It is a crackling February afternoon, bathed in warm, golden light. I’m flanked by the mothers, Gauri Elena on my left and Amma on my right. Alia is on Amma’s left. Amma looks swish in her new sunglasses. She has never been one for glares, preferring the sun directly on her face. She owned a pair once, years ago. It was rarely worn and has long since vanished. Alia brought her a trendy pair this time.
“Sunlight is good for the eyes,” Amma mutters but makes the effort to wear it today.
Amma is about to watch an actual match – one that doesn’t take place over the dining table or involve family scores – for the first time in her life.
I pick up a glass of champagne on my way to my seat. Despite my best efforts to avoid the spotlight, I have ended up in the front row. I sip my drink slowly this time. I haven’t eaten all day, but my stomach is adequately lined with anger. I sink into my seat, disappearing behind vintage sunglasses.
So… did Vedveer and I actually kiss that evening?
It’s the fan’s photo that’s throwing me into an existential crisis.
I mean, did a kiss actually happen? Why am I leaning in like that? Why do I look so weirdly comfortable with him?
Maybe he pulled me closer. Or maybe I was just being my usual overly agreeable self.
Angles are deceptive – they can turn fleeting moments into stories that never happened.
Amma leans into me to tell me I’m twisting my lips. My hand moves to cover my mouth instinctively. As I pull it away, I notice nude lipstick on my palm.
Since when has Amma started paying so much attention to me? Most of the time, I’m the adult in the relationship.
“Alia told me,” Amma says. I glare at Alia, who shoots me an angelic smile.
Umm… excuse me, what?
“Are you comfortable?” I ask Amma.
“No!” she says. “I’m here only because we couldn’t send you girls alone.” I nod, blinking back tears. My emotions are riding the roller coaster, fuelled by expensive champagne. I’m the reason for Amma’s disquiet.
I watched a recording of some polo match last evening to prepare myself; ten minutes was all I could take.
My eyes are on the players on the other side of the grass pitch now, tracking the red shirts. I can’t tell which of them is Vedveer. I look for the tallest man on horseback, but from the distance at which I’m seated, height isn’t easily distinguishable.
I don’t even know why I’m looking for him. The reason I’m in Jaipur is to finish a conversation we left hanging two weeks ago.
The sound from the microphone blasts across the grounds. I turn a deaf ear to it until I hear my name. “Aaditha Prathap, Ranibagh’s princess-to-be, is in the audience this afternoon.”
Wait! WHAT just happened?
The champagne turns in my head, and the colour rushes to my cheeks.
Photographers from every nook of this sprawling space turn their lenses at me.
In the last weeks, my popularity has grown to such an extent, I can hardly recognise myself.
Gauri Elena looks at me from under her wide-brim raffia hat. She is smiling, but it is clear from the slightest shift of her brow that emerges from behind her shades that the announcement has surprised her.
I’m breathing hard. I taste the moisture that lines my upper lip.
Amma’s eyes crinkle the way they do when she’s pleased. Alia is beaming, and Gauri Elena puts a comforting hand on me.
There are gasps in the audience, audible sighs. I feel eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head. Is that a wail I hear? Some princess wannabe?
“Watch where you’re going?” That’s a shriek from somewhere behind me. A clatter, then silence, the shatter of glass hitting the floor. “You’ve ruined my dress!”
Do I get up and see if everyone’s okay, or do I just sit tight, given that an announcement has blown my brains? And maybe that of a few others, too!
Gauri Elena turns to her right and summons her wingman. He’s swiftly dispatched to take care of whatever it is that is happening in the rear of the tent.
There’s a roar as the teams – one in red tees and khaki breeches and the other wearing navy on white – take the field. Gauri Elena claps, and I join her in the genteel exercise.
I’m careful not to contort my face, or worse, bite my lip like I sometimes do when watching a cheesy romcom.
Vedveer leaps into my vision; he cuts a regal frame on horseback.
My eyes cover his length, the width of his shoulders, pausing at his ripped arms. He stops for a moment and looks my way. His lips widen slightly in a hint of a smile, as if to say thanks for coming, for watching.
Is it just my imagination, the smile bit?
Okay. No. No feelings! My throat is tight, and I exhale a rough gruff.
Gauri Elena turns to see how I’m doing. She has caught the exchange between her son and me. I try to smile but manage a nod. This is exactly why I didn’t want to be seated here, before all of Rajasthan. If that wasn’t enough, they even had an announcer introduce me as the ‘princessto-be’.
They might as well have fed me to the paps with complimentary champagne!
I pick up my glass; it has been replenished.
I need to message Lavanya, but nobody in the row I’m seated in is fiddling with phones. In the other dome-shaped enclosures that flank ours, almost everyone is recording the action. There’s something else I notice about the other guests as my eyes search the stretches, first on our right, then to the left. My stomach plunges, taking my heart along with it. We Prathaps are the only ones without hats.
Alia asked me if she should get us hats, but I shot her down, saying, “We’re going to watch a polo game; we’re not invited to some cosplay party.”
I raise the binoculars briefly, catch some of the action, then drop them back into my lap. I don’t really need them. Quite a few of the guests, including Gauri Elena, used these viewing lenses that were placed on our seats when play shifted to the far end of the field.
The setting is spectacular. The sun has cast its glow on the expanse, lined by blooming bougainvillaea in shades from white to plum. The action is swift – horses and men. It plays much faster in person than it did on my computer screen last evening, which was more of a jumbled mess, horses and riders clashing, mallets ripping through the air without making contact, more noise than play.
Gauri Elena has been in conversation for the most part with her sister-in-law, who is seated next to her. She leans into me now. I inhale her perfume for the first time. I can’t detect the notes, but it is an exotic scent. Rose and burnt wood, maybe.
“He’s running a fever,” she says of her son, “but he had committed to play the game today. Vedveer doesn’t go back on his word.”
I nod. Of course! He’s burning up, yet he’s on horseback like a hero from some Victorian novel. As if being annoying isn’t enough, he has to be heroic, too!
The early chukkers are exciting in terms of action, though Vedveer doesn’t appear to be in the thick of it. Even an amateur could call that. Gauri Elena can’t help herself, spouting gobbledegook in my ears. It takes me a bit to get into the match, the sound of hooves thundering across the field, mallets meeting, and the crowd erupting in waves of excitement that hinge on the primordial.
The Royals strike first, scoring within the first five minutes. The Rest recover quickly and counter with successive goals. By the end of the third chukker, the score is 4–3 in favour of the Rest.
The sun is warmer than when we arrived, and the helmets the players wear are not helping.
Sweat trickles down Vedveer’s flushed face; his red shirt clings to his sweat-soaked frame.
I take deep breaths and remind myself not to get too involved in the action. I don’t need my face, with its range of comic expressions, to add to the entertainment.
It is a challenge, however, to stay out of it in the fifth chukker as Vedveer gets into the thick of play.
The crowd is on its feet, egging him on with shouts of “Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj! Yuvvvvvrraaaaajjjjjjjj!” bouncing off the Aravallis.
He strikes once, and a couple of minutes later, he latches on to a pass from a teammate. As he manoeuvres his pony to get into position near the goal, Gauri Elena’s fingers sink into my forearm. In the next second, Vedveer sends the ball sailing through the goalposts, sealing the match.
Excerpted with permission from You Can’t Be Serious!: A North-Meets-South Royal Romance, Prajwal Hegde, Hachette India.
