Page 32
Avantika reached behind her to grab the pallu of her saree and circled it around her shoulder, walking down the richly carpeted floors of the palace alley.
The soft pink of her saree complemented the line of bougainvillaea vines running the arches opening down the alley.
The fuchsia flowers popping up were the best part of summer in Gwalior.
She loved it when they bloomed, loved it even more when they carpeted the green grass.
“Raje?” the PR executive called. “This way,” she pointed, leading her down to the grand Ballroom of Vijay Villas Palace.
This was her home, she knew the ways. She could navigate them with her eyes closed after all the days and nights spent playing stop-and-party in its depths.
And yet, on a formal engagement like this one, she had to go slow, with escorts and chaperones ahead and behind her.
Avantika, pushed the sleek curtain of her hair behind her shoulder.
The shoulder-blade length wouldn’t remain behind for long but she could try.
The heat in Gwalior was oppressive at this time and she regretted not knotting up her hair in a bun.
She quickened her pace, hoping for some much-needed breeze from the tall windows in the alley.
But the wall hangings fluttered only slightly.
This palace might have been her home, but it looked more like a luxury antique showroom or better yet — an art gallery.
It had been a blessing that she had been born with a love for luxury and design just as deep as a passion for cricket.
It had stopped her from bringing a bat and ball inside the confines of this palace that was ruled by her uncle — Jaidev Rao Scindia, the Maharaj of Gwalior.
As the youngest in their family and the only child who shared her uncle’s craze for cricket, she had grown up spoiled in every department.
Clothes, chocolates, games, gifts, holidays, even jewellery.
Her vanity jewellery box was filled with so much junk of real gold and rubies and silver that it could power a whole city for a day.
Or maybe a small town. She liked to think in exaggerations that way.
“Raje?” Another thick but feminine voice called out to her. Avantika turned from her observations of the antiques in her path and met the eyes of her most trusted chaperone, aide and security — Kirti didi. In her mid thirties, she was still just as active, just as dedicated to her and their family.
“Kresha Raje is already inside,” she relayed.
“And Maharaj?”
“He is here too.”
She winced. “I hope I am not too late…”
“You are not, they are before time. Please come,” Kirti didi opened the air-conditioned Ballroom and Avantika stepped inside to the cool, relieving interiors of the grand space.
A group of weavers were already gathered, and there stood her Kaka Maharaj, in a white shirt and trousers pressed to a fault, falling in crisp lines even over his beer belly that was more of bhujia and bhajia belly.
He was smiling and nodding at the weavers in front of him, the banner behind him proclaiming the centuries-old patronage that their dynasty had been offering the Chanderi weavers.
“Avantika Kumari Raje,” the crier announced.
The weavers all cleaved away to make way for her and she smiled and nodded at all those her eyes touched.
Most of them were women, from the interiors of Madhya Pradesh, come to their kingdom for this event.
The Gwalior Dynasty did not hold back on kingdom lines.
Patronage was given to any Chanderi weaver who needed it and came to court.
“Sorry I am late,” Avantika folded her hands to her uncle and went and stood beside him. He patted her head — “We were early. I was shocked to see this one before time,” he playfully muttered under his breath, nodding at her sister on his other side.
“She is working to grow good-bahu traits,” Avantika held back her sputter in public.
“Listen, Ava…” Kresha threatened just as softly.
“Enough. We are in public, girls.”
They both mock-snarled at each other. This was their daily relationship, even at 25 and 26 respectively. They never talked straight-faced to each other but if it came down to it, they would pull swords from the antique walls to defend each other.
“What will I do when you both are gone,” Kaka Maharaj muttered. “Janki is already gone…” he smiled at the weavers who were presenting their designs, referring to his daughter and their eldest cousin. She was married to the Yuvraj of Mysore and only came home for festivals.
“I am not going anywhere, Kaka Maharaj,” Avantika grinned.
“One day you will have to go,” he gave her a side eye. “Just like your sister is going.”
“I am not going anywhere until this winter,” Kresha reiterated. “And I can push the wedding to next winter too!”
“And have us see more of your good-bahu-good-bahu? No please,” Avantika sputtered this time. Couldn’t help it.
“You meet me outside, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
“Set fire to your passport.”
Avantika’s mouth dropped open — “Did you hear that, Kaka Maharaj! What a J,” she whisper-shouted.
“Behave, both of you.”
They both turned back to the weavers, now demonstrating the intricate skill of weaving cotton and silk to create the fine, airy Chanderi fabric, like the one that she was wearing.
“What time is your flight tonight, Ava?” Kaka Maharaj asked.
“6.15 from here to Delhi. Then 10.35 from there to Paris. Direct.”
“Finally, shanti,’ Kresha sulked through her smile.
“Permanent shanti after December,” Avantika retorted.
“Permanent shanti will only come when you marry and go!” She scowled behind her smile.
“Sorry to rain over your parade but I am never getting married, baby.’
Kaka Maharaj’s arms slipped around their shoulders — “Timeout,” he said, low. Low enough for only them to hear. Then louder, he announced — “Teach Kresha Raje and Avantika Raje to weave this now.”
————————————————————
“I am fed up of your never-getting-married rant, Ava!”
“But Mummy…” Avantika stuffed a spoonful of poha into her mouth. Her last batch of good, home-cooked poha for a while. She had packed tons of sev and bhujiya but Parisian-Indian joints wouldn’t make authentic Gwailor poha like this.
“Have lunch like normal people,” her mother scolded, nodding at one of the servers to bring her the tray of curries.
“Let her eat what she wants to,” her father stepped in.
“Poha?”
“If Avantika loves poha, she will eat poha,” Kaka Maharaj announced.
“Bhau Maharaj, you have spoiled her silly. You and her father. She is not even taking Kirti with her to Paris. With this spoiled attitude, how will you survive there?”
“Like I survived boarding school,” Avantika grinned, reaching for the bowl of sev placed beside her plate. Kresha beat her to it.
“Grow up, Kresh! Gopi doesn’t want to take home a baby.”
“You are hogging poha for lunch and I am the baby? Mummy?”
“She is right,” her mother nodded. So prim.
“You can’t take her side always!”
“I am on your side, na?” Her uncle and father said at the same time. Avantika smiled, and then sat back dramatically, arms folded. Her mother sighed.
“Ok, I am going to go up and finish packing. I have to reach the airport by 4.30,” she stuffed the last of her poha into her mouth and went around the table, touching feet and hugging her Kaki, Kaka, Papa and ruffling Kresha’s hair.
She snapped at her wrist, then pulled it, tugged her down and squeezed the back of her neck.
Affectionately or mockingly was open for debate.
“Mummy…” she came to her mother but she got to her feet.
“Come, let me help you.”
Avantika followed her out of the dining room and up the grandiose of the residential wing staircase. There was an elevator installed but the doctor had ordered that all the elders use the stairs to keep fit. Their eating habits were very unhealthy.
“Try this out for three months,” her mother started. “And then come back home. You can enjoy the Parisian life on your own but home is home…”
“Mummy…” she caught her pallu just outside her bedroom. Her mother huffed, turning in a mix of frustration, hesitation and adoration. Avantika circled her arms around her mother’s shoulders and pushed her into the bedroom, kicking the door shut.
“You’ll miss me,” she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder.
“Not at all,” her mother’s hand came behind to pat the side of her head.
“Don’t spoil that Kresha too much.”
“You come back in three months.”
“Oh my gawwd…” Avantika came out in front of her. “I spent four years in boarding. You were happy then?”
“I wasn’t. But now that that’s done…”
“And I studied outside for four years again…”
“But now it’s different.”
“Different how?” She fisted her hands on her bare waist. Her mother smiled, that soft smile after all the toughness on her beautiful face.
“Now I don’t have much time with you, do I? Kresha will marry and go this year, then next year it’s your turn. When will you ever live in this palace again like this with all of us…”
“I told you pehle also,” Avantika whirled around to throw her makeup bag and toiletries into her suitcase. “I have no plans of marrying.”
“That’s enough now. Joking about it is fine. But after Kresha’s wedding, we will start looking for you. There are already some Houses asking. If there is somebody you like, tell us…”
“There is nobody, Mummy.”
“Then why this no-marriage morcha?”
“Just,” she shrugged. “I am not ready.”
“Then when will you be ready?”
Avantika smiled, whirled again, clapped her hands together — “How about never?”
Her mother rolled her eyes.
“Go have your Paris party. But remember, I am not taking this childish behaviour for longer now.”
“Whatever you say,” Avantika held her curing wand up. “Now will you tell me that you’ll miss me?”
“No,” she asserted. “Because you will be talking to me twice a day.”
Avantika chucked the curling wand and rushed into a hug. Her mother’s arms tightened around her — “My mad, mad Ava. Go, get ready.”
Table of Contents
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- Page 32 (Reading here)
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