‘Vishakha told you that?’
‘I believe it came up sometime. She admired your courage.’
‘Recklessness,’ she corrected. ‘And I’ve got burnt enough not to try it again…’ she said with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘Playing safe is underrated.’
‘Great. Then maybe we should just limit ourselves to talking about the weather from now on.’
‘Cool,’ she came back. ‘Why don’t you check out the meteorological news so we can have a nice topic of conversation for tomorrow?’ She smiled sweetly and turned towards her bedroom.
His laughter followed her, spoiling her regal exit. Oh damn, she thought, closing the door behind her. He was going to ruin all her fine resolutions.
She woke to a loud banging at her door and wondered if it was the Rajput army she had dreamt of all night long. Led by a man with an inviting sherry gaze…
‘Coming.’ She jumped out before whoever it was brought the palace down.
A girl sporting short hair contrasting with her traditional ghagra stood there and for a tense moment they stared at each other. Then she burst out, speaking rapidly though she was half out of breath, ‘I’m Ayesha, Rihaan bhaiya’s sister. Got back from the hostel today because I had exams, you know. Boring!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Anyway, you’re Saira, I know. Hi!’
‘Hi! You look great,’ Saira replied honestly. The blue ghagra fell to the younger girl’s feet in a shimmering flow.
‘Thanks! You will look even better. Because, you know what?’ A wide grin split her face. ‘When I’m home, no one refuses to celebrate Holi! Happy Holi!’
Too late Saira realised the hands hidden behind Ayesha’s back weren’t there out of shyness. She brought them out, holding out fists smeared with red colour, and swiped them swiftly down Saira’s face. Chortling at her victim’s stunned expression, she stepped back. ‘Get ready and come downstairs. You can have your revenge!’ Almost doubling with laughter, she rushed past, pausing for a moment to add, ‘Remember to wear something ethnic.’
‘Just you wait!’ Saira called after the girl.
She chose a white top and an ankle-length red wrinkle skirt to go with it. That was about as ethnic as she had with her, so it would have to do.
Once in the courtyard, she could see Ayesha was right about no one refusing to celebrate the Festival of Colours with her, though it was doubtful they ever did, judging from the faces already rendered unrecognisable by the smeared powders when she joined them. Viren had a similar trick to pull on her, amiably greeting her and sneaking up with colour, but she was already forearmed with bright yellow powder and so got the better of him. Chuckling over her victory, she didn’t have long to celebrate. The ladies cornered her, forming a circle. And within minutes the erstwhile white top became spotted with red, yellow, green, purple and a merging of all the colours.
She searched for and located Rihaan, dressed in white traditional kurta dhoti and red turban. Head and shoulders dusted with red colour. Pichkari in hand. He saw her and let out a shout to his henchmen at the sighting of an as yet unattacked target. They advanced towards her, fountain guns in hand, belting out what sounded like a traditional song about nakhrali chhori, the recalcitrant maiden. She rushed away, threading between people, and ran smack into Ayesha.
‘Got you!’ Arrgh! She got a purple blast full in the face.
Still avoiding Rihaan, she took water balloons from the kids nearby and got her revenge against Ayesha by belting her rapid-fire with her watery grenades. Gleefully, the kids joined in. Together they lambasted Ayesha till she begged for mercy. But then Saira’s high-fiving friends became turncoats and started targeting her as well till she ran off.
At a corner of the courtyard, the musicians, also sprinkled with colour, played traditional dholak, flutes and sarangi like stringed instruments. They wore huge turbans. A troop of women in colourful ghagras, upper arms covered with ivory bangles, danced. Bandini dupattas flared out along with their full-skirted ghagras. Saira watched the steps and then joined in, revelling in the beat of the dholak, the fluid notes of the sarangi.
‘Khallaas! Finished,’ Rihaan yelled, running up the steps. The women shrieked and skittered as he raised the pichkari and a shot of water hit his target.
Saira squealed, whirling in the jet of water, letting the water soak her. Then playful changed to earthy in seconds as his gaze met hers and he continued the watery tirade, moving closer. For once his neat hair was tousled, falling on his forehead. He even had stubble, giving him a rakish look. The man she’d looked for behind the the outward cool was revealed.
The beat of the music and the gleam in his eyes mesmerised her and she went round and round, letting everything go in the moment but the rhythm of music, the hit of water. Joy, pleasure, surrender filled her.
The earth spun and she slowed and collapsed against him, laughing. She laughed like she hadn’t for a long time. Unrestrained, free, looking into the sparkling eyes and resting her head against him to get her breath back. Her head still whirled. The courtyard zoomed upward. The women came back. Swirling ghagras filled her vision. Colour. Everywhere there was colour. Patches on the stairs. Bandhej patterns on the dupattas. Dazzling. Shimmering. Enthralling. She closed her eyes, inhaling colour, the scent of it mixing with the scent of the man who held her.
Rihaan felt the same rush of gentle amusement he had before, resisting the urge to crush her closer as his hands lifted to support her. Not gentle amusement, he realised, looking into the joyful gaze she raised to his. Tenderness. That was what he’d felt for her all along.
Was it right to feel it? Desire he could handle—not relish, but handle. Frustration he had been managing on a daily basis. But emotion? Was it even in his plans?
But since coming here he had been questioning his plans. Life was no longer on the route he had formulated for himself.
For years he had existed on temporary associations with women. So short-term you couldn’t even call them affairs. Women who were as career-minded as him, so that they both knew to expect nothing to come out of it. The last starlet he’d dated had even tried to make use of him to advance her career by getting more news coverage.
Nadira, the only woman he had wanted to have a permanent place in his life, had gone behind his back to have an affair. At the time he had wondered why. Why not him? It had left him with a distrust of women and a resolution not to take any relationship too far.
Saira… she wasn’t like the others. For one thing, she was more honest than any female he’d ever known. Despite her glamorous air and her love of dressing as well as any model, she had no deceptive wiles like the high fashion women he had known. No tricks to mislead him. From the start she had been candid and open about her desire… and her reason to keep away from him.
It all came back to that.
The next morning, with the women all busy in the Gangaur worship of Shiva and Parvati deities, the time was used up in taking a round of the estate and the Trust institutions with Viren.
Later that afternoon, he stood in his father’s chamber. He had expected another futile episode in father and son bonding. But what he hadn’t expected was his father to make an announcement that would stagger him.
‘Rihaan, I am really sorry for all that happened six years ago.’ It wasn’t really pleasant to see his father eating humble pie. He had put Nadira’s confession out of his mind, but obviously his father hadn’t been able to. Now regret etched more worry lines in the thin face. ‘All I saw was that I needed to keep my word. I didn’t think… and there you were, sacrificing your happiness protecting my ward. I have been wrong. So wrong.’
There was no doubting the sincerity of his father’s admission. A knot released in his chest.
‘Hukum…’ He went and knelt by his father’s knee. They had never been demonstrative. His father had always been held by his rigid beliefs but now the monarch made an awkward effort to hug him. Rihaan overcame a wall of formality to return the embrace. His father had alway
s appeared so powerful but now he could feel the skin sliding over knobby bones and an unexpected fierce surge of emotion gripped his throat.
Despite what had happened, this man loved him in his own way. Rihaan remembered, as a child, playing nearby while his father carried on his work, when in unexpected fond moments he would pick him up and place him on his knee. His father’s face flushed with pride when he had returned from college with his degree… going to fairs holding his finger… a jumble of memories rose and filled his mind. ‘Hukum, don’t think of it. It’s in the past.’ He blinked away the moisture and faced his father. All the resentment he had felt towards this man had perished like rock turning into a heap of salt.
‘You still called me, Rihaan.’ His father was crying too. Unashamed tears ran from his eyes. ‘I can never repay you for getting in touch with me. After all I did, I didn’t deserve it.’
He clasped the thin hands in his. ‘We are one. Blood can’t be separated.’ Fiercely Rihaan wiped his eyes, but they filled again. This time he let them. Maybe only tears could wash away his pain. The pain occupying his heart for so long, the pain of loneliness, the pain of being shut off from those he had once belonged to.
‘Sriji.’ They hugged. Had he ever hugged his father? Not the childish instinctive hugs but comfort he knew he was giving or receiving? ‘I love you, Papa.’ The old childish address broke through the formality.
‘I love you too. You’ve honoured the name Rathore. You’ve earned it. I wish to call you hokum.’
‘Sir!’ Rihaan stilled in surprise.
‘This hasn’t happened in our lineage. But it will now because I wish it to happen. A Maharaja will crown his son with his own hands.’
‘No, Hukum, I couldn’t…’
‘Son, the people are still uncertain. They don’t speak but they whisper. What happened? They wonder. This will banish their doubts absolutely. When you wear the highest paggar that this land has to offer, they will stop their head-shaking. They will honour you because it won’t be by any natural course that you become king but by my own hand.’
The pride in his voice echoed in Rihaan’s escalating heartbeat. To own the crown he had been stripped of the right to even hold. To be a part once again of the land he had once longed to even touch. The thought was dizzying.
‘I have more good news. You will have everything you deserve, Rihaan, my son, even the bride of your choice as well.’ He added, ‘Six years ago you were a youth, a bit on the wild side, and marriage to a princess was a desirable recourse to raise your esteem in the minds of the people. Now it will be a consolidating factor again. We should forget about what happened in the courtyard. Nadira is ready to overlook it too. In fact, I can hardly believe it. She has agreed to marry you!’
‘Nadira?’
Animation shone in the Maharaj’s face. ‘She came to see me and told me everything. Of course she realises now how stupid she was to love someone who didn’t deserve it. The idiot left her when he got a better job at Udaipur. She admires you greatly for what you did for her.’
Nadira was ready to marry him? The girl who had started it all. She hadn’t loved him in the past. She had told him that quite plainly.
And she didn’t love him now. She only felt gratitude, he thought grimly. And maybe, he realised, recalling yesterday, a little pique. She couldn’t see another woman stealing what had once been her place in his arms. Was that it?
Were these reasons enough to base a marriage on? he wondered bleakly. But this was the marriage of royalty. It had once been based just on his father’s word.
A word that sons were duty-bound to keep.
But how could he marry this woman while his sleeping hours remained occupied by the images of another?
Saira.
Exactly what existed between them? Rihaan tried to put a name to the emotions raging through him and failed.
His father, showing rare sensitivity, didn’t pursue the matter. ‘Nadira has taken to her heart the fact that she hurt you and caused you to be banished. She’ll do anything to make it up to you.’
Oh, fantastic, he thought sarcastically. A bride on a guilt trip must be a desirable bride indeed. Rihaan passed a hand over his face, caught in a rare turmoil.
He had broken his father’s word once. He hadn’t hesitated at that time because the bride herself had requested it. Now, though…
‘If you let me know your inclination,’ the Maharaja continued, ‘I will ask Nadira’s mama to start the preparations for your engagement. He’s the only living relative she has. Something of a wanderer. He hasn’t taken much responsibility for her so far, but he promised me he won’t let the memory of his sister down. He’ll do the marriage duties for his niece.’
He continued, ‘In ten days, the chaitra navratre will start. What more auspicious time for the coronation and the engagement? People will celebrate like anything. It’s been ages since there was a royal wedding. Not since your chacha got married.’ He fell into happy thoughts.
His father had apparently started laying plans already. Rihaan withdrew, taking his leave as his mother came in.
Saira, he thought again. But then, what did he and Saira have? He recalled her determined insistence that she didn’t want a relationship with him.
Yet there was an attraction. Her liveliness. Her touch. The kisses that made his blood run faster even at the thought.
Which made no sense because they had nothing.
Could have nothing.
Once he had been ready to marry Nadira. He had seen his future with her. Now life had swung full circle and placed the vision of that same future in front of him. A future he only had to reach out and touch. A future which possessed the brilliance of his dreams.
For a long time he had wanted to belong. He’d searched for his roots, been a castaway.
Now he could finally claim what was his own.
The only thing standing in his way was a momentary illogically intense attraction. Would he be strong enough to keep it from overriding his plans?
But that momentary attraction reared its head inconveniently time and again.
The following afternoon, on the field, dressed in polo whites for the match his cousin had arranged for his entertainment, he found it difficult to justify being the number three player, his concentration shot to pieces by Saira, clad in the cheerleader outfit she had teamed up with Ayesha to wear. In between play, his distracted gaze shot to the yellow miniskirt swaying around her shapely legs as she gyrated to the impromptu moves the girls staged when his team scored. He wasn’t sure Saira’s effusive loyalty was having any beneficial effect because twice he was called for foul, and ultimately his team lost.
When he found himself heading towards her, he checked, knowing officially he should meet up with Nadira.
But hell, he hadn’t promised to marry her yet. He shifted the weight of expectation from his shoulders and made his way to Saira.
CHAPTER NINE
SAIRA FOUND THE diversions thrilling. In fact, for the next few days, it seemed Viren had spared no effort to make their stay an exciting one. Horse safari, a tour of the city, grand luncheons featuring royal delicacies like Lal Maas, Handi ka soola, Paneer ke gate… the list was endless. Saira joined the chefs to learn the techniques involved in their making and fairly goggled. Of course the mouth-watering fare was worth every second of slavery bravely endured by the ingenious chefs.
She was fascinated by colour. It was everywhere. She exhorted Ayesha to take her to the market, revelling in the bandini and lehariya designs in the clothing and the classy sequin-work imposed over them. The beads and metal jewellery, the ivory bangles, everything filled her with the richness of experience.
After dinner, flopped on the bed, she began to doodle on the pad and paper placed on a side table. She thought of what she would like to wear and soon the paper was filled with the brisk strokes and clean lines of an evening outfit. Excited, she turned the paper and sketched another dress and another. Her brain seemed to be in the grip
of a fever of activity, fingers flying as she added tie-ins and full-skirted flares to lehariya dresses. Evening gowns, casual mid-length skirts, her mind had translated the traditional into the every-day-wearable. She noted the colours in the corner of the page as they filtered to her mind. Bright orange, yellows in different shades, deep reds and greens. It seemed her pencil was insufficient to catch her mind’s spew of hues. Frustrated, she thought of the computer software she had learnt to use at the design studio. And then, slowly, consciousness of what she was doing filtered in.
She looked at sheets scattered around, figures, dresses, scarves, even accessories sketched in, and amazement filled her. So many years and she hadn’t looked back but now… The moment filled her with wonder. This was what she wanted to do. Design, tailor, innovate, create.
Excited, she reached for her cell to call Rihaan, then stopped short. Maybe he was sleeping. Too full of enthusiasm she couldn’t hold in, she sent off a text message. Would he respond?
Come quickly.
In her hurry, she hadn’t even mentioned where.
Restless, she paced the room, then went to stand gazing out of the wide arched window. The lake he had spoken of with such fondness lay still and dark, surrounded by shadowy hills… the moonlight strongly distributing shadows to every object; the ethereal quietness contrasted sharply with the buzz that filled her.
‘Saira?’ Her heart jumped and she turned, excitement spilling over as she sighted him.
‘Oh God, Rihaan!’ She hugged herself, almost jumping in joy. ‘Come here. I have something to show you!’
Soon she was babbling away about visiting the bazaar, the inspiring sights in the market, and her own unexpected discovery.
‘What do you think?’ Breathlessly, she waited for his verdict.
He scanned the work. ‘Brilliant!’
‘But you’re not surprised?’ She couldn’t expect him to jump with excitement about a few rough drawings but she would have liked more enthusiasm.
His dark gaze ran over her face as he gave her a warm smile. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but no. It isn’t surprising. Everything you do is fabulous. Didn’t I say you were creative? But yes, you weren’t channelling that creativity. We must celebrate your discovering him.’
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