Page 81 of A King's Oath

Avantika, pushed the sleek curtain of her hair behind her shoulder. The shoulder-blade length wouldn’t remain behind for long but she could try. The heat in Gwalior was oppressive at this time and she regretted not knotting up her hair in a bun. She quickened her pace, hoping for some much-needed breeze from the tall windows in the alley. But the wall hangings fluttered only slightly.

This palace might have been her home, but it looked more like a luxury antique showroom or better yet — an art gallery. It had been a blessing that she had been born with a love for luxury and design just as deep as a passion for cricket. It had stopped her from bringing a bat and ball inside the confines of this palace that was ruled by her uncle — Jaidev Rao Scindia, the Maharaj of Gwalior.

As the youngest in their family and the only child who shared her uncle’s craze for cricket, she had grown up spoiled in every department. Clothes, chocolates, games, gifts, holidays, even jewellery. Her vanity jewellery box was filled with so much junk of real gold and rubies and silver that it could power a whole city for a day. Or maybe a small town. She liked to think in exaggerations that way.

“Raje?” Another thick but feminine voice called out to her. Avantika turned from her observations of the antiques in her path and met the eyes of her most trusted chaperone, aide and security — Kirti didi. In her mid thirties, she was still just as active, just as dedicated to her and their family.

“Kresha Raje is already inside,” she relayed.

“And Maharaj?”

“He is here too.”

She winced. “I hope I am not too late…”

“You are not, they are before time. Please come,” Kirti didi opened the air-conditioned Ballroom and Avantika stepped inside to the cool, relieving interiors of the grand space. A group of weavers were already gathered, and there stood her Kaka Maharaj, in a white shirt and trousers pressed to a fault, falling in crisp lines even over his beer belly that was more of bhujia and bhajia belly. He was smiling and nodding at the weavers in front of him, the banner behind him proclaiming the centuries-old patronage that their dynasty had been offering the Chanderi weavers.

“Avantika Kumari Raje,” the crier announced. The weavers all cleaved away to make way for her and she smiled and nodded at all those her eyes touched. Most of them were women, from the interiors of Madhya Pradesh, come to their kingdom for this event. The Gwalior Dynasty did not hold back on kingdom lines. Patronage was given to any Chanderi weaver who needed it and came to court.

“Sorry I am late,” Avantika folded her hands to her uncle and went and stood beside him. He patted her head — “We were early. I was shocked to see this one before time,” he playfully muttered under his breath, nodding at her sister on his other side.

“She is working to grow good-bahu traits,” Avantika held back her sputter in public.

“Listen, Ava…” Kresha threatened just as softly.

“Enough. We are in public, girls.”

They both mock-snarled at each other. This was their daily relationship, even at 25 and 26 respectively. They never talked straight-faced to each other but if it came down to it, they would pull swords from the antique walls to defend each other.

“What will I do when you both are gone,” Kaka Maharaj muttered. “Janki is already gone…” he smiled at the weavers who were presenting their designs, referring to his daughter and their eldest cousin. She was married to the Yuvraj of Mysore and only came home for festivals.

“I am not going anywhere, Kaka Maharaj,” Avantika grinned.

“One day you will have to go,” he gave her a side eye. “Just like your sister is going.”

“I am not going anywhere until this winter,” Kresha reiterated. “And I can push the wedding to next winter too!”

“And have us see more of your good-bahu-good-bahu? No please,” Avantika sputtered this time. Couldn’t help it.

“You meet me outside, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

“Set fire to your passport.”

Avantika’s mouth dropped open — “Did you hear that, Kaka Maharaj! What a J,” she whisper-shouted.

“Behave, both of you.”

They both turned back to the weavers, now demonstrating the intricate skill of weaving cotton and silk to create the fine, airy Chanderi fabric, like the one that she was wearing.

“What time is your flight tonight, Ava?” Kaka Maharaj asked.

“6.15 from here to Delhi. Then 10.35 from there to Paris. Direct.”

“Finally, shanti,’ Kresha sulked through her smile.

“Permanent shanti after December,” Avantika retorted.

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