You Can’t Be Serious!

by Prajwal Hegde

Genres: Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

FOR FANS OF KHOOBSURAT AND GOSSIP GIRL, COMES A HILARIOUS AND SEXY ROYAL ROM-COM

AADITHA PRATHAP is the brilliant mastermind behind India's trendiest café chain, 'COFFEE Before Books & Bras' - because priorities, right? Sure, her family's fortune sparkles like new money does, but Aaditha is fiercely her own woman. She has absolutely no interest in being known as anyone's daughter, wife, or - cue the horror music - a royal daughter-in-law. With her business booming, you'd think life would be all smooth lattes and soft book nooks, but nope. Trolls of the internet variety love to take a swipe at her, dredging up chapters she had long buried. Now, owing her dad a favour, Aaditha is forced to consider... options. Even if it is in the form of a frustratingly charming, annoyingly exacting Indian prince.

Speaking of royals, VEDVEER RATHORE SINGH is an eco-warrior prince with a mission. He may have grown up playing polo and cricket under the royal sun, but after Harvard, he's back home and facing a harsh reality: his family's finances are, well, not so princely. When a tempting offer to turn the majestic Ranibagh Palace into a luxury hotel comes knocking, Vedveer is willing to weigh it. But can this royal heartthrob find a way to save his legacy without losing his heart in the process?

In Prajwal Hegde's delightfully chaotic North-meets-South rom-com, culture and worlds collide in the most charming and unpredictable ways. Buckle up for a wild ride full of laughter, heart and a little bit of royal scandal!

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 392

Sample

1.

Aaditha

There’s a Boy! 

fireworks are live in my head. not the scar-you-softly sparkler variety, but rockets that whoosh and crash against the cranium.

I can’t remember when I dozed off last night, but I woke up early this morning, determined to work off the ire. At least some of it.

The music in my AirPods fades under the air conditioner’s drone. Even at max volume, I can hear my own breathing.

I pause momentarily, something I rarely do when I work out.

Marriage. Royal, seriously?

I open my palm, flex my fingers and hold for a second or two before balling it tightly again. It’s involuntary, a release almost.

I pat my leg once, twice, before getting back into position. One limb pushed back, the other lunged forward, my spine is parallel to my thigh. I slap the floor with my palms and reach with my lower extremity, cutting through the air like a flash of lightning. I am burning – my body and mind in sync.

I have been at my Kalari routine for almost forty minutes. That’s when my right foot makes contact with bones. A jaw. My foot is firm as I attempt a full rotation, but before I land on my feet, I’m picked up and placed on the display riser that is my contribution to the gym.

It’s where I like to hang out after a workout, my feet on different levels, sipping a double-shot bone-dry cappuccino with Raju, my friend and trainer, in that order. (post workout, of course!).

I’m staring at a pair of curious eyes and a forced smile. I’m tasting sweat.

I open my palm before balling it tightly. My nails sink into my palm. Breathe, I tell myself. Repeat. My anxiety is off the charts.

‘I…’

I try to open my mouth, form a sentence, but even I, who can rattle off 250 words a minute when I’m nervous, most of them incoherent, can’t manage more than one.

The last thing I expect is for my foot to find Raju’s jaw.

Kalari is about reaction. The body is conditioned to be sensitive to stimuli. A still draught, a silent shuffle – nothing misses the ninja’s radar.

Raju had taught me to read moves early in this journey. He is a master. Why didn’t he duck?

New strains of panic kick in. I want to laugh. I want to cry. I’m bordering on hysteria.

I make my way down the rack, eyes on Raju, hands folded in apology. His perfectly ripped 6’2” body looks up at my 5’3” frame.

‘Why didn’t you move?’ I ask finally.

‘I stopped the round,’ he says. ‘There was a knock; I thought someone was at the door. You didn’t hear the sound?’

Stopped? What sound? Have I been that out of it? ‘Are you hurt?’ I reach for him.

He snorts.

‘What is up with you?’ he asks, gesturing with his right hand. The southern roll in all its glory.

I shake my head, get on my toes and dust his left cheek before settling on the floor next to him.

My classes with Raju are at my home gym, an hour in the mornings, thrice a week – Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays.

Today is Monday. I had sent him a late-night text, pleading my case to move my Tuesday class to this morning. At five minutes to six, I heard his bike and after that, the rattle of iron gates.

One of the walls of this room with an annexe is made of glass bricks. We are facing it. The other three are red stone. Except for an antique case clock, the plastered walls are bare.

‘Aaditha Prathap,’ Raju announces. He likes tacking on my father’s name to mine every now and then as if it were a condiment he’s adding for taste. ‘What has happened to you?’

I can read the lines on his otherwise happy face. The more disquieted he is, the brighter his smile becomes.

‘A nightmare!’ I say.

His brows scrunch, replicating the ruling of a notebook.



I lounge in my room wearing my brightest smile.

My song list is playing… Dua Lipa.

Diamonds under my eyes

Turn the rhythm up, don’t you wanna just

Come along for the ride?

An imaginary circlet that reads Super Proud Mom is sitting on my head.

COFFEE Before Books & Bras is on the verge of going international. My baby. I exhale – a full-body whoosh of joy.

We’re in four metros – Chennai, Mumbai, Delhi and Kolkata – plus Bengaluru. We’ve locked locations at two major tourist destinations – Goa and Jaipur. And if all goes well, we’ll be in New York in twelve months.

The intercom cuts through my euphoria, jolting me. It’s late.

‘We want to chat with you,’ Appa says. There’s an odd lightness to his voice. ‘We are coming to your room.’

I spoke with my parents after I signed the papers, so I’m not sure what this conversation at almost 11 p.m. is going to be about. Talking isn’t exactly a Prathap family pastime. We show up for each other, yes, but real conversations? Those only happen when something has to be said.

Appa is in customary whites, and Amma’s sari is a non-committal beige. They are still in their day clothes.

‘Is Akka okay?’ I ask of Alia, my older sister. We are a decade apart in age and separated by oceans; she lives in sunny California. Her marriage of almost eleven years is as cold as the meat in the freezer. There’s a new calm to her voice these days. I don’t trust it, but it’s better than the silence that filled our conversations.

‘Yes.’ The breathless answer comes from Amma. Alia is okay. Amma’s eyes are bright as she attempts to square her sloped shoulders, the only physical feature of hers I seem to have taken after.

‘Aashi,’ Appa says, bringing my second name, Asha, into that the mix, before adding with a smile, ‘there’s…’

He pauses. A second that drags forever.

‘Yes?’ I urge, my heart pounding. This does not sound good.

‘A boy.’

‘A boy?’ I shriek in horror, knowing fully well what those words mean.

It’s part of the curriculum in girls’ schools. The chapter is titled ‘When your parents tell you there’s a boy’. The legend reads shipwrecked. Guidance: Run.

My heart drops to the floor of my stomach and lies there, dead weight.

What are they thinking? I don’t want to get into an anodyne arrangement. This family doesn’t need another.

Who? Where? Why? The Ws rattle against my parietals. If I ask the question, I ratify the reason they walked in here for, but I need information to put an end to this.

‘The boy,’ Appa repeats slowly, like he is raising the bidding price at an auction.

‘He has a nice, long name – Vedveer Rathore Singh – and he’s an excellent young man. I believe royals have long names; it is tradition. Maybe that’s why you, too, have a first and second name!’

Appa tries to slip the royal bit casually, but that’s the peg he hangs his smile on.

This has got to be a joke!

‘He is royal!’ Amma joins in, stressing on the ‘r’.

A royal? A prince? The last time I checked, we were living in an active democracy! And Appa, Appa is a senior politician!

‘He’s very nice,’ Amma adds, shifting closer to Appa, as if to endorse the recommendation.

That’s the thing about arranged matches. ‘The boy’ is always bright, dazzling, copybook perfection, but the girl, ‘oh the girl’, there’s always something sour about her. Yin and yang. Light and dark. There’s only place for one piece of sublimity in a partnership. The patriarchy has long owned those rights.

Vedveer Rathore Singh. Wait a second, I’ve heard this name, read this name…

Why is Appa breathlessly jumping into another arranged match when his earlier play for his firstborn is coming apart rapidly?

The blood is draining from my face. I hear a jangle of words come at me, flaring before my eyes like teleprinter prompts.

Prince. Jaipur… Engineer from Harvard…



‘Oyi?’ I hear Raju. He wants to know why Appa has not only come up with this alliance but is also nudging me in that direction.

I brace myself. Raju is my friend, but before we became pals, Appa took him off the streets and gave him a life. Raju is nothing if not loyal.

‘Saar made a good selection,’ Raju says. He is nodding. ‘Prince who is an engineer, two-in-one.’ A supermarket steal deal.

‘Get up,’ Raju says. He is on his feet, ready to go again.

I lean forward and touch my toes. I stay in that position for a bit. I don’t want to get up.

‘We could’ve gone to your café if you wanted to talk,’ Raju says. ‘I would’ve got a free apple-carrot muffin at least.’

I laugh. I love that even at a moment like this, Raju doesn’t forget ‘free’. His ‘Nutrition Facts Label’.

This matrimonial business, especially arranged alliances, is messy even at the best of times. For most, that’s excuse enough to back out. But in my case, it’s a battle I can’t win unless I come up with a reason good enough to justify the no.

How can I say no to the one person who has never said no to me, the parent who has always believed in me?

Appa accepted my skeletal entrepreneurial idea when I decided to move continents without completing my graduation. COFFEE Before Books & Bras would not have seen the light of day, not this early at least, had Appa not backed me. He didn’t champion my idea thinking his time would come, that there’d be payback one day. He liked the details I laid before him, but more than that, he believed in me.

I owe it to him to give this a fair chance.

Only that marriage is the last thing on my mind. It has been a while since my heart skipped a beat at the sight of someone. A man, a romantic attachment, appears so far out in the distant future, I can’t even put a time on it.

‘Does your sister know about this?’ Raju asks.

‘She does...’ I shake my head. ‘She thinks I should at least meet the guy.’

‘This is oyi you wanted to work out this morning?’ Raju asks. ‘So that you could kick me, thinking you are kicking the prince?’

‘Khadus Komal this morning would’ve been too much, dude,’ I say.

Komal is my yoga instructor. She’s a no-nonsense thirty-seven-year-old who uses her enigmatic smile sparingly. She might’ve been the perfect antidote for my growing frustration in that she’d guard against the mood swelling, but I don’t need one more person telling me to at least meet the man before working up a storm.

‘You didn’t call Lavanya?’ Raju asks of my best friend, the other member of the LBDs, the Lakshmi Bar Devotees group.

I nod.

According to Alia, I have ‘two-and-a-half friends’. Lavanya Patil and Raju Mathew; Komal Rao is the half, in that she has the affection but not the inclination.

I left Lavanya a voice note last night but haven’t heard from her. She can go without checking her phone forever, especially when she’s working. I reach for my phone and dial her. She picks up on the first ring.

‘Interesting,’ she hums.

‘I left you a note.’

‘I’m checking him out on Insta.’ She adds, ‘Fire!’

‘I’m going to come up with a plan,’ I say with a confidence I don’t feel. ‘A plan that will persuade this Jaipur prince to call off the alliance himself.’

‘You’re assuming he’s on board with your dad’s plan?’ asks Lavanya of the many accents. Right now, it’s the New York twang. It can change in the next few seconds.

‘That right there is an out! That’s why you are my bestie!’

I’m practically screaming. It startles Raju, who is beside me.

Which of-the-times, hotshot royal would ever agree to an arranged match so out of his orbit?

I feel a surge of hope, but the relief is brief, too brief. Because Appa can’t be making plans with the desert air.

‘I’m meeting him in two weeks’ time, Monday after the next.’ I sigh.

‘Confirmed?’ Lavanya asks.

‘Yeah.’

Raju looks at me with a mix of excitement and alarm. ‘Date set!’ he says.

‘Wait a minute! Is this a roka in two weeks?’ Lavanya asks, her voice climbing decibels.

‘What?’ My heart is sinking. ‘No way! What roka?’ The alarm bells in my head go off.

Raju’s laugh is bouncing off the walls. ‘Roka means engagement?’ he asks. ‘Say again, his name?’

‘How does it matter?’ I snap, holding the phone away from me.

‘Are you with Raju?’ Lavanya asks.

I put my phone on speaker when Raju announces, ‘Vedveer Rathore Singh.’

‘Do you have a plan to get me out of this mess?’ I turn to Raju.

‘No!’ Raju smiles, his teeth sparkling.

‘How about we find you a man?’ Lavanya says. ‘Some model type, who we all will vouch for. We’ll tell your parents you two have been a couple for a year already.’

The idea is entertaining. I laugh.

‘I’ll shop on Insta and send you boyfriend options,’ Lavanya adds. ‘I recommend an equal degree of fire.’

‘I’m not part of this plan,’ Raju says, throwing up his arms as he makes his way to the door.

All I need is a believable plan. No pressure.

2.

Vedveer

Just Another Royal Morning, Until...

i ease off the track; my strides have slowed to a shuffle, and my arms drop to the side. The morning breeze is working on my face, drying the moisture, as I make my way through the inside gates, inhaling the wholesome scent of frangipani in bloom.

The hedge shearers are on their feet; one of them is cutting the crisp morning air, aimlessly jamming wooden handles.

I’ve just finished a 15 km run; my watch says I did it in just under seventy minutes. The time is neither good nor bad for me.

The morning mist hangs low as it tends to this time of the year in Jaipur. The Indian winter is still receding in early February. North-western, I specify. I spent a good part of my formative years in the south, where the change in seasons could be harsh but with a whole different momentum and time.

‘Hukum.’ Pranav, the butler’s gaze meets mine with an unspoken message: The maharaj is here. I nod, thinking, ‘There goes my post-run stretching.’

I reach for the towel Pranav presents me with. The tray he carries is shined to a sparkle. I pull my tracks over my running shorts before picking up my unzipped jacket.

I hear Father’s voice. The gardeners have heard him, too, which is why they are on their feet.

‘Vedveer,’ (audible pause) ‘Vedveer,’ (audible pause) ‘Vedveer Rathore Singh!’

The pause is tetchy; waiting isn’t his style. When he wants something, it has to appear before him right that very moment. The urgency is heightened by the cock crowing somewhere on these endless grounds.

The crew working on colourful beds of dahlias drop their tools and stand up. A little behind the men in green uniforms, swords of gladioli sway to a beat of their own. Only a couple of ducks are upright, flapping their wings in the pond. The rest have their heads bent backwards, catching a nap before their next meal.

The king is in the palace, not a common occurrence with this Rathore, who has a greater affinity for his New Delhi residence than Ranibagh, the seat of his throne, dubbed by a travel magazine as the Palace of Dreams. He is at Ranibagh only that many times in a year, and it’s almost always for an occasion, a duty that he must carry out. Mahashivratri, for which the family gathers here, is weeks away.

Everyone on the grounds has heard Gaurav Rathore Singh, but we have yet to spot him.

‘Vedveer, Vedveer Rathore Singh!’

Father’s voice can rattle doors. His accent, typically British, received pronunciation, commands a ring of authority.

Whenever Father wants to have a word with me, he uses my full name. All three parts of it. We’ve been having a lot of talks lately. Is that why he is here, for another conversation? A telephone call would have sufficed, as it has these last couple of weeks when we demolished data. Gaurav Rathore Singh finally emerges into the open, walking out through a side entrance. He is in traditional gear, kurta and pyjamas, something of a uniform when he visits Ranibagh. The colour is brick red, and the kurta is edged in bold streaks of Leheriya.

I spot Holiday and Hope, the Shih Tzus, bounce along behind their master, yapping at his heel, enjoying the busiest morning of their lives, looking to make trouble for everyone. Even when in Ranibagh, they are rarely let out in the gardens at the rear, which are larger than the other patches of lawn, making it easy for them to disappear.

‘There you are, Yuvraj!’ he says, ambling across the open space, wearing a broad smile.

‘Father.’

He pauses, running his hands over his kurta. His cheeks reflect the colour of his attire. Despite the traits that mark him out as a rebel, there are things local he is committed to. Among them are artisans and their craft.

His skin crinkles as he smiles, but his eyes don’t light up. Usually, they dazzle like the lights at Ranibagh, which are turned on at 6 p.m. from March through to September and an hour earlier in the winter. Not this morning, though. He probably hasn’t slept the whole night because of the travel in the early hours.

The people around him are energetic: staff scurrying about, a couple of them carrying servers, some wearing troubled expressions and others randomly swinging their arms, hoping to see and be seen. One of them swoops down on Holiday and Hope before I have a chance to get to the Shih Tzus, who are letting their annoyance be heard.

‘How was your run?’ Father asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. He is shielding his eyes from the morning sun, which is yet to make its presence felt at almost nine. As he turns away, I notice a trickle of sweat running down his face, one more trail and then another. I feel my body tense. What is the matter? Why has Father made this unscheduled trip to Ranibagh?

‘Where’s Mother?’ I ask.

He shrugs, surprised by the question. I point at his face. My expression is a giant question mark, but Father chooses to ignore it. He flicks his wrist, dismissing the staff, who are carrying the powder room on their arms. Cold towels, face tissues, sanitizer… they have it all.

Father turns to scan the surroundings, nodding in the direction of the gazebo in the eastern corner. The manpower whose hands are free rush to set the place in order. The king is not only in residence, but he is asking to be seated in a garden on his grounds he has only just discovered.

Father has a vitamin D deficiency. He has been advised by his physician to walk bare-chested outdoors to get some sun in the first half of the day. His response is a late-evening, fifteen-minute laze by the pool. He wasn’t always like this, averse to physical pursuits. I’ve heard tales of his hunting skills as a young man, a crack shot with a bullseye reputation. Father retired from the outdoors in his late forties, hanging up his personalized hunting rifle and turning into a bibliophile. These days, he devours fiction of every hue. Academics isn’t his suit; whisky and cricket on television is his thing.

He once mulled an off-road, high-power Mini to get around indoors. From his quarters to his study, I suppose. Mother shot down the suggestion with such overriding alacrity that her husband was sufficiently silenced.

I watch as he lets himself down on the cushioned seat.

His eyes are on me, my puffer vest, which I have zipped all the way to my throat, white tracks and grey running shoes. He’s waiting for the staff, who are laying the tray on the table, to finish and leave. Whatever the reason for his jetting across to Jaipur is, it can’t be shared before the palace staff, who are well versed with the rules we hold dear on these grounds: Hear nothing, say nothing.

As Pranav bends to fill our cups, I hear a yelp, then another, then a shout. ‘Arey unhein pakadiyein.’ It carries across the grounds. ‘Haallleeedaaayyyy… Haaaapeeee.’

Holiday and Hope are speeding away on the freshly manicured lawn.

An army of uniformed men chases them. Not far from the pets, a driverless lawnmower hurtles down a landscaped slope, heading in the direction of the Shih Tzus. I’m on my feet when Pranav straightens his back abruptly and goes headlong into another of the staff, dislodging the lid of the teapot and turning the remnants of freshly brewed tea on himself. I manage to glove the lid seconds before the piece of china hits the ground.

I lurch towards the lawn when I hear Father’s shout. I hold my step as staff lock down on the pets. The lawnmower hits a brick parapet and comes to a halt.

As I settle into the seat before Father, I notice that he’s nervous. His left eye is twitching, and his index finger brushes against his nose, going back and forth.

‘You are so quick and aware of everything around you, Veer. Nothing misses your eye, especially in the outdoors,’ he says. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t take to hunting. You’d have been excellent.’

I nod.

If Father had his way, I’d have been named Vedveer ‘Michael’ Rathore Singh. Michael in honour of the elegant West Indian fast bowler Michael Anthony Holding, whose exploits Father once followed with studious diligence.

‘Veer, we need to talk,’ he says after tasting his morning tea.

I raise a brow, picking up my cup and inhaling the soothing scent of oolong.

‘There’s a proposal,’ he says. He returns his cup to the tray and is looking at his palm now.

‘Excellent!’ I respond quickly; this is indeed a first. ‘You’re here for business!’ This is urgent, and his travel in the early hours is fully justified.

‘Not that kind of proposal,’ he says, cutting through my train of thought.

‘Oh!’ I nod. ‘A matrimonial alliance for Navya?’

My only sibling, a younger sister, is in love with a cricketer, an opening batsman for India. A tall, good-looking chap named Nalin Shah, who is on a hot streak. Only his reputation precedes him.

Father looks around him, clearing his throat. ‘Not for Navya; this one is for you,’ he says slowly.

I look him in the eye, and he’s holding my gaze.

‘We have a marriage proposal for you, Veer.’

‘Ookaaay,’ I return, not knowing what to make of his declaration. It’s not the first. These alliances are generally mentioned during a meal whenever the family convenes and are promptly forgotten.

‘What kind of a response is that?’ Father is unusually sharp in going for the accelerator.

Silence, I decide, is a better option.

I’m beginning to feel the effects of this morning’s run. It has sapped me, leaving me on reserve, more than I bargained for. It isn’t just today. I have been at it for a while, and my body has been begging for a break. I make a quick decision against showing up at the Polo Club later in the afternoon.

‘We have a marriage proposal for you, Yuvraj.’ His eyes are on me now. ‘And a very good one at that!’ he adds with a smile. ‘Lovely girl, great family.’

I place my teacup on the ta. . .