And Thereby Hangs a Tale

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.