The Love Detective

‘She’s married?’ I gasp.

  ‘Yes, the wedding was very famous here in India.’ She breaks off and points to the magazine in my hands, ‘That’s a photograph from her wedding a couple of years ago. Look, see, there’s her husband.’

  I glance back at the photographs, skimming the article furiously to try and glean any information, but it’s mostly about her film and charity work – though, hang on, it does mention that she got rid of this Mangal Dosha before her celebrated marriage. See! I knew there must a way to fix this.

  I pause, furiously scanning the article for more information, only there isn’t any.

  But how? How did she do that? It doesn’t say!

  I feel a stab of frustration. Damn, how can I find out about this? Maybe there’s some expert I can talk to, or an ancient book on astrology I can read, or a specialist I can find . . .

  I catch sight of the computer sitting in the corner and have a brainwave. Of course! Why didn’t I think of it before?

  Google.

  ‘Is there anything else you would like?’

  I turn back to the waitress. ‘Yes,’ I nod, smiling. ‘Is the computer free? I’d like to get on the Internet.’

  Five minutes and a hundred rupees later, I’m sitting on a stool waiting for Internet Explorer to load. As the screen opens up, I quickly type in the actress’s name, followed by ‘Mangal Dosha, wedding, Manglik’. As I hit search, tons of stuff comes up. There are 973,000 entries for Manglik alone. I click on link after link, typing in various combinations, following different leads. Being a love detective isn’t just about being good at Google, but it sure as hell helps.

  From one website about the actress I glean that: ‘Mangal Dosha was removed by performing Kumbh Vivah before the ceremony . . .’

  Kumbh Vivah? I feel a rustle of curiosity. Hang on, what’s that?

  And so on I Google.

  Quite frankly, it’s absolutely fascinating, and for the next hour or so I’m completely absorbed. Before, I’ve always been slightly contemptuous of astrology. I mean, how can some middle-aged man with a bad taste in jumpers and a daily column in a newspaper tell me what’s going to happen to me by reading my stars? But now I realise there’s far more to astrology than just daily horoscopes.

  As I follow the rabbit warren of links from one website to the next, I read about all the different belief systems and astronomical phenomena, about searching for meaning in this giant cosmos, and how just because science can’t explain something, it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

  Which I guess makes astrology a lot like love, I muse, reading on to the bit about Mangliks and Mangal Dosha. Aisha was telling the truth when she said it’s viewed by many as a pretty big problem, but that doesn’t mean it has to be insurmountable. I don’t know about the astrologer being a silly old man, like Shine said, but he was obviously rubbish or lazy, maybe even both. Even worse, he scared Shine and Amy and made them believe all was lost. I click onto a new page and a smile bursts out across my face – and that’s not true, look! There’s a way to fix it!

  All you need to do is first perform a ceremony called a Kumbh Vivah, in which the Manglik woman ‘marries’ a banana tree or a clay pot, which can then be broken before she ties the knot with her husband. By breaking the clay pot after this ‘wedding’, the bride effectively becomes a widow and the problem has been done away with. She is now free to marry her groom, and live happily ever after . . .

  I feel a burst of happy relief. I should have known. One of the things that I’ve grown to love about India is that it doesn’t matter what the problem is, whether it’s spiritual, mystical, or astrological, there’s always a practical solution for everything. No job is too big or too small. Everything can be fixed. Whether it’s my sandals, or my sister’s happy-ever-after.

  Asking the waitress for a piece of paper and a pencil, I turn back to the computer screen. OK, here goes.

  Things you will need.

  Grabbing the pencil, I start writing a list . . .

  An hour later I’m back at the ‘house’. Amy rushes out to greet me.

  ‘Rubes, where have you been?’ she exclaims. ‘I’ve been worried!’

  I have to stifle a smile. ‘I thought that was my job?’ I say, giving her a hug.

  She tuts loudly. ‘OK, OK, point taken,’ she pouts. ‘So, where have you been?’

  ‘Shopping,’ I reply.

  ‘Shopping?’ She looks at me in surprise. ‘That’s why you rushed off so suddenly? To go shopping?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I nod, looking towards the entrance where a teenage boy has appeared with a wheelbarrow.

  ‘Well, what did you buy?’ she frowns, looking at my empty hands.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I say, turning to the boy and passing him a tip as he unloads my purchase. ‘It’s like I said, never give up on love,’ and at Amy’s look of confusion, I throw out my arms and gesture to the large clay urn now resting on the floor courtyard. ‘All you need is a clay pot . . .’

  It’s all arranged. A few hours later, I’ve showered and borrowed some of my sister’s clothes. Well, it’s not like she’ll be needing them. I glance across at her. Amy looks beautiful in a stunning red wedding sari carefully hand-embroidered with golden silk, whilst Shine couldn’t look more handsome, in a long silk brocade jacket that belonged to his father, and an ivory turban.

  Only it’s not him she’s marrying. Not just yet, anyway . . .

  As the priest who is going to perform the ritual takes his position, Amy shoots me a nervous look and I give her the thumbs-up. Just like I used to do when I would watch her perform in school plays, only this is slightly different. My little sister’s getting married!

  I suddenly feel absurdly nervous. I think about Mum and Dad and how they’re going to react when they find out. I did think about at least calling them up and telling them. But then I decided that, for once in my life, I’m going to leave that decision to Amy. It’s hard not to treat her like my baby sister, but that’s one lesson I’ve learned in all of this – I don’t always know what’s best. I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions, made the wrong decisions, and there’s actually a lot I can learn from my little sister, not just the other way around.

  She’s right, I reflect, looking across at her; she’s all grown up now. Wiping away a tear, I watch with Aisha as the priest performs the ritual Kumbh Vivah. It’s a short ceremony, and afterwards the clay pot is ceremoniously broken. I break into applause, much to the disapproval of Aisha, but I can’t help it. Shine and Amy look so happy. Now they’re free to marry!

  Except . . .

  ‘We’ve decided to wait,’ announces Shine, holding Amy’s hand tightly.

  ‘What?’ say both Aisha and I in stereo, looking at the happy couple in disbelief.

  ‘You were both right,’ continues Amy, ‘what’s the hurry? We’ve got the rest of our lives together, plus we want to get married properly, with our families.’

  I stare at Amy. Like I said, she’s certainly full of surprises. ‘I’m glad,’ I say, once I’ve got over the shock. ‘I know Mum and Dad will want to be there. Any excuse for a new hat, you know Mum.’

  ‘So will our uncle,’ smiles Aisha, looking pleased. ‘He is away on business and would have been very disappointed to miss his beloved nephew’s wedding. It is he who has looked after us since our parents died when we were young,’ she explains, turning to me. ‘He paid for our education, for my brother to go to Cambridge, for everything.’

  ‘You went to Cambridge?’ I turn to Shine.

  ‘Yes, I studied law,’ he replies evenly.

  ‘You’re a lawyer?’ When it comes to surprises, it seems he and Amy have more in common than I thought. Suddenly the earlier outfit of shiny brogues and Ralph Lauren shirt makes more sense.

  ‘I only practised for a few years, it wasn’t for me,’ he replies, smiling at my reaction.

  I feel myself blushing with embarrassment. And there was me thinking he was just a hippy-dippy yoga teacher.

  ‘So do you g
uys have any more surprises?’ I ask good-humouredly.

  ‘Only that his uncle’s a maharaja,’ whispers Amy wide-eyed, sneaking a peek at Shine, who rolls his eyes in amusement.

  ‘You’re not serious?’ I look back and forth at Aisha and Shine in disbelief. ‘Your uncle is a maharajah?’

  I can’t even begin to think what Mum’s going to say. It’s going to be round the local village faster than you can say, ‘My daughter’s marrying into royalty.’

  Actually, hang on . . .

  ‘Does that mean you’re a prince?’ I blurt out, and then immediately blush, feeling very uncool.

  ‘I’m afraid not; I’m not his son,’ smiles Shine.

  ‘Though he might as well be, he treats him like one,’ remarks Aisha, clicking her tongue. ‘Our uncle never had a son and so he indulges my little brother terribly!’

  Listening to everyone, I can’t help breaking into the biggest smile.

  ‘What?’ asks Amy, looking at me. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well, I guess this makes Shine your very own Prince Charming,’ I remark and, despite everything that’s happened, I feel the hopeless romantic rising up inside me once again. ‘Who said fairy tales don’t happen in real life?’

  Chapter 39

  ‘OK, is that everything?’ asks Shine, as he puts the last of the bags in the taxi.

  ‘No,’ smiles Amy ruefully.

  Shutting the boot, he wraps his arms around her and gives her a kiss. ‘I’ll be with you in a few weeks, my darling, don’t worry.’

  It’s the next morning and Amy and I are leaving to fly back to London. I couldn’t leave it any longer because my emergency travel document is about to run out. Plus anyhow, Mrs Flannegan will be reporting me as a missing person if I’m not careful, and I have a book to write, and things to do and . . . well, every journey has to come to an end, doesn’t it? It’s time for me to go home.

  Despite Amy’s reluctance to leave Shine, she’s happy to be heading back with me. ‘Thanks to you, everything’s sorted now,’ she’d declared. Shine is due to fly out in a couple of weeks to meet Mum and Dad and officially ask for her hand in marriage. In the meantime she’s eager to start her new job. ‘The plan is for Shine to teach yoga in London for a few years, just until I finish my research fellowship, and then who knows where we’ll live?’ she’d explained excitedly.

  ‘Bye . . . see you soon . . . it’s been wonderful to meet you!’ Saying my goodbyes to Shine and Aisha, I climb into the back seat of the taxi, followed by Amy. Then, before you know it, the driver is starting the engine and we’re rumbling out of the courtyard, windows down, waving.

  Having both missed our earlier flights, we needed to buy new tickets, but fortunately Shine had about a million air miles from all his trips back and forth when he was at Cambridge. We’re flying from Delhi straight to London, so we’re getting a connecting flight first, only there’s just one flight a day from Jodhpur and it’s fully booked. So instead we have to leave from the nearby airport in Udaipur.

  Udaipur. My mind jumps back to the night of the full moon. To the breathless kaleidoscope of colour, music, excitement, lust . . . I try to drag it quickly away. I’m not going to go there, remember?

  ‘So, do you want to talk about it?’

  Amy’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I turn sideways to see her looking at me. The last twenty-four hours have been such a whirlwind of people and arrangements that this is the first real chance we’ve had to be alone.

  I hesitate. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about him, that I’d pretend he never existed, and yet . . .

  ‘His name’s Jack,’ I say quietly. Just saying his name brings a lump to my throat. ‘His name was Jack,’ I correct myself.

  Her face floods with realisation. ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  Like watching scenes projected onto a screen, a stream of memories rushes through my mind: snippets of conversations . . . jokes . . . laughter . . . exchanged glances . . . silences . . . the first moment I saw him on the train . . . the Taj Mahal . . . glancing wordlessly across at him on the back seat of the car as we travelled across India . . . It was only a few days, but I experienced more emotions in that time than some people feel in a lifetime. Where do I even start?

  ‘I fell in love,’ I say simply.

  For once my sister doesn’t fire questions at me; instead she just nods.

  ‘But now it’s over,’ I add. ‘It was over before it ever really began,’ and, pushing the feeling deep down inside me, I turn away to look out of the window.

  A moment later I feel Amy reach for my hand. ‘It’s going to be OK,’ she says quietly.

  ‘You think so?’ I search her face for reassurance.

  ‘I know so,’ she nods firmly.

  I squeeze her hand gratefully. Sometimes big sisters need looking after too.

  We reach the airport a few hours later. It’s a new terminal, all shiny glass, huge concourses and even huger queues, but finally we make it through to departures. Our flight’s already boarding. So this is it; I’m leaving India. I’m going home.

  I think about everyone I’ve encountered and all their fascinating stories: about Rocky and his magical mystery tour, and how I never got to thank him; about the incredible journey I went on, both literally and metaphorically; and I think about Jack.

  The airport is several miles outside the city, but as I walk towards the gate I catch myself glancing around, as if I might spot him amongst the crowds, see a glimpse of a battered old fedora hat, hear the strains of an American accent. But of course I’m being crazy. I’m not going to see Jack again. And I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I have no address, no email, no telephone number; there’s no way of getting in touch with him . . .

  Handing in my boarding pass to the airport official, I follow Amy onto the plane. Besides, there’s nothing left to say anyway.

  Twenty minutes in to the flight they finally switch off the seatbelt signs and I get up to go to the loo. On the way back, I see Amy has already fallen asleep. That’s my sister for you. She has an innate ability to sleep anywhere, at any time. Sadly I’m in the middle of the row and don’t want to climb over her in case I wake her, but fortunately the two Indian women on the other side kindly get up to let me squeeze in.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I smile, shuffling past them, ‘that’s very kind.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no problem,’ beams the older lady, settling her large frame back down again. ‘The seats are so very small, thankfully it is only a short flight to Delhi.’ She pauses and looks at me with interest. ‘Are you on holiday?’

  ‘Yes . . . well, we were,’ I correct myself. ‘We’re on our way back to London, we’re getting a connecting flight after this one.’

  ‘London?’ echoes the younger girl, eagerly. ‘Did you hear that, Mummyji?’

  Of course. Now I see the resemblance between them.

  ‘My daughter has always wanted to go to London,’ explains the mother, in bemusement at her daughter’s excitement.

  ‘Well, it is a great city,’ I smile.

  ‘What do you do in London?’ asks the daughter, wide-eyed.

  ‘I write books,’ I answer, somewhat reluctantly. Often, as soon as I mention what I do for a living, people insist I should write a book about their life, then proceed to tell me all about it in painstaking detail.

  The daughter looks agog. ‘What kind of books do you write?’

  ‘Romances,’ I reply, ‘though I like to think of them more as mysteries . . .’

  At the mention of romance, her face has lit up. ‘Oh wow, have I got a romantic story for you!’ she cries delightedly. ‘You need to put this in a book!’

  Oh no. I try to look enthusiastic, but I’m not really in the mood.

  ‘Actually, it is my auntie’s story,’ continues the girl, excitedly, ‘and it’s also sort of a mystery . . .’

  I nod vaguely, but I’m already glancing at the stewardesses out of the corner of my eye. How much longer before they start servin
g drinks? After everything’s that happened, I feel like getting completely blotto.

  ‘It is the most beautiful story, isn’t it, Mummyji?’ continues the girl, looking at her mother for confirmation.

  Her mother nods. ‘You will be moved to tears,’ she tells me knowingly. ‘It will be the most romantic story you have ever heard.’

  I doubt it very much, but I nod accordingly.

  ‘Remember what he said when we asked him why he had travelled all this way to our tiny village in India?’ chatters the girl, and mother and daughter exchange looks.

  ‘How could I forget? It always makes me cry,’ nods her mother, pulling out a tissue in readiness.

  There’s a pause, then they both say in unison, ‘I’m here to keep a promise.’

  Suddenly my whole body stiffens.

  ‘What did you say?’ I stammer.

  ‘I’m here to keep a promise,’ repeats the daughter. ‘That’s what the American said when he gave my auntie the ring.’

  I’m frozen in my seat. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s too much of a coincidence.

  ‘A ring?’ My voice is almost a whisper.

  ‘Yes, a beautiful ruby with little diamonds on each side,’ she nods, her eyes wide with excitement. ‘It was the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.’

  Oh my god. The ring. The engagement ring.

  ‘What else did he say?’ I manage, my mind racing. Her aunt must be the girl he told me about . . . these women must be her relations. I feel as if my heart is being squeezed. He must have proposed.

  ‘Well, that’s the story I was going to tell you,’ grins the girl, pleased to have my attention.

  ‘Don’t forget to tell her how they met,’ interrupts her mother.

  ‘Mummyji!’ she exclaims, and rolls her eyes. ‘As if I am going to forget that part. You are never trusting me to do anything right – it was like today with the suitcases—’

  ‘The story?’ I prompt urgently, seeing they are going to get into an argument. Part of me doesn’t want to know anything, but the other part of me wants to know everything.