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“Chee! How can the Maharani of Trikhera prance about half-naked on a stage?” cried my mother, looking at Dheer’s mother for support.
“Ma! I’m a supermodel, not a stripper,” I replied, aghast at her backward thinking.
I might have become a model by accident, but I loved my career. I was famous, I made a lot of money, I got to dress up in gorgeous clothes, and I got to travel all over the world. Why would I want to give all that up?
After Dheer broke my heart, I wanted to get out of the palace before I was entombed in the wall of pity that seemed to have come up around me suddenly.
I was sure I’d lose my mind if someone called me Poor Diya one more time. I’d had modelling offers since I was a teenager, but I hadn’t even considered that as an option because I was going to marry Dheer and live happily ever after. When he announced his engagement to Raksha in public without even giving me the courtesy of a heads-up, I realised that there was nothing to hold me back from exploring new avenues in life.
I was done with being the good girl who lived by the rulebook. I wanted to do something drastic. Something that would shake me out of the numb and miserable existence that was my life.
With my heart in my mouth, I picked up my phone and called one of the model scouts who had slipped me her card when I was summer skiing in Austria at the age of seventeen. I had held on to the card for some reason, and I was glad I did. I didn’t know if she’d even remember me, and maybe she didn’t. Maybe at twenty-one, I was too old to start modelling. But she agreed to video call me immediately, and before I knew it, I was on a flight to New York to have my portfolio created by one of the best photographers in the industry.
Baba overrode all of Ma’s protests and gave me the freedom to explore a career for the first time in my life.
“Look at her, Rajeshwari. Just look at her! There’s no life in her eyes. I want my old Diya back, and if this modelling thing is going to distract her from her pain, then I’m all for it,” he said fiercely when my mother threatened to go on a hunger strike if I got on that plane.
He ran a hand over my head.
“Go and conquer the world, beta, if that’s what you need to do right now. Just promise me you’ll come back to us when you feel better,” he said softly.
“I will, Baba,” I promised tearfully.
As the flight took off, I promised myself that I wouldn’t shed any more tears. Not over Dheer. Not over anyone. The new Diya was going to be cold and hard. I was going to hide my heart away so that no one would ever get a chance to stomp on it like that bastard had done.
And through dint of sheer hard work, I had built a very strong career. I was the face of many international brands and I was one of the few Indian supermodels on the international runway. I wasn’t going to throw it away for a temporary marriage.
I turned to Dheer’s mother worriedly because while I knew that my father was my biggest cheerleader, he wouldn’t be able to support me if my in-laws asked me to stop working. Thankfully, Padmini Aunty was smiling.
“Raji, I’ve seen Diya’s pictures in fashion magazines. They are very tasteful, so I don’t see why she needs to stop working after marriage,” she said, making my mother almost catatonic with shock.
Poor Ma was sure she’d get a lot of support from my future mother-in-law, but she had underestimated her broad-mindedness. Padmini Aunty had never put any restrictions on Isha. She could come and go as she liked, unlike me. I had got my first taste of freedom only when I went to New York to become a model.
My mother bristled angrily but she couldn’t show Padmini Aunty the sharp edge of her tongue, so she changed the topic.
“We’ll see about that. Achha, I will send for Diya’s trousseau tomorrow morning.”
“What trousseau?” I asked, wondering where this trousseau had sprung from.
Ma looked a bit uncomfortable as she explained.
“It’s all the stuff that I had collected nine years ago, beta. I’m glad it’s finally getting used.”
I flushed with embarrassment as I realised that she had put together a trousseau in anticipation of Dheer’s proposal nine years ago. But why had she held onto it for so many years, I wondered. The why didn’t matter. I didn’t want anything that reminded me of the past, including the trousseau.
“I told you I don’t want a big wedding, ma. All I want is a simple varmala ritual.”
“What about the pheras?”
I had no intention of making vows that I did not intend to keep, so the saat pheras were out of the question.
“No pheras. No big fat Indian wedding,” I said sternly.
“You’re marrying the Maharaja of Trikhera, you fool. Not some commoner who can be content with a simple varmala.
“Raji, the child is right. Let’s defer the grand wedding to a time when this mess has been cleared up. Right now, we just need the Goels to back off, and a quick wedding is what we need.”
“But what about all those clothes I bought for you?” grumbled my mother.
