“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 lamppost.”
“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 rearview 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 onto 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 modeling 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, color, 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 fulfill 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, dialed 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 toward 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 good-bye. All she said was, “You’re a shit, Jamwal,” which meant that at least he could cancel the farewell flowers.
The follow
ing 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 rumors 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 inquiries 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 onto 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 lamppost.”
“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 round 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 theater, 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 onto 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:
Jamwal,
Why don’t you join us for dinner at the Bel Air?
Shyam Chowdhury
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.