“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.