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 fulfil 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, dialled 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 towards 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 goodbye. All she said was, ‘You’re a shit, Jamwal,’ which meant that at least he could cancel the farewell flowers.
The following 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 rumours 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 enquiries 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.