Stepping out of the car, Riddhima gathered the folds of her ruby coloured gown. She thanked the liveried chauffeur holding the door and waited till the Rolls Royce had turned the corner. Taking a deep breath for courage, she turned towards the imposing South Gate of Ivory Mansion. The black gates loomed like the entrance to a protected palace, its medieval architecture standing as a relic of India’s glorious royal history.
It opened soundlessly, the surprised guards scrambling to welcome her inside. This wasn’t the usual entrance for guests, and she knew she was unbecomingly early for the Oberoi’s party. But she needed the time to prepare herself for the censorious glances, the hushed whispers, the snide remarks. Taking the back entrance to soothe her frayed nerves was her calm, before she faced the storm of public disapproval tonight.
As she walked down the cobblestone path, a wave of nostalgia assailed her senses. When she was a child, this paradise had been her refuge from the endless dinner parties. While her parents were engaged in the social whirlpool, she had lost herself in the scents of jasmine, hyacinths and daffodils, spending endless hours running around the various themed gardens. From the sculpture garden, bearing the artistic touch of famous poet Ajit Das to the whimsical beauty of the Japanese and Italian gardens, the grounds of Ivory Mansion were the pride of Arthur’s Street.
She paused, staring at the words on the visitor’s signage that she had memorized as a little girl. Stretching over 365 acres, these gardens housed more than 30,000 different plant species. Guests could meander up the famed canopy walk, a structure made of curved steel and timber, that provided excellent views of most of the major gardens. Riddhima remembered lingering evening walks with erstwhile friends, talking about nothing and everything as the sun slowly set over the horizon. The walk had ended at the French garden, with man made waterfalls and ponds, and a quaint “Temple of Love”, a shrine reminiscent of classical Buddhist architecture. The area finally sectioned into a small lavender field and the Spanish garden, with pomegranate trees that she loved to frequent for the intoxicating scent and a quiet place to write.
At present, the majestic gardens were lit up with lanterns and soft lights that turned them into a scene from a fairytale. Riddhima twirled in rapture, the silk folds of her skirt delicately fanning the ground. Dressed in a creation by the famous French designer Yvette Lavigne, she felt like a princess from one of her favourite romance novels.
The bodice of the gown was molded to her breasts, the heart shaped cut exposing a daring amount of flesh. Above the neckline, a narrow row of rubies and diamonds winked mischievously. The sleeves were tubes of lacy maroon that fashionably tantalized, while modestly covering the skin from shoulder to wrist. Elegant in its simplicity, the back of the gown was a mirror of the front. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever worn, stored for the most special occasions this season. And being courted by royalty, even if as a charade, should definitely count as a special occasion, Riddhima mused, a secret smile on her lips.
Plucking a stray leaf from the magnolia tree, she marvelled at her audacity in calling the Prince of Mewargarh last night. He must have thought her shockingly forward, but her father’s drunken actions had left her with little dignity to salvage. Her heart squeezed painfully as she remembered all that he had done. The stinging sound of a slap, meant for her but taken by her mother. The brawl at the Shanghai Club that threatened to blow into a juicy scandal. She blinked back a sheen of tears, knowing that her illusions of a happy home were broken forever.
After her father had left the house yesterday, her mother had quietly retreated to her room, rebuffing all attempts at comfort as per usual. Pritam Kapoor had then proceeded towards the Shanghai Club, intent on drowning away his sorrows in copious amounts of liquor and the allure of the betting tables. The prestigious gaming hall and entertainment parlour was the usual haunt for affluent men on Arthur’s Street. Most business and personal alliances were made and broken in its hallowed halls.
Last night, enraged at gambling away a huge chunk of his savings, Pritam had assaulted one of his business partners, thereby booking a night in jail. The call from law enforcement had spurred an otherwise brooding Shilpa Kapoor into a flurry of action. Riddhima had watched her mother in awe, as she worked like an automaton, calling in special favours and cajoling powerful people for assistance. Finally, her father had escaped being booked after a written apology to the assaulted partner and a sharp rap by the officials. But the media had caught on to the brewing scandal. It was only because of their highly placed connections that the news release had been paused for the time being. But they hadn’t been able to prevent an article hinting at it in the gossip column of the Times today.
If this wasn’t enough, people were already talking about her and that damned horse race! This part was all her fault for allowing herself to get goaded by Priya. She sighed, tamping down an urge to wring her hands.
People thought she took the challenge out of jealousy regarding Deepali and the Prince. As a married lady, the other participant Priya would get off easy, having assumed to be disciplined by her husband. But as a debutante, Riddhima knew she would be judged harshly. She was also certain that her mother would hear of it tonight.
They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since yesterday, even choosing to go to the same party in different cars. Would Shilpa Kapoor’s hurt pride overcome her righteous anger at, what she would consider, her daughter’s scandalous actions? And what would Shishir and his family do when they heard of it? Perhaps, she thought optimistically, the Bhaskars would pretend the proposal never happened and save her this little masquerade. It would certainly get Vansh off the hook.
Bending towards a magnolia blossom, Riddhima inhaled deeply, sighing in pleasure at the sweet, almost fruity fragrance. She had expected her plan to be rejected by him last night, had even been prepared for a dressing down or a rebuke for her gall. But his easy acceptance had taken her by surprise. She looked up at the star strewn sky thoughtfully, her eyes tracing the Orion constellation, the only one she could identify.
No, she hadn’t been surprised, Riddhima admitted reluctantly. More like, perturbed. When she had decided to call Vansh, something in her had known all along that he was different, that he would care about her predicament and help her. That her belief in him had turned out to be true, while reassuring, was also unsettling.
Why was a man of his stature helping a woman with a family on the verge of social ruin? He clearly didn’t believe in her notions of love and companionship. In fact, he had sounded almost bored at the very thought. Then why was Vansh helping her? Did he like her?
Immediately, she quelled the thought. No, no way could she afford to think this way. Vansh had been vocal about his lack of interest in all things love. Her mother was right. Men of his social standing would never even like her, at least not romantically. She was just being a fool and setting herself up for heartbreak.
Resolutely, she squared her shoulders, turning towards the ballroom entrance in the far distance. Henceforth, she would only treat the Prince like the acquaintance he was. And while she was deeply grateful that he was participating in her ruse, her interactions with him would be strictly formal.
But, as she walked down the path, a pit of dread coiling in her stomach, Riddhima was aware that the heart she was protecting was strangely excited and dangerously conflicted.
* * *
Riddhima stood at the oak balustrade, a sense of deja vu enveloping her. Just this week, she had descended this very stairwell, daring to hope of a love match. As the butler intoned her name, heads turned to look up at her, much like the last time. She had expected to see censure and scorn in their eyes, but instead she saw triumph and amusement. It was as if they had expected the downfall of the Kapoors all along and her family had taken a giant step to prove them right. The sheer coldness in the room managed to dissolve what remained of her courage.
She faltered on the steps, her clammy hands clutching her gown like a lifeline. The butler droned on, announcing guests that carefully skirted around her, giving her scalding looks. And yet, the people at the bottom of the stairs kept staring at her, some whispering behind ornamental fans to their friends.
A sudden impulse to flee made her step back on the stairs. And then there was a hand, resting like a butterfly’s wing on her back. She turned, visibly startled, to see an imperious old lady looking down at her. She was tall and thin, reminding Riddhima of her University dean who had always terrified her without saying a word. Dressed in a royal blue suit with her silver hair pulled into a tight chignon, her presence radiated carefully restrained power.
“I-I apologize-” she uttered nervously, trying to scuttle out of the woman’s way. But something in her steely grey eyes pinned her on the spot. Riddhima held her falcon-like gaze, as if waiting for a command.
“Well,” the woman spoke in a slow, cultured drawl. “Aren’t you going to walk with me, dear?”
Without waiting for a response, she ambled ahead, taking a dazed Riddhima along her side with a feather light touch on her back. As they descended the stairwell together, the ones who had earlier gawked in derisive amusement, now stood in stunned silence. Riddhima swallowed, feeling like there was an invisible spotlight trained on both of them.
At the bottom, the old woman turned towards her, bending to air kiss one of her cheeks. Even her perfume was a bold floral-woody fragrance that married authority and femininity. Before Riddhima could recover enough to thank her, she had moved away, the crowd parting like water. Whispers rose around her like a swarm of angry bees. She stood there amazed, wondering who her influential saviour was.
She was left little time to ponder as the hostess of the evening, Ananya Oberoi, welcomed her as was customary, a speculative gleam in her eyes. This party was hosted to announce the nuptials of her son Arjun Oberoi with Meenakshi Sahai, the first among Riddhima’s band of debutantes to wed this year.
Riddhima knew her mother would be sorely disappointed, having expected a covetous alliance with the lofty Oberois for years. No wonder she was so keen on foisting her off to the Bhaskars. Shilpa Kapoor itched to one up her rivals by getting her daughter wed second, if not first, this year.
With expert ease, Mrs.Oberoi introduced her to the budding debutantes, graciously prodding her to share her wisdom for their debut in the coming years. Riddhima thanked her, relieved to be among girls who were too young to be privy to the latest gossip, and too unsophisticated to emulate the cold conduct of their elders.
But as the evening wore on, her facade of composure began to wane. She kept looking towards the stairs, expecting to see Vansh saunter towards her with his panther-like gait. The girls around her had exhausted all topics of interest, and were hovering in anticipation of dancing with the handsome gentlemen around. A couple of them already had enduring admirers and were expecting to wed the very next year.
No one asked her to dance. She caught some of her previous admirers eyeing her curiously, but other than giving an awkward smile before looking away, they showed no inclination to acknowledge her tonight. She saw them approach Deepali, who hadn’t gotten off the dance floor the whole evening, and seemed to have her cards full. The rumor that had turned everyone against Riddhima, was favourable for her. Society was sympathizing with her for being subjected to another woman’s jealousy over the Prince. It felt so unfair that tears pricked her eyes.
At that moment, she met Priya’s gaze among the dancers, and the triumph on her face twisted her insides. She looked away, feeling conspicuous standing for so long among the younger girls, while the girls of her age were on the dance floor. But even if she wanted to, she dared not try to mingle when people were giving her the cold shoulder. A cut direct from any one of them would feed the gossip mills even more. She began to fidget with her hands, as she often did when she was nervous. Her mother would have berated her for this habit, but she was nowhere to be seen either.
Taking a glass of champagne off the serving tray, she blinked back hot tears. Why was everyone behaving this way? She couldn’t be the first woman to be accused of a jealous rage. Heck, Meenakshi Sahai herself had made a spectacle of herself one spring over a man she thought her best friend wanted. But society had just laughed off her foibles. Theirs couldn’t be the first family in the news for a public brawl. The powerful made the headlines every season for numerous misdemeanours, but it was always overlooked. Then what unforgiving thing had she done to deserve this treatment tonight?
“Riddhima, what is the meaning of this?!”
She jumped at the loud abrasive voice. Glancing back, she saw Shishir glowering down at her. There were spots of red on his pale cheeks that she knew all too well. “You’re drunk,” she spoke softly, a thinly veiled accusation in her tone.
He grabbed her elbow familiarly, turning her fully around. The champagne swished violently in her glass. He looked angrier than she had ever seen him before. “My mother wants to discard the proposal,” he bit out, his hand on her elbow tightening. “Both my parents are suddenly dead set against the match, but they won’t tell me why. They never wanted me to marry you, but I pestered them…for us. For you. And yet here you are, looking not the least bit affected by any of it. Why is that, huh? Are you so stupid?”
Riddhima gaped at him, unable to believe her ears. She let the insult slide, knowing there was no reasoning with a drunk man. He took the glass from her hands, downing the entire champagne in one admirable swallow. “I will not let this happen to us,” he blustered. “I am a grown man, their only son. They can’t do this to me. You will see-” He paused to hiccup, tried to speak, then hiccuped again. Wiping his mouth on his handkerchief, he gave her a lopsided smile. “I have an idea. Let’s dance, my darling girl. Let’s show my parents that I will not be bullied. Come now, don’t be shy. I know I have made you wait long enough.”
As he tried to take her hand, she staggered back in revulsion. “I-I have to powder my nose. Please excuse me.” Ignoring his obnoxious laughter, she nearly ran towards the dressing room, white hot anger heating her cheeks. Knowing that Shishir had stood there, watching her being passed over dance after dance, hurt her pride worse than she had expected. How dare he ask for a dance like he was doing her a favour? How dare these vain, awful people judge her so harshly for a misdemeanour?
She burst into the dressing room, cloistering herself into one of the private cubicles. To mask the true purpose of the space, which was to perform nature’s duties, the dressing room had been designed as a lavish recreational space. Besides the lavatories, private cubicles had been built for a woman’s leisure, replete with plush sofas and giant mirrors. But tonight, not even the soothing gold and baby pink hues of the dressing room could dim Riddhima’s rage.
She stared into her deep brown eyes in the mirror, kohl lined to immaculate perfection. The subtle highlights and shadows on her face accentuated the best parts of her features. Her lips were a light rosy red, a virginal hue to the seductive ruby of her gown. Her long dark hair fell in artistic waves down her back. She looked the most beautiful she ever had, and she hated it now.
What use was beauty if your father was akin to a drunken gambler? What use was this luxurious gown if you were this close to being a social outcast? Where was Vansh, who had asked her to dress this way, chosen this specific colour for their charade? Where was her mother, who was supposed to be by her side tonight? She was so enraged that she wanted to wash away all the makeup that had been painstakingly applied over a couple of hours. But better sense prevailed, and she sat down on the chaise longue, a despondent slump to her shoulders.
Riddhima could hear a babble of voices outside, the women primping over the mirrors and chattering loudly. A few moments later, she realized that they spoke about her.
“Mrs Wadia told me she was burning with envy when the Prince cradled Deepali Dixit in his arms,” one of them was saying. “She made a right spectacle of herself falling in the lake. I even heard,” the voice lowered conspiratorially. “that she made inappropriate advances on the Prince, when he chivalrously escorted her home. Talk about taking advantage of the good man’s kindness.”
The other women tutted obediently, setting her nerves on edge.
“Well, what can you even expect,” a sultry voice spoke up. Riddhima would recognize Meenakshi Sahai’s heavily accented words anywhere. They had been batchmates in London, and once upon a time, she had foolishly counted her as her closest friend. “Everyone knows about her mother’s scandalous affair. Can the daughter be far behind? My mother said that if it wasn’t for Shilpa Kapoor’s secret rendezvous with a high ranking member of the peerage, the Kapoors would have never been admitted into polite society. Bollywood is so vulgar, you know-“
She couldn’t bear it any more. Surprising everyone with her sudden appearance, Riddhima dashed out of the dressing room. She ran down the narrow corridor, nearly colliding with servants carrying heavy platters of food. Muttering hasty apologies, she rushed onto the terrace. Then, in a shocking display of impropriety, she locked the doors from the outside and leaned against the frame, trying to catch her breath.
If anyone knew she was here…Unmarried women didn’t stay unchaperoned in dark places like terraces. But she didn’t care about the stupid rules of Arthur’s Street at the moment. Let people think what they wanted to about her! Didn’t they already think the absolute worst?!
And then just as she was going to give in to the despair within, from the shadows came an achingly sweet voice. “Do you often accost lone men on dark terraces, Miss Kapoor?”
A shocked laugh escaped her as she swivelled in disbelief. Vansh’s tall form was leaning casually against the adjacent wall, the butt of a cigar burning bright as he took in a long, slow drag. She could feel his gaze on her, even if his face was shrouded in the darkness. There was no moon in the sky tonight, but she was certain that if she could see him, there would be a twinkle in his eyes to rival the stars.
“You came,” she spoke quietly, torn between relief and annoyance at his tardiness.
He straightened, prowling towards her lazily like a jungle cat. His intoxicating scent of smoke and pine swept over her, making her feel weak in the knees. “Did you think I won’t?” he murmured, a teasing note in his deep baritone. “How could I not, after the intriguing ruse you proposed last night?”
It was too much. The tenderness in his voice, the easy banter of friends, the cocooned shelter of the night…To her horror, Riddhima felt the dam of her emotions burst forth in the form of hot tears. She turned away from him, blindly pushing at his attempts to touch her. He let her go, standing beside her in silent comfort. She was grateful for his quiet understanding, barely able to believe that the warmth of his mere presence had reduced her to a sobbing mess.
As she cried, she felt mortified at first. But after a while, the tears turned cathartic, slowly lifting a heavy weight off her chest. She took Vansh’s proffered handkerchief, blowing her nose in a most unladylike manner. Sneaking a peek at his shadowed profile, she wondered what he thought of her now. He probably regretted ever having anything to do with her. After all, men were usually tolerant, but largely dismissive in the presence of a weeping woman. Morosely, she tried to give the kerchief back, but he gently pushed it towards her.
“Keep it. I just want to know what happened. And who did it.” His tone was firm, implacable, a hint of menace lacing his voice.
“You,” she answered impulsively, surprising them both. He didn’t say a word, but she could feel his piercing gaze on her. It reminded her strikingly of the old lady, and her quiet way of commanding a response. Reluctantly, she began the evening’s tale, a dispassionate narration that ended at an accusation. “So, the moral of this story is that if you had just arrived a little earlier, Your Highness, I wouldn’t have been in everyone’s bad graces for such a long time. Then I won’t have cried like a ninny, and we won’t be standing here on the terrace in this wholly inappropriate way-“
“I too have a story for you,” he told her abruptly, interrupting her tirade. In one smooth motion, he took her hand, moving her in front of him. She stiffened as he leaned closer, his heat enveloping her like a winter’s blanket. He directed her gaze towards the night sky, his warm, steely chest almost touching her, but not quite. “I knew a woman who loved the stars. She could distinguish one constellation from the other on the dullest of nights. Do you see that cluster of stars there?”
Riddhima shook her head mutely, wondering why this tale of one of his past lovers pricked her. He guided her hand, tracing a row of twinkling stars in the shape of a drawn bow. “Do you see it now?” His words were mere breath, sending a tingle down her spine to her toes. She nodded. “That is the Aquila constellation. It is likened to an Eagle God, protecting the earth at night.”
Holding her hand, he began to trace the eagle’s pattern with her own finger. “Coming back to our story, a King saw the woman one day and fell in love with her at first sight. He asked for her hand, not caring that she was a commoner, of humble origins. She refused him many times, but he continued to pursue her, finally winning her heart with his legendary charm.”
There was a smile in Vansh’s velvet voice that Riddhima found intriguing. “But the woman was still wary; she feared that people would find her lacking the social graces to be a Queen. They would question her pedigree, her right to belong by a King’s side. And so on a dark night, the King brought her under her beloved stars and told her about Aquila – coincidentally their favourite constellation. He said – You are magnificent, my love. Look at yourself with my eyes. There you are, high up in the sky, shining like the noble Aquila in the darkest of nights. You were born to be a queen and the people below are your subjects. What right have they to oppose your rule? Who are they, those simpletons, who would deny you your sky? Rise, my darling, and draw the blood of all who would deprive you of your rights.”
There was silence, broken only by the sounds of insects and the distant chatter of the guests. As Vansh dropped his hand from hers, Riddhima hugged herself, staring at the imprint of Aquila, the Eagle God. She didn’t fully agree with the King’s reasoning, but she felt touched that Vansh had told her this tale. He was right. She did belong in Arthur’s Street and none of those who disliked her could deny her that right. Her spirit soared, as if set free by his words. “Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, a lump in her throat. “You have no idea what this means to me, Vansh.”
He stayed quiet for a long contemplative moment, a reassuring presence behind her. When she finally turned, he was standing close, so close, his shadowed face inches from hers. It gave her pause, a tantalizing thought entering her mind. If she wanted, she could lean a little further and then…A maddening urge to be closer seized her. Her gaze became hooded, her quivering lips parting in shy invitation. Riddhima felt her heart racing faster, like it seemed to do in his company. Startled at the alien feelings, she took an involuntary step back.
“Who-who was she?” she cleared her throat, breaking the spell the mischievous night had cast on her. “This woman you were telling me about?” She wished she could see him, read his enigmatic eyes. Had he felt what she had just now?
“Would you like to meet her?” His voice sounded husky, but also amused.
“She is here?” Riddhima squeaked. There was a Queen in their midst? Or had Vansh merely embellished his story for her benefit?
He backed away from her, a deliberate swagger in his gait. Unlocking the door and checking the corridor for lurkers, he motioned with flourish, “Ten minutes after you, Miss Kapoor.”
Chuckling at his antics, Riddhima walked back into the gathering of opportunists, foes and fair weather friends. This time, there was a lightness in her steps and a sparkle in her eyes that not even their frigid hostility could touch.
* * *