Page 39

“Please tell me there’s snacks, Ave,” Ivor grumbled, walking beside her down the VIP stands. She showed her pass and the one she had bought later to accommodate her plus one.

“Merci,” she weaved her way through the cream picnic chairs artfully arranged in rows. Samarth had dropped a pass for the first row.

“You just polished off my box of macaroons,” Avantika pointed.

“To help you. You did not like them.”

“Too almondy…” she caught the chair with her name on it. Her eyes widened.

HH Avantika Kumari Raje

She glanced at Ivor but he was busy scanning their surroundings, pushing his sunglasses up into his head.

Avantika quickly swiped the thick place card and dumped it under her chair before lowering herself on the seat.

She adjusted her wide pant legs as she crossed one leg over the other.

Her first instinct had been to choose a dress.

But then she had thrust her chin up and picked an Ava-classic.

Pants were her thing. She loved them. Why would she trade them to show somebody something?

In a cream pair of wide-legged pants that skimmed the earth, a ribbed cream polo shirt tucked into it and her wide sunglasses, she knew she was making heads turn, like she always did.

It wasn’t really in the clothes but in her walk.

She also knew that. Had been trained in it since childhood.

That was the reason Ivor had been hovering around her all week.

Little did he know…

“His Highness Giriraj Singh Mewad of India.”

The loud, booming announcement was made in heavily French-accented English. Avantika immediately stood to her feet. And there was the Steward of Mewad, the king beyond all kings of India. He didn’t age. Or was it that her momentary girlhood crush on him made her immune to his ageing?

Avantika blinked in the bright sun, admiring the tall, broad man he was, even in his fifties if she wasn’t mistaken.

Giriraj Singh Mewad broke rules wherever he went.

Here, today, in the French Open, he wore a jet-black bandhgala and a bright leheriya safa in the colours of his kingdom — orange, pink and yellow.

He walked like he was still thirty, and smiled at everybody.

She was sure he didn’t know half of the people he was smiling at.

Or did he? After all, Giriraj Singh Mewad was known to possess knowledge of half of Indian royals.

The other half were either his friends or relatives.

He walked to the front row and paused in front of her. His public smile broadened into a private one. Avantika beamed back. His gaze flitted to Ivor by her side, he smiled at him too, then returned to her.

“Hukum, I…” she began but was cut off by his — “ Kaisi hai, Raje saheb? [44] ”

So he didn’t want Ivor to decipher their exchange?

“ Aapke ashirwad hai, Hukum, [45] ” she folded her hands and bowed her head.

“ Paris mein kya kar rahi hai? [46] ” He rounded to the empty seat beside her. Avantika saw his entourage fumble, eyeing the guest of honour seats where the Indian High Commissioner was already standing and waiting for him with French biggies.

“ Hukum… shayad aapka wahan intezaar kar rahe hai. [47] ”

“ Toh karne dijiye,” he smiled, then turned and nodded at the group awaiting him. “Ab baith bhi jaaiye, Raje. Aapka priyatam sunn hokar khada hai. [48] ”

Avantika’s gaze went to the tents in the distance. Then realising Hukum meant Ivor, she quickly glanced at him.

A sputter left her mouth but she held it back, schooling her features — “ Yeh mera priyatam nahi hai [49] … Ivor, this is the King of Mewad, one of the most opulent regions of India. Hukum, this is Ivor, my colleague from Van Cleef & Arpels.”

Ivor was tongue-tied and confused. “How do I greet him?” He muttered into her ear.

“Fold your hands together.”

He did, looking comical with his 6 foot 3 frame bending forward like she had to Hukum. Hukum smiled and nodded at him, not saying anything else. That was her cue to settle down.

“You go girl,” Ivor whispered to her. “You know royalty?”

“I am… kind of royalty,” she confessed.

“What’s next? You’ll say you are the princess of this Mewad!”

Avantika laughed. If he thought it was a joke, she wasn’t liable to clarify.

“ Van Cleef & Arpels mein kya karti hai, Raje? [50] ” Hukum asked, sitting back with one leg over the other, eyes on the field that was being readied. The players were in their respective tents, blips in the distance from here.

“ Main yahan unki Brand Visual Strategist hoon, Hukum. Ek hafta hua aaye. [51] ”

“ Badhai ho aapko. Vishwa Baisa se aapki chitrakari ki bohot prashansa suni hai. [52] ”

“ Dhanywad, Hukum [53] ,” she nodded, eyes on the blips and horses moving around.

Unlike her royal peers, she wasn’t a stranger to Hindi.

With her upbringing in the heart of Madhya Pradesh, and her family switching between English and pure Hindi, she could hold her own.

But this was a tosser. Giriraj Hukum speaking like an elite MP professor of Hindi.

“ Hum aise hi polo matches par milte hai. [54] ”

She chuckled.

“ Samarth naamak ek Kunwar bhi sada upasthit hote hai. [55] ”

Her chuckle died.

“ Hukum, aisa nahi hai… [56] ” she turned to him, only to be cut off by his tiny smile.

He nodded at the centre of the field and her attention veered.

There he was. The common denominator of her and Hukum’s meetings, except for polo.

He was riding slowly around the circle of players gathered there, the umpire making their way to them to throw the ball.

Avantika wondered why he was riding around restlessly until she noted his eyes searching their VIP stand.

They ran the length of the first row and stilled on her.

Even from this distance, she knew he had been looking for her. The way his head stopped moving.

Long bamboo mallet in hand, patent blue helmet clasped, strong muscular legs in stirrups and one stately hand on his waist — HH Samarth Sinh Solanki looked like the cavalry charge he was.

He was playing Number 1 now, she noted when he nodded inconspicuously and turned to mix into the group gathered around the umpire.

“Trois, deux, un…”

The umpire threw the ball in the cluster of horses and jockeys and then it was like a time-lapse of wind and hooves.

Avantika had seen enough polo matches, more than her fair share with Samarth as her sole focus.

And yet, they all paled in comparison to this one.

Maybe because those were school-level tournaments.

This was the French Open, one of the toughest there was in the world.

At one point Samarth rode past her like the wind itself. So close to the edge of the field, his mallet swinging like it was nothing but another gust of wind, the ball flicking off like it was made of paper.

“Come on!” He cried out as he neared the goalpost.

“Come on!” She pounced to her feet, clapping. “Come on! Come on!”

The rival team’s Number 4 came close to him — closer, closer, closer. He was on the wrong side and tried to push Samarth.

“Noooo!”

Samarth ducked, his horse ducked too. How, she didn’t understand. But his horse ducked, braced and leapt just as he swung his mallet in a complete arc and there the ball went. Through the two posts.

“And HH Sam steals the first goal for his team!” The commentator announced. “That’s 1-0.”

“Come ooon!” Samarth had turned his horse in a jiffy and was riding back, fist up, his team catching up with him with that same war cry. Avantika remembered that being his school war cry too. He zoomed across her and she realised how close she was to the edge when Hukum pulled her back.

“The wind these boys bring can knock even me off,” he laughed, back to English.

“I had forgotten how thrilling this is.” Avantika sat back down.

“You a groupie for that prince, huh?” Ivor elbowed her. That’s when she remembered that she had brought plus one. Avantika flushed.

“My cousin used to play at home. And we had a team in school…”

“Bugger off. You were hot for that Sam just now. What’s the story?”

“No story, Ivor. We just know each other through school and… family connections.”

“ Sach mein? [57] ” Hukum piped in from her other side.

Avantika wanted to groan and sputter and disappear at the same time. But the next chukker was announced, and the horses began to whoosh across them again. The men on either side of her concentrated ahead.

————————————————————

Gir Zephyrs won — 4-1. Avantika’s palms were red with clapping, her throat hoarse after the amount of screaming she had done. Thank god nobody here knew she was a princess. Nobody except Hukum. And he was thoroughly enjoying her shenanigans.

The moment the match and the prize distribution ended and they all got to their feet, a groom from Gir Zephyrs materialised in front of her.

“Madam, Kunwar has invited you to his tent,” he relayed in a low, respectful voice, eyes downcast. Avantika expected something of this sort.

But not so openly. She glanced at Hukum.

He was busy shaking hands and chatting with the dignitaries he had ignored earlier.

Right now, with his laughs and hand gestures, it looked like he wanted to be nowhere but with them.

How did he manage to look and sound like that?

They were all, after 90 minutes of being ignored, hanging onto his every word.

“Madam?” “Ave?”

“Huh?” She turned to the groom and Ivor calling out to her.

“Uhh…” she looked at Ivor, then back at the groom. “Sure. Lead the way, please.”

“Why is the prince summoning you? Am I going to see some hot after-match makeout?”

“Shut up, Ivor.”

“Or can I be a part of it? I don’t bat for the other team but for that prince, I could…”

“Shut. Up. Let me handle this.”

“What do I get for shutting up?”

“What do you want?”

“A kiss.”

She glared at him. She was a princess and all. But she had spent a lot of time studying and being on her own. Kirti didi had taught her her fair share.