And Thereby Hangs a Tale

15. Caste — Off*

The driver of the open-top red Porsche touched his brakes, slipped the gear lever into neutral and brought the car to a halt at the lights before checking his watch. He was running a few minutes late for his lunch appointment. As he waited for the light to turn green, he noticed several men admiring his car, while the women smiled at him.

Jamwal gently touched the accelerator. The engine purred like a tiger and the smiles became even broader. Far more men than usual seemed to be looking in his direction. As the light turned green, he heard an engine revving up to his left. He glanced across to see a Ferrari accelerate away before dodging in and out of the morning traffic. He put his foot down and chased after the man who had dared to steal his thunder.

The Ferrari screeched to a halt at the next set of lights, only just avoiding a cow that was sitting in the middle of the road like a traffic bollard. Jamwal drew up by the side of his challenger, and couldn’t believe his eyes. The young woman seated behind the wheel didn’t give him so much as a glance, although he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

When the light turned green, she accelerated away and left him standing again. Jamwal threw the gear lever into first and chased after her, searching for even the hint of a gap in the traffic that might allow him to overtake her. For the next minute, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the horn as he swerved from lane to lane, narrowly missing bicycles, rickshaws, taxis, buses and trucks that had no intention of moving aside for him. She matched him yard for yard, and he only just managed to catch her up by the time she came to a reluctant halt at the next traffic lights.

Jamwal drew up by her side and took a closer look. She was wearing an elegant cream silk dress that, like her car, could only have been designed by an Italian, although his mother certainly wouldn’t have approved of the way the hemline rose high enough for him to admire her shapely legs. His eyes returned to her face as she once again accelerated away, leaving him in her slipstream. When he caught up with her at the next intersection, she turned and graced him with a smile that lit up her whole face.

When the lights changed this time, Jamwal was ready to pounce, and they took off together, matching each other cyclist for cyclist, cow for cow, rickshaw for rickshaw, until they both had to throw on their brakes and screech to a halt when a traffic cop held up an insistent arm.

When the policeman waved them on, Jamwal took off like a greyhound out of the slips and shot into the lead for the first time. But his smile of triumph turned to a frown when he glanced in his rear-view mirror to see her slowing down and driving into the entrance of the Taj Mahal Hotel. He cursed, threw on his brakes and executed a U-turn that resulted in a cacophony of horns, shaking fists and crude expletives as he tried not to lose sight of her.

He glided up to the front of the hotel, where he watched as she stepped out of her car and handed the keys to a valet. Jamwal leapt out of his Porsche without bothering to open the door, threw his keys to the valet, ran up the steps and followed her into the hotel. As he entered the lobby, she was disappearing into a lift. He waited to see which floor she would get out on. First stop was the mezzanine: fashionable shops, a hair salon and a French bistro. Would it be minutes or hours before she reappeared? Jamwal walked over to the reception desk. ‘Did you see that girl?’ he asked the clerk.

‘I think every man in the lobby saw her, sahib.’

Jamwal grinned. ‘Do you know who she is?’

‘Yes, sahib, she is Miss Chowdhury.’

‘The daughter of Shyam Chowdhury?’

‘I believe so.’

Jamwal smiled again. A few phone calls and he would know everything he needed to about Shyam Chowdhury’s daughter. By the time they next met, he would already be in first gear. The only thing that surprised him was that he hadn’t come across her before. He picked up the guest phone and dialled a local number.

‘Hi, Sunita. I’ve been held up at the office, someone needed to see me urgently. Let’s try and catch up this evening. Yes, of course I remembered,’ he said, keeping a watchful eye on the bank of lifts. ‘Yes, yes. We’re having dinner tonight. I’ll be with you around eight,’ he promised.

The lift door opened and she stepped out carrying a Ferragamo bag. ‘Got to rush,’ he said. ‘Can’t keep my next appointment waiting.’ He put the phone down, just as she walked past him, and quickly caught up with her.

‘I didn’t want to bother you...’ he began.

She turned and smiled sweetly, but did not stop walking. ‘It’s no bother, but I’m not looking for a chauffeur at the moment.’

‘How about a boyfriend?’ he said, not missing a beat.

‘Thank you but no. I don’t think you could handle the pace.’

‘Well, why don’t we try and find out over dinner tonight?’

‘How kind of you to ask,’ she said, still not slackening her pace, ‘but I already have a dinner date tonight.’

‘Then how about tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’

‘Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,’ he quoted back at her.

‘Sorry,’ she said, as an attendant opened the door for her, ‘but I don’t have a day free before the last syllable of recorded time.’

‘How about a coffee?’ said Jamwal. ‘I’m free right now.’

‘I feel sure you are,’ she said, finally coming to a halt and looking at him more closely. ‘You’ve clearly forgotten, Jamwal, what happened the last time we met.’

‘The last time we met?’ said Jamwal, unusually lost for words.

‘Yes. You tied my pigtails together.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse. You tied them round a lamp post.’

‘Is there no end to my infamy?’

‘No, there isn’t, because not satisfied with tying me up, you then left me.’

‘I don’t remember that. Are you sure it was me?’ he added, refusing to give up.

‘I can assure you, Jamwal, it’s not something I’d be likely to forget.’

‘I’m flattered that you still remember my name.’

‘And I’m equally touched,’ she said, giving him the same sweet smile, ‘that you clearly don’t remember mine.’

‘But how long ago was that?’ he protested as she stepped into her car.

‘Certainly long enough for you to have forgotten me.’

‘But perhaps I’ve changed since—’

‘You know, Jamwal,’ she said as she switched on the ignition, ‘I was beginning to wonder if you could possibly have grown up after all these years.’ Jamwal looked hopeful. ‘And had you bothered to open the car door for me, I might have been persuaded. But you are so clearly the same arrogant, self-satisfied child who imagines every girl is available, simply because you’re the son of a maharaja.’ She put the car into first gear and accelerated away.

Jamwal stood and watched as she eased her Ferrari into the afternoon traffic. What he couldn’t see was how often she checked in her rear-view mirror to make sure he didn’t move until she was out of sight.

Jamwal drove slowly back to his office on Bay Street. Within an hour he’d found out all he needed to know about Nisha Chowdhury. His secretary had carried out similar tasks for him on several occasions in the past. Nisha was the daughter of Shyam Chowdhury, one of the nation’s leading industrialists. She had been educated in Paris, before going on to Stanford University to study fashion design. She would graduate in the summer and was hoping to join one of the leading couture houses when she returned to Delhi.

Such gaps as Jamwal’s secretary hadn’t been able to fill in, the gossip columns supplied. Nisha was currently to be seen on the arm of a well-known racing driver, which answered two more of his questions. She had also been offered several modelling assignments in the past, and even a part in a Bollywood film, but had turned them all down as she was determined to complete her course at Stanford.

Jamwal had already accepted that Nisha Chowdhury was going to be more of a challenge than some of the girls he’d been dating recently. Sunita Desai, who he was meant to be having lunch with, was the latest in a long line of escorts who had already survived far longer than he’d expected, but that would rapidly change now that he’d identified her successor.

Jamwal wasn’t all that concerned who he slept with. He didn’t care what race, colour or creed his girlfriends were. Such matters were of little importance once the light was switched off. The only thing he would not consider was sleeping with a girl from his own Rajput caste, for fear that she might think there was a chance, however slim, of ending up as his wife. That decision would ultimately be made by his parents, and the one thing they would insist on was that Jamwal married a virgin.

As for those who had ideas above their station, Jamwal had a well-prepared exit line when he felt the time had come to move on: ‘You do realize that there’s absolutely no possibility of us having a long-term relationship, because you simply wouldn’t be acceptable to my parents.’

This line was delivered with devastating effect, often when he was dressing to leave in the morning. Nine out of ten girls never spoke to him again. One in ten remained in his phone book, with an asterisk by their names which indicated ‘available at any time’.

Jamwal intended to continue this very satisfactory way of life until his parents decided the time had come for him to settle down with the bride they had chosen for him. He would then start a family, which must include at least two boys, so he could fulfil the traditional requirement of siring an heir and a spare.

As Jamwal was only months away from his thirtieth birthday, he suspected his mother had already drawn up a list of families whose daughters would be interviewed to see if they would make suitable brides for the second son of a maharaja.

Once a shortlist had been agreed upon, Jamwal would be introduced to the candidates, and if his parents were not of one mind, he might even be allowed to offer an opinion. If by chance one of the contenders was endowed with intelligence or beauty, that would be considered a bonus, but not one of real significance. As for love, that could always follow some time later, and if it didn’t, Jamwal could return to his old way of life, albeit a little more discreetly. He had never fallen in love, and he assumed he never would.

Jamwal picked up the phone on his desk, dialled a number he didn’t need to look up, and ordered a bunch of red roses to be sent to Nisha the following morning — hello flowers; and a bunch of lilies to be sent to Sunita at the same time — farewell flowers.

Jamwal arrived a few minutes late for his date with Sunita that evening, something no one complains about in Delhi, where the traffic has a mind of its own.

The door was opened by a servant even before Jamwal had reached the top step, and as he walked into the house, Sunita came out of the drawing room to greet him.

‘What a beautiful dress,’ said Jamwal, who had taken it off several times.

‘Thank you,’ said Sunita as he kissed her on both cheeks. ‘A couple of friends are joining us for dinner,’ she continued as they linked arms and began walking towards the drawing room. ‘I think you’ll find them amusing.’

‘I was sorry to have to cancel our lunch date at the last moment,’ he said, ‘but I became embroiled in a takeover bid.’

‘And were you successful?’

‘I’m still working on it,’ Jamwal replied as they entered the drawing room together.

She turned to face him, and the second impression was just as devastating as the first.

‘Do you know my old school friend, Nisha Chowdhury?’ asked Sunita.

‘We bumped into each other quite recently,’ said Jamwal, ‘but were not properly introduced.’ He tried not to stare into her eyes as they shook hands.

‘And Sanjay Promit.’

‘Only by reputation,’ said Jamwal, turning to the other guest. ‘But of course I’m a great admirer.’

Sunita handed Jamwal a glass of champagne, but didn’t let go of his arm.

‘Where are we dining?’ Nisha asked.

‘I’ve booked a table at the Silk Orchid,’ said Sunita. ‘So I hope you all like Thai food.’

Jamwal could never remember the details of their first date, as Nisha so often described it, except that during dinner he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The moment the band struck up, he asked her if she would like to dance. To the undisguised annoyance of both their partners, they didn’t return to the table again until the band took a break. When the evening came to an end, Jamwal and Nisha reluctantly parted.

As Jamwal drove Sunita home, neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. When she stepped out of the car, she didn’t bother to kiss him goodbye. All she said was, ‘You’re a shit, Jamwal,’ which meant that at least he could cancel the farewell flowers.

The following morning Jamwal sent a handwritten note with Nisha’s red roses, inviting her to lunch. Every time the phone on his desk rang, he picked it up hoping to hear her voice saying, ‘Thank you for the beautiful flowers, where shall we meet for lunch?’ But it was never Nisha on the end of the line.

At twelve o’clock he decided to call her at home, just to make sure the flowers had been delivered.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the houseman who answered the phone, ‘but Miss Chowdhury was already on her way to the airport by the time they arrived, so I’m afraid she never saw them.’

‘The airport?’ said Jamwal.

‘She took the early morning flight to Los Angeles. Miss Chowdhury begins her final term at Stanford on Monday,’ the houseman explained.

Jamwal thanked him, put the phone down and pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Get me on the next plane to Los Angeles,’ he said to his secretary. He then called home and asked his manservant to pack a suitcase, as he would be going away.

‘For how long, sahib?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jamwal replied.

Jamwal had visited San Francisco many times over the years, but had never been to Stanford. After Oxford he had completed his education on the Eastern seaboard, finishing up at Harvard Business School.

Although the gossip columns regularly described Jamwal Rameshwar Singh as a millionaire playboy, the implied suggestion was far from the mark. Jamwal was indeed a prince, the second son of a maharaja, but the family wealth had been steadily eroding over the years, which was the reason the palace had become the Palace Hotel. And when he had left Harvard to return to Delhi, the only extra baggage he carried with him was the Parker Medal for Mathematics, along with a citation recording the fact that he had been in the top ten students of his year, which now hung proudly on the wall of the guest toilet. However, Jamwal did nothing to dispel the gossip columnists’ raffish image of him, as it helped to attract exactly the type of girl he liked to spend his evenings with, and often the rest of the night.

On returning to his homeland, Jamwal had applied for a position as a management trainee with the Raj Group, where he was quickly identified as a rising star. Despite rumours to the contrary, he was often the first to arrive in the office in the morning, and he could still be found at his desk long after most of his colleagues had returned home.

But once he had left the office, Jamwal entered another world, to which he devoted the same energy and enthusiasm that he applied to his work.

The phone on his desk rang. There’s a car waiting for you at the front door, sir.’

Jamwal had rarely been known to cross the dance floor for a woman, let alone an ocean.

When the 747 touched down at San Francisco International Airport at five forty-five the following morning, Jamwal took the first available cab and headed for the Palo Alto Hotel.

Some discreet enquiries at the concierge’s desk, accompanied by a ten-dollar bill, produced the information he required. After a quick shower, shave and change of clothes, another cab drove him across to the university campus.

When the smartly dressed young man wearing a Harvard tie walked into the registrar’s office and asked where he might find Miss Nisha Chowdhury, the woman behind the counter smiled and directed him to the north block, room forty-three.

As Jamwal strolled across the campus, few students were to be seen, other than early morning joggers or those returning from very late-night parties. It brought back memories of Harvard.

When he reached the north block, he made no attempt to enter the building, fearing he might find her with another man. He took a seat on a bench facing the front door and waited. He checked his watch every few minutes, and began to wonder if she had already gone to breakfast. A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind while he waited. What would he do if she appeared on Sanjay Promit’s arm? He’d slink back to Delhi on the next flight, lick his wounds and move on to the next girl. But what if she was away for the weekend and didn’t plan to return until Monday morning, when term began? He had several pressing appointments on Monday, none of whom would be impressed to learn that Jamwal was on the other side of the world chasing a girl he’d only met twice — well, three times if you counted the pigtail incident.

When she came through the swing doors, he immediately knew why he’d circled half the globe to sit on a wooden bench at eight o’clock in the morning.

Nisha walked straight past him. She wasn’t ignoring Jamwal this time, but simply hadn’t registered who it was sitting on the bench. Even when he rose to greet her, she didn’t immediately recognize him, perhaps because he was the last person on earth she expected to see. Suddenly her whole face lit up, and it seemed only natural that he should take her in his arms.

‘What brings you to Stanford, Jamwal?’ she asked once he’d released her.

‘You,’ he replied simply.

‘But why—’ she began.

‘I’m just trying to make up for tying you to a lamp post.’

‘I could still be there for all you cared,’ she said, grinning. ‘So tell me, Jamwal, have you already had breakfast with another woman?’

‘I wouldn’t be here if there was another woman,’ he said.

‘I was only teasing,’ she said softly, surprised that he had risen so easily to her bait. Not at all his reputation. She took his hand as they walked across the lawn together.

Jamwal could always recall exactly how they had spent the rest of that day. They ate breakfast in the refectory with five hundred chattering students; walked hand-in-hand around the lake — several times; lunched at Benny’s diner in a corner booth, and only left when they became aware that they were the last customers. They talked about going to the theatre, a film, perhaps a concert, and even checked what was playing at the Globe, but in the end they just walked and talked.

When he took Nisha back to the north block just after midnight, he kissed her for the first time, but made no attempt to cross the threshold. The gossip columnists had got that wrong as well, at least that was something his mother would approve of. His final words before they parted were, ‘You do realize that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together?’

Jamwal couldn’t sleep on the long flight back to Delhi as he thought about how he would break the news to his parents that he had fallen in love. Within moments of landing, he was on the phone to Nisha to let her know what he’d decided to do.

‘I’m going to fly up to Jaipur during the week and tell my parents that I’ve found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with, and ask for their blessing.’

‘No, my darling,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to do that while I’m stuck here on the other side of the world. Perhaps we should wait until I return.’

‘Does that mean you’re having second thoughts?’ he asked in a subdued voice.

‘No, I’m not,’ she replied calmly, ‘but I also have to think about how I break the news to my parents, and I’d prefer not to do it over the phone. After all, my father may be just as opposed to the marriage as yours.’

Jamwal reluctantly agreed that they should do nothing until Nisha had graduated and returned to Delhi. He thought about visiting his brother in Chennai and asking him to act as an intermediary, but just as quickly dismissed the idea, only too aware that in time he would have to face up to his father. He would have discussed the problem with his sister Silpa, but however much she might have wanted to keep his secret, within days she would have shared it with their mother.

In the end Jamwal didn’t even tell his closest friends why he boarded a flight to San Francisco every Friday afternoon, and why his phone bill had recently tripled.

As each week went by, he became more certain that he’d found the only woman he would ever love. He also accepted that he couldn’t put off telling his parents for much longer.

Every Saturday morning Nisha would be standing by the arrivals gate at San Francisco International airport waiting for him to appear. On Sunday evening, he would be among the last passengers to have their passports checked before boarding the overnight flight to Delhi.

When Nisha walked up on to the stage to be awarded her degree by the President of Stanford, two proud parents were sitting in the fifth row warmly applauding their daughter.

A young man was standing at the back of the hall, applauding just as enthusiastically. But when Nisha stepped down from the stage to join her parents for the reception, Jamwal decided the time had come to slip away. When he arrived back at his hotel, the concierge handed him a message:

It became clear to Jamwal within moments of meeting Nisha’s parents that they had known about the relationship for some time, and they left him in no doubt that they were delighted to have a double cause for celebration: their daughter’s graduation from Stanford, and meeting the man there she’d fallen in love with.

The dinner lasted long into the night, and Jamwal found it easy to relax in the company of Nisha’s parents. He only wished...

‘A toast to my daughter on her graduation day,’ said Shyam Chowdhury, raising his glass.

‘Daddy, you’ve already proposed that toast at least six times,’ said Nisha.

‘Is that right?’ he said, raising his glass a seventh time. ‘Then let’s toast Jamwal’s graduation day.’

‘I’m afraid that was several years ago, sir,’ said Jamwal.

Nisha’s father laughed, and turning to his prospective son-in-law, said, ‘If you plan to marry my daughter, young man, then the time has come for me to ask you about your future.’

‘That may well depend, sir, on whether my father decides to cut me off, or simply sacrifice me to the gods,’ he replied. Nobody laughed.

‘You have to remember, Jamwal,’ said Nisha’s father, placing his glass back on the table, ‘that you are the son of a maharaja, a Rajput, whereas Nisha is the daughter of a—’

‘I don’t give a damn about that,’ said Jamwal.

‘I feel sure you don’t,’ said Shyam Chowdhury. ‘But I have no doubt that your father does, and that he always will. He is a proud man, steeped in the Hindi tradition. So if you decide to go ahead and marry my daughter against his wishes, you must be prepared to face the consequences.’

‘I appreciate what you are saying, sir,’ said Jamwal, now calmer. ‘I love my parents, and will always respect their traditions. But I have made my choice and I will stand by it.’

‘It is not only you who will have to stand by it, Jamwal,’ said Mr Chowdhury. ‘If you decide to defy the wishes of your father, Nisha will have to spend the rest of her life proving that she is worthy of you.’

‘Your daughter has nothing to prove to me, sir,’ said Jamwal.

‘It isn’t you I am worried about.’

Nisha returned to Delhi a few days later and moved back into her parents’ home in Chanakyapuri. Jamwal wanted them to be married as soon as possible, but Nisha was more cautious, only because she wanted him to be certain before he took such an irrevocable step.

Jamwal had never been more certain about anything in his life. He worked harder than ever by day, buoyed up by the knowledge that he would be spending the evening with the woman he adored. He no longer had any desire to visit the flesh-pots of the young. The fashionable clubs and fast cars had been replaced by visits to the theatre, ballet and opera, followed by quiet dinners in restaurants that cared more about their cuisine than about which Bollywood star was sitting next to which model at which table. Each night after he’d driven her home he always left her with the same words: ‘How much longer do I have to wait before you will agree to be my wife?’

Nisha was about to tell him that she could see no reason why they should wait any longer, when the decision was taken out of her hands.

One evening, just as Jamwal had finished work and was leaving to join Nisha for dinner, the phone on his desk rang.

‘Jamwal, it’s your mother. I’m so glad to catch you.’ He could feel his heart beating faster as he anticipated her next sentence. ‘I was hoping you might be able to come up to Jaipur for the weekend. There’s a young lady your father and I are keen for you to meet.’

After he had put the phone down, Jamwal didn’t call Nisha. He knew that he would have to explain to her face to face why there had been a change of plan. Jamwal drove slowly over to her home in Chanakyapuri, relieved that her parents were away for the weekend visiting relatives in Hyderabad.

When Nisha opened the front door, she only had to look into his eyes to realize what must have happened. She was about to speak, when he said, ‘I’ll be flying up to Jaipur this weekend to visit my parents, but before I leave, there’s something I have to ask you.’

Nisha had prepared herself for this moment, and if they were to part, as she had always feared they might, she was determined not to break down in front of him. That could come later, but not until he’d left. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands — something she’d always done as a child when she didn’t want her parents to realize she was trembling — before looking up at the man she loved.

‘I want you to try to understand why I’m flying to Jaipur,’ he said. Nisha dug her nails deeper into the palms of her hands, but it was Jamwal who was trembling. ‘Before I see my father, I need to know if you still want to be my wife, because if you do not, I have nothing to live for.’

‘Jamwal, welcome home,’ said his mother as she greeted her son with a kiss. ‘I’m so glad you were able to join us for the weekend.’

‘It’s wonderful to be back,’ said Jamwal, giving her a warm hug.

‘Now, there’s no time to waste,’ she said as they walked into the hall. ‘You must go and change for dinner. Your father and I have something very important to discuss with you before our guests arrive.’

Jamwal remained at the bottom of the sweeping marble staircase while a servant took his bags up to his room. ‘And I have something very important to discuss with you,’ he said quietly.

‘Nothing that can’t wait, I’m sure,’ said his mother smiling up at her son, ‘because among our guests tonight is someone who I know is very much looking forward to meeting you.’

How Jamwal wished it was he who was saying those same words because he was about to introduce his mother to Nisha. But he doubted if petals would ever be strewn at the entrance of this home to welcome his bride on their wedding day.

‘Mother, what I have to tell you can’t wait,’ he said. ‘It’s something that has to be discussed before we sit down for dinner.’ His mother was about to respond when Jamwal’s father came out of his study, a broad smile on his face.

‘How are you, my boy?’ he asked, shaking hands with his son as if he’d just returned from prep school.

‘I’m well, thank you, Father,’ Jamwal replied, giving him a traditional bow, ‘as I hope you are.’

‘Never better. And I hear great things about your progress at work. Most impressive.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘No doubt your mother has already warned you that we have a little surprise for you this evening.’

‘And I have one for you, Father,’ he said quietly.

‘Another promotion in the pipeline?’

‘No, Father. Something far more important than that.’

‘That sounds ominous, my boy. Shall we retire to my study for a few moments while your mother changes for dinner?’

‘I would like Mother to be present when I tell you my news.’

The Maharaja looked apprehensive, but stood aside to allow his wife and son to enter the study. Both men remained standing until the Maharani had taken her seat.

Once the Maharani had sat down, Jamwal turned to his mother and said in a gentle voice, ‘Mother, I have fallen in love with the most wonderful young woman, and I want you to know that I have asked her to be my wife.’

The Maharani bowed her head.

Jamwal turned to face his father, who was gripping the arms of his chair, ashen-faced, but before Jamwal could continue, the Maharaja said, ‘I have never concerned myself with the way you conduct your life in Delhi, even when those activities have been reported in the gutter press. Heaven knows, I was young myself once. But I have always assumed that you were aware of your duties to this family, and that in time would marry a young woman not only from your own background, but who also met with the approval of your mother and myself.’

‘Nisha and I are from the same background, Father, so let’s be frank, it’s not her background we’re discussing, but my caste.’

‘No,’ said his father, ‘what we are discussing is your responsibility to the family that raised you, and bestowed on you all the privileges you have taken for granted since the day you were born.’

‘Father,’ said Jamwal quietly, ‘I didn’t fall in love simply to annoy you. What has happened between Nisha and me is something rare and beautiful, and a cause for celebration, not anger. That is why I returned home in the hope of receiving your blessing.’

‘You will never have my blessing,’ said his father. ‘And if you are foolish enough to go ahead with this unacceptable union, you will not be welcome in this house again.’

Jamwal looked towards his mother, but her head remained bowed and she didn’t speak.

‘Father,’ Jamwal said, turning back to face him, ‘won’t you even meet Nisha before you make your decision?’

‘Not only will I never meet this young woman, but also no member of this family will ever be permitted to come into contact with her. Your grandmother must go to her grave unaware of this misalliance, and your brother, who married wisely, will now become not only my successor, but also my sole heir, while your sister will enjoy all the privileges that were once to be bestowed on you.’

‘If it was a lack of wisdom that caused me to fall in love, Father, so be it, because the woman I have asked to be my wife and the mother of my children is a beautiful, intelligent and remarkable human being, with whom I intend to spend the rest of my life.’

‘But she is not a Rajput,’ said his father defiantly.

‘That was not her choice,’ replied Jamwal, ‘as it was not mine.’

‘It is clear to me,’ said his father, ‘that there is no point in continuing with this conversation. You have obviously made up your mind, and chosen to bring dishonour on this house and humiliation to the family we have invited to share our name.’

‘And if I were not to marry Nisha, having given her my word, Father, I would bring dishonour on the woman I love and humiliation to the family whose name she bears.’

The Maharaja rose slowly from his chair and glowered defiantly at his youngest child. Jamwal had never seen such anger in those eyes. He stood to face his wrath, but his father didn’t speak for some time, as if he needed to measure his words.

‘As it appears to me that you are determined to marry this young woman against the wishes of your family, and that nothing I can say will prevent this inappropriate and distasteful union, I now tell you, in the presence of your mother, that you are no longer my son.’

Nisha had been standing by the barrier for over an hour before Jamwal’s plane was due to land, painfully aware that as he was returning on the same day, it could not be good news. She did not want him to see that she’d been crying. While he was away she had resolved that if his father demanded he must choose between her and his family, she would release him from any obligation he felt to her.

When Jamwal strode into the arrivals hall, he looked grim-faced but resolute. He took Nisha firmly by the hand and, without saying a word, led her out on to the concourse, clearly unwilling to tell her what had happened in front of strangers. She feared the worst, but said nothing.

At the taxi rank, Jamwal opened the door for Nisha before climbing in beside her.

‘Where to, sahib?’ asked the driver cheerfully.

‘The High Court,’ Jamwal said without emotion.

‘Why are we going to the High Court?’ asked Nisha.

‘To get married,’ Jamwal replied.

Nisha’s mother and father held a more formal ceremony on the lawn of their home in Chanakyapuri a few days later to celebrate their daughter’s marriage. The festivities had gone on for several days, and culminated in a large party that was attended by over a thousand guests, although not a single member of Jamwal’s family attended the ceremony.

After the newly married couple had danced seven times around Pheras, the final confirmation of their wedding vows, Mr and Mrs Rameshwar Singh strolled around the grounds, speaking to as many of their guests as possible.

‘So where are you spending your honeymoon, dare I ask?’ said Noel Kumar.

‘We’re flying to Goa, to spend a few days at the Raj,’ said Jamwal.

‘I can’t think of a more beautiful place to spend your first few days as man and wife,’ said Noel.

‘A wedding gift from your uncle,’ said Nisha. ‘So generous of him.’

‘Just be sure you have him back in time for the board meeting on Monday week, young lady, because one of the items under discussion is a new project that I know the chairman wants Jamwal to mastermind.’

‘Any clues?’ asked Jamwal.

‘Certainly not,’ said Noel. ‘You just go away and enjoy your honeymoon. Nothing’s so important that it can’t wait until you’re back.’

‘And if we hang around here any longer,’ said Nisha, taking her husband by the hand, ‘we might miss our plane.’

A large crowd gathered by the entrance to the house and threw marigold petals in their path and waved as the couple were driven away.

When Mr and Mrs Rameshwar Singh drove on to the airport’s private runway forty minutes later, the company’s Gulfstream jet awaited them, door open, steps down.

‘I do wish someone from your family had attended the wedding,’ said Nisha as she fastened her seat belt. ‘I was hoping that perhaps your brother or sister might have turned up unannounced.’

‘If either of them had,’ said Jamwal, ‘they would have suffered the same fate as me.’ Nisha felt the first moment of sadness that day.

Two and a half hours later the plane touched down at Goa’s Dabolim airport, where another car was waiting to whisk them off to their hotel. They had planned to have a quiet supper in the hotel dining room, but that was before they were shown around the bridal suite, where they immediately started undressing each other. The bellboy left hurriedly and placed a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door. In fact, they missed dinner, and breakfast, only surfacing in time for lunch the following day.

‘Let’s have a swim before breakfast,’ said Jamwal as he placed his feet on the thick carpet.

‘I think you mean lunch, my darling,’ said Nisha as she slipped out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Jamwal pulled on a pair of swimming trunks and sat on the end of the bed waiting for Nisha to return. She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later wearing a turquoise swimsuit that made Jamwal think about skipping lunch.

‘Come on, Jamwal, it’s a perfect day,’ Nisha said as she drew the curtains and opened the French windows that led on to a freshly cut lawn surrounded by a luxuriant tropical garden of deep red frangipani, orange dahlias and fragrant hibiscus.

They were walking hand in hand towards the beach when Jamwal spotted the large swimming pool at the far end of the lawn. ‘Did I ever tell you, my darling, that when I was at school I won a gold medal for diving?’

‘No, you didn’t,’ Nisha replied. ‘It must have been some other woman you were showing off to,’ she added with a grin.

‘You’ll live to regret those words,’ he said, releasing her hand and beginning to run towards the pool. When he reached the edge of the pool he took off and leapt high into the air before executing a perfect dive, entering the water so smoothly he hardly left a ripple on the surface.

Nisha ran towards the pool laughing. ‘Not bad,’ she called out. ‘I bet the other girl was impressed.’

She stood at the edge of the pool for a moment before falling to her knees and peering down into the shallow water. When she saw the blood slowly rising to the surface, she screamed.

I have a passion, almost an obsession, about not being late, and it’s always severely tested whenever I visit India. And however much I cajoled, remonstrated with and simply shouted at my poor driver, I was still several minutes late that night for a dinner being held in my honour.

I ran into the dining room of the Raj and apologized profusely to my host, who wasn’t at all put out, although the rest of the party were already seated. He introduced me to some old friends, some recent acquaintances and a couple I’d never met before.

What followed was one of those evenings you just don’t want to end: that rare combination of good food, vintage wine and sparkling conversation which was emphasized by the fact that we were the last people to leave the dining room, long after midnight.

One of the guests I hadn’t met before was seated opposite me. He was a handsome man, with the type of build that left you in no doubt he must have been a fine athlete in his youth. His conversation was witty and well informed, and he had an opinion on most things, from Sachin Tendulkar (who was certain to be the first cricketer to reach fifty test centuries) to Rahul Gandhi (undoubtedly a future prime minister, if that’s the road he chooses to travel down). His wife, who was sitting on my right, possessed that rare middle-aged beauty that the callow young can only look forward to, and rarely achieve.

I decided to flirt with her outrageously in the hope of getting a rise out of her self-possessed husband, but he simply flicked me away as if I were some irritating fly that had interrupted his afternoon snooze. I gave up the losing battle and began a serious conversation with his wife instead.

I discovered that Mrs Rameshwar Singh worked for one of India’s leading fashion houses. She told me how much she always enjoyed visiting England whenever she could get away. It was not always easy to drag her husband from his work, she explained, adding, ‘He’s still quite a handful.’

‘Do you have any children?’ I asked.

‘Sadly not,’ she replied wistfully.

‘And what does your husband do?’ I asked, quickly changing the subject.

‘Jamwal is on the board of the Raj Group. He’s headed up their hotel operation for the past fifteen years.’

‘I’ve stayed at six Raj hotels in the last nine days,’ I told her, ‘and I’ve rarely come across their equal.’

‘Oh, do tell him that,’ she whispered. ‘He’ll be so touched, especially as the two of you have spent most of the evening trying to prove how macho you are.’ Both of us put nicely in our place, I felt.

When the evening finally came to an end, everyone stood except the man seated opposite me. Nisha moved swiftly round to the other side of the table to join her husband, and it was not until that moment that I realized Jamwal was in a wheelchair.

I watched sympathetically as she wheeled him slowly out of the room. No one who saw the way she touched his shoulder and gave him a smile the rest of us had not been graced with, could have had any doubt of their affection for each other.

He teased her unmercifully. ‘You never stopped flirting with the damn author all evening, you hussy,’ he said, loud enough to be sure that I could hear.

‘So he did get a rise out of you after all, my darling,’ she responded.

I laughed, and whispered to my host, ‘Such an interesting couple. How did they ever get together?’

He smiled. ‘She claims that he tied her to a lamp post and then left her.’

‘And what’s his version?’ I asked.

‘That they first met at a traffic light in Delhi... and she left him.’

And thereby hangs a tale.