Page 37

It was like working in the dream of her dreams.

The classic Parisian facade of traditional limestone, tall windows, and wrought-iron balconies merged seamlessly with the refined luxurious marble, fine wood, and plush textiles of the interiors of her office.

Even after growing up in a palace and spending her schooling years in the heritage campus of Saraswati Crest, Avantika found herself starry-eyed in her newest surroundings.

While her first few days went in orienting, acclimatising and learning the ropes of the business, she found a new liberty in living.

Not that she had ever been caged. Neither her school, nor her colleges had ever felt closed.

The Palace of Gwalior, even with the restrictions and protocols had been the free space of their childhood thanks to Kaka Maharaj.

But this — living in her own apartment, waking up, dressing up with mascara and red lips and no coverage for her mild breakouts, making coffee and sipping it standing in front of the sunny window…

taking a taxi to work because she had let her chauffeur-driven car go the day she had been deposited here…

getting off a few blocks away from the office and walking the rest of the way like Parisians, stopping for a croissant bag to share with her new coworkers…

taking long lunches with white wines… heaven .

Avantika knew that the novelty factor of this lifestyle would someday wear off.

That someday would be soon. But she also knew that she wanted to make a life outside of Gwalior, and preferably outside of India.

The future she envisioned for herself would not find fruition there.

Rishta, family, marriage awaited her there.

She couldn’t outright wage war. But this, slow fragmenting, would build enough ammunition over the years to let her live her life away, alone and awaiting somebody who was never coming.

The thought of the one who was never coming reminded her — it was Wednesday. His polo tournament was starting. She didn’t know if it was a morning match or an evening match. So, in her lunch break, against every instinct, Avantika Googled it up.

Jolly Roger (Sweden) VS Gir Zephyrs (India) — 6.30 pm to 8 pm, Bagatelle Polo Club.

The name of his team made her smile. He indeed was the wind of his Gir.

“Hey, wondering what to do with the rest of your lunch break?” Ivor plopped beside her.

He was the Digital Creative Head and in many ways, her copy partner.

She would be the design, he would be the words — to put it mildly.

One of the few English-speaking employees in this vast office of French speakers.

She had been so happy to know that a coworker on her team would talk in something other than French.

“You might be right,” she locked her phone shut, turning towards him.

He was in his mid-thirties, completely blonde, with blonde eyelashes and brilliant blue eyes.

Avantika had studied with people from all around the world but Ivor put all the exotic-looking guys and girls to shame.

He was beautiful, in a manly way. Tall, extremely lean, but making up for that with his ready humour.

“Here’s an idea,” he leaned in, hands spread out. “Let’s run back in, start on the mood boarding and run out of here by 5.”

“Can we?”

He shrugged — “As long as we finish this off. It’s the weekend anyway.”

“Tomorrow is Thursday, the weekend is two days away.”

“You’ll know what I mean when Friday rolls around,” he winked. “So? Are you in?”

“Oh,” Avantika smiled. “I’m in. But I have somewhere else to be.”

“And here I was about to ask you to join me for an evening out.”

“Maybe another time.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Ave.”

————————————————————

Avantika flipped her hair to the side, fluffing her curtain bangs.

She was never as grateful for her curling prowess as she was today.

And the fact that she had spent a good twenty minutes curling her poker-straight hair into seaside waves that skimmed her shoulders.

She pushed her sunglasses up into her crown and ran a hand down the blood-red boyfriend shirt she had chosen to tuck into a pair of light-wash fit-and-flare jeans for work. It wasn’t Polo-chic but it would do.

The tickets had been easily available today, partly due to the early matches in the tournament, partly because both the teams were non-French.

Parisians loved their post-work walks in the park and drinks in the bar on a weekday too much to watch horses run at 30 miles per hour. Even if hot men were riding them.

“Hi,” she found the first Indian-looking man in the small crowd. He wore a blue and white striped T-shirt from Samarth’s Gir Zephyrs. “My name is Avantika, and I am a friend of Samarth’s. I was wondering if you could point me towards his tent?”

“Samarth’s friend?” The man paused. He was well into his fifties, or at least, looked like he was, with his full white beard and handlebar moustache matching silvery hair and round sunglasses. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“Why?” She laughed. “He doesn’t have friends come to his matches?”

“No, no,” he chuckled, hesitant. “Umm… let me show you to his tent. What did you say your name was?”

“Avantika.”

They began to walk down the field, the fresh-cut green grass crunching under their footsteps.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No… but hey, I’m not a groupie. He knows me, I swear.”

The older man laughed, now a little more comfortable.

Avantika knew something about groupies and youngsters claiming acquaintance with royals.

She was a little far off in the direct line of succession, and hence protected from such incidences.

But her cousin, their crown prince, had been harassed quite a few times.

She also knew that he was not always innocent.

“Don’t worry, you don’t look like a groupie. And I’ve seen my fair share,” he quipped. “Here, his tent…”

The tent was empty. Samarth’s chair sat empty, his kit open. Avantika ran her eyes through the paraphernalia, jogging her memory like it was just yesterday — counting them. His mallets were here — arranged by size, knee pads, arm pads and boots absent. Helmet too.

“Is he in the stables?” The older man asked somebody passing by and even before they replied, Avantika knew the answer.

“Swaroop! Bro, check your mallet length!”

“Coming!” The older man, Swaroop, hollered. Then turned back to her — “Avantika, this is Raman, he will take you to the stables. Samarth seems to be somewhere there.”

He nodded at the groom, communicating something with his eyes.

“This way, madam.”

Avantika followed him to the back, the clean scent of the crisp grass and warm Parisian evening now ripening with manure and horses.

Once upon a time she had hated this stink with a vengeance.

Once upon a time, she had been wary, even scared of horses.

And now… it was the best part of her girlhood.

The nostalgia of matches watched with Samarth riding his horses up and down the fields, the evenings spent behind the stables in each others’ arms — kissing, trading stories, making plans, the afternoons spent feeding Cherry, Sujan, Bella and Bodhi.

“Kunwar?” Raman called out from the threshold of the stables. “Kunwar?”

“I can go in…”

“No, please wait here. I’ll find him for you.”

Now Avantika knew that silent conversation. She was not to be left alone. Of course. Groupies were one thing, undercover journalists or harassing women quite another. Did Samarth have many of those? Apparently, he did, if Swaroop’s offhand remark was anything to go by.

“It’s alright, Raman,” Samarth’s heavy voice reverberated before he stepped out from the shadows of the tack room. In his blue and white polo shirt and tight white breeches, pads all strapped as she had guessed, his helmet was held under his arm. His eyes were intense. Not happy to see her.

Avantika took a step back. Did he not like that she had come?

Maybe not. They had met on the plane by chance. He had come to her apartment hoping for dinner and then stayed to take care of her. Then run off the moment it had felt something more than just two friends catching up. Maybe he was right. She shouldn’t have come here.

“I’ll be out there in a minute, Raman.”

As if that conveyed a ‘leave us alone,’ Raman turned on his heels and jogged away. Avantika glanced over her shoulder at his retreating figure, wondering if she too should turn tails and run.

“What are you doing here?”

She whirled, only to find him closer. Still in the shadows of the stables, he was lit well enough with the dappling evening light to give her her first glorious sight of HH Kunwar Samarth Sinh Solanki, the star Polo Champion of not only his Gir Zephyrs but also a Grade I player of the National Indian Men’s Polo Team.

She had done her research on her way here in the taxi.

“Ava?” His head bent, his eyes now worried. “Are you sick again?”

“What? No! No. I am fine… I just came here to…”

One dark brow shot up, right alongside the side of his mouth, just like their childhood. Sometimes he had the smuggest but sweetest smile. This one. This particular one. It gave her the confidence, and she stepped up.

Avantika reached for the helmet in his hand and set it on his head.

As usual, his head bent lower of its own accord, his hands going behind his back as he stood there like a good boy.

Her heart softened into mush as she went on pressing his helmet snugly, then gathered the straps in her fingers and slowly, taking her time, clicked them in place beneath his chin.

She ran her fingers up the straps to turn them right and make sure they weren’t biting into his jaw.

And the skin — the rough, stubbly skin underneath her nails was so different from the smooth skin she had stroked countless times in this same gesture.