyond honouring the Ranibagh contract, which I’ve scrutinized thoroughly. His daughter, though, should tell me the truth. Because even if this began as an arranged match, it didn’t stay that way. It became something more. Something real. Something that got under my skin (this is not her problem, I know). But none of that matters now. It’s all in the past.
Father is taken aback for a moment, but his expression hardens quickly.
‘I’m not sure if this is the time for that kind of a question, Veer,’ he says. ‘We’ve finalized dates with the Gowdas, and only the wedding invitations need to be done.’
‘Curious,’ I say, summoning a smile.
‘Prathap Gowda is a top politician and a successful businessman; he and I met in Delhi,’ Father says, pausing to take a sip from his glass. ‘I invited him home, we met again over the next couple of days, and I brought up the alliance with him. We both thought it was an excellent idea.’
‘Who broached the topic of marriage?’ I ask.
‘Why? And whynow?’ Father’s face is florid.
‘Why shouldn’t I know the sequence of events?’
‘I take credit. I thought it would work fabulously. And it is, right?’
‘Was that also when you decided on Ranibagh?’ I ask about his decision to lease, something he had been so reluctant to do, literally until now.
Father pushes back in his seat and stretches out his legs. ‘Not right then. It is only after you convinced me that we should lease a section of Ranibagh that I took Prathap Gowda into confidence and asked for his opinion.’
‘And he jumped at the idea, just like he did at the proposal?’
Father turns away, refusing to give my accusation the dignity of a response.
Father and I are at the Darikhana Pavilion, a long hall with arches and pillars, which probably served as an informal audience section in the old days. Mother has turned it into a family room. The wall is a busy space – shaded portraits, hand-drawn maps and hunting trophies – detailing the estate’s story.
A striking oil portrait of a bejewelled Amber Bishan Rathore Singh, seated on his throne with a hawk perched on his gloved hand, is the centrepiece of the construction we face. Flanking him are photographs of princes and royal cousins in riding boots, polo sticks slung over their shoulders. Another painting, this one sourced by Mother, is colourful, with ladies in saris marching to the riverfront.
I’m looking at the art before me, trying to focus on it, but I’m shifting in my seat and shuffling thoughts in my head.
‘Like me, Aaditha isn’t in the know of the plans made by our fathers?’
Father moves forward in his seat. ‘God, no! The princess-to-be has no idea.’ His eyes widen, and he’s shaking his head. ‘I wanted to play safe with Ranibagh, Veer; that’s why I went to Prathap Gowda.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ I ask. I have my doubts. Father is prone to assuming, especially when he trusts someone.
‘We made that pact. Prathap and I.’ Father’s nostrils flare as he speaks.
Father looks away before turning to me. ‘He is a man of his word,’ he says, his right fist landing on his left palm in a punch. ‘I know his ambition has earned him a reputation, but he’s also known as an upright individual in the corridors of power. I have done my homework. You know I am diligent with that.’
