“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 fleshpots of the young. The fashionable clubs and fast cars had been replaced by visits to the theater, ballet, and opera, followed by quiet dinners in restaurants that cared more about their cuisine than about which Bollywood star was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 toward 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 dishonor 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 dishonor 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 grimfaced but resolute. He took Nisha firmly by the hand and, without saying a word, led her out onto 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 round Pheras, the final confirmation of their wedding vows, Mr. and Mrs. Rameshwar Singh strolled round 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 round 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 onto 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 round 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 onto 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 toward 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 toward the pool. When he reached the edge of the pool he took off and leaped high into the air before executing a perfect dive, entering the water so smoothly he hardly left a ripple on the surface.
Nisha ran toward 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 honor.
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, sh
e 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 lamppost 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.
Jeffrey Archer, And Thereby Hangs a Tale
(Series: # )
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