Page 298 of A King's Oath
“Get him to have your name on his hand! You go girl!” Tulika raised her glass.
“Why not, Raje?” Ananya looked like her favourite love story had ended at interval.
“It’s too eww,” Avantika squeezed her nose.
“But it’s tradition in Gwalior. Isn’t it tradition in Nawanagar?”
“Are we ready?” Her mother and Rajmata joined them, looking happy and friends again, having resolved whatever differences they had.
“Ready,” Avantika pouted her lips for a final coat that the makeup artist added to lock in the colour. And like an exercise from her previous life, the way opened for her and everybody fell in step behind her. Brahmi excluded. She led the way.
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The application of her mehendi took a good five hours. It was still ongoing as the sun was setting. Dances and finger foods and local singing later, the event was finally opening from an all-girls evening to an all-nighter with the men.
Gujarati ‘lagna geet' sung by the ladies of Nawanagar without any mics suddenly trailed into the beats of Punjabi music. Avantika looked up from her perch on the white throne set up for her, her arms out and immovable thanks to the damp mehendi up to her elbows.
Her old favourites of Surinder Kaur were thumping as the sun was burnishing the sky orange over their heads. The mood of the event changed instantly as her girls, and some younger locals jumped to their feet and began grooving. It was a vibe. Her vibe.
“This is awesome. Whose idea was it?” She asked, sitting up.
Kresha made a face and that right there was her answer.
“Savdhan!” The palace holler resounded over the loud music. “Rawal padhare chhe.”
The dancing girls cleaved away and there was Samarth, walking towards her in his olive green raw silk kurta-koti-pyjama set. It was monochromatic all over. She had seen it on him during trials. But now? With the sun polishing him in its final rays, the memory of another wedding, another outdoor party weaving its haze, the Punjabi beats of her youth thumping to his footsteps — Avantika lost her brain power. All the men around him blurred. Sharan stepped in front of him to playfully wave with his right hand. She found her hand lifting and waving back but her gaze was fixated on the man behind him.
“He is good-looking but not as good as you are making him to be, Bhabhi,” Sharan reached her first. She zapped her eyes at him and found his face split into a grin. Left arm splinted in a cover, his wavy mane of hair pushed back tidily for a change, glasses not sliding to his nose and clothes matching his brother’s except in a softer shade, as if his shadow, he made an appealing figure.
“Is it? I was half-blind with the sun in my eyes.”
Sharan guffawed, splaying on the space beside her that was reserved for Samarth. His eyes went to her palm — “Don’t tell Bhai where you’ve hidden his name. Tell me you had them made a tiny little thing somewhere and coloured all over it!” He grinned evilly.
“I haven’t had his name written,” she snorted. His hand raised to give her a high-five but she held her still wet palm back.
“Sorry,” he snickered sheepishly. “You are the best. Wait now.”
“Get up.”
They both glanced up, along with the two other pairs of eyes that were focused on designing her mehendi.
“They have set up a grander seating for you there, Bhai.”
“I said, get up, Kunwar.”
“On one condition,” Sharan got even more comfortable beside her, pulling out of his mojris and crossing his legs.
“Are you getting up or should I do it my way?”
“Find your name on Bhabhi’s palm and the seat is yours.”
“She hasn’t written it.”
Avantika’s mouth dropped open, as did everybody else’s around her. Sharan gaped at her with betrayal — “Dhokebaaz!”
“You told him?” Tulika left her dancing to skip to her, smelling drama.
“No,” Avantika laughed, incredulous, glancing up at the man who was not smiling, not laughing, not even scowling. He was just patiently waiting for his seat. The king, with his hands behind his back — standing to get his seat beside her. Her heart skipped a beat.
