The Indian Tycoon's Marriage Deal (6 page)

Krish instructed Rohan to pick up Maya from her house the next morning before dismissing him. And then, as Maya looked on curiously, he took out a little jewel box from the case. An exquisite diamond ring sat inside—a delicate cluster of sparkling diamonds encased in a platinum band.

Krish slipped it on her ring finger. A little fazed, a little overwhelmed, Maya looked into Krish's face and caught something soft, something warm in his deep, dark eyes.

‘This belonged to my mother.' His voice was husky with emotion and he looked at Maya with warm, fuzzy eyes. But within seconds the warmth disappeared, replaced by a determined look. ‘I expect you to honour this ring and the lady who wore this before you.'

The ring felt strange on her finger. For the last two days, the preparations for her new life had an unreal, almost dreamy quality about them. It was almost as if it were happening to somebody else and she was just a bystander who was swept away in the craziness of wedding preparations. After the awe came the shock—there was nothing fairy-tale-like about her situation. The cold clasp of the ring quickly brought her back to reality.

As he took his hand away from hers, she felt the loss of his warmth. He was again his usual self. ‘Time to go home,' he suggested. ‘Tomorrow is a big day. You'd better get your beauty sleep.' Maya rose from the sofa, suddenly feeling tired. The day's events had wrung out her emotions and she longed to lie down in her own bed, disconnect from the world and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Krish suddenly pulled her towards him, close. Too close for comfort. ‘I hope you're not having second thoughts about going through with this, Maya.'

She could feel the blood coursing through her veins, pumping energy into every tired cell in her body. She pulled away and her voice was cold as she waved her ringed finger at him insolently. ‘The deal is done and I have this as a reminder, do I not?'

‘Make sure you don't forget it. Let's go then, my lady of illusions.'

On the ride back home, Maya pondered over the irony of Krish's words. Lady of illusions he'd called her. She definitely had none. The time for second thoughts too had passed. During the last four years she'd dreamt up different scenarios about how she would avenge her father but never had she imagined that her life would take such a strange turn. In less than eight hours she would enter the home of her enemy as his daughter-in-law! She'd made her choice and there was no looking back. There were bound to be consequences for the path that she'd chosen but now was not the time to think about them.

Krish cut the engine outside her house and turned to her. ‘Rohan will pick you up at eight forty-five a.m. Sharp. I'm not one of those who subscribes to Indian Standard Time. So make sure you are ready to go when Rohan arrives, please.'

She ground her teeth at his bossiness, got out of the car and banged the door shut. ‘Goodnight.'

Krish responded with a sardonic ‘Sweet dreams' before turning the car around and whizzing past, leaving a trail of dust and leaves in his wake.

Maya trudged up three floors to the
barsaati
that had been home to her for the last four years. No sooner had she unlocked the door than a hot blast greeted her. Even with the cooler working at full speed, the walls of her room were as hot as the insides of a furnace. There would be no sleep for her tonight. She might as well pack her stuff and keep everything ready so that she could just hand over the key to the landlord before Rohan came to pick her up. ‘Sweet dreams?' As if! Life had never been dreamy or sweet for her. And it seemed as if it was going to get a whole lot more nightmarish, given the challenge that she had set herself up for.

She removed the old yellowing plastic photo frame that was hanging on the wall. The photo had been taken on the morning of her tenth birthday. She wore a lovely rani-pink frilly dress that her mother had stitched for her. She remembered how excited she had been…Her mother had organized a little birthday party for all her friends from school and the neighbourhood. She had even ordered a strawberry cake. She had looked at it a million times during the day, wanting to taste a bit of the icing. And her mother would shoo her away. ‘Not now, baby! You will cut the cake later in the evening after Papa comes back from the office.'

She had pouted. ‘But, Ma, how can I wait so long?'

Her mother laughed. ‘Have patience, sweetheart.'

She had been patient. Very patient. Her friends had arrived for the party by seven p.m. But there was no sign of Papa. And he had promised her he would come home early. She ran anxiously to the balcony every few minutes to check. Ma too was getting impatient, even though she maintained a calm exterior, chatting with her friends' mothers, who had all come to attend the party. She checked the clock again and again—but it seemed to be teasing her, the arms moving so slowly. Finally, the doorbell rang.

She rushed to the door. There was Papa. Frazzled. His forehead covered in sweat. His spectacles askew and his hair ruffled. Gone was his usual smile and ‘Where's my beautiful Princess?' greeting. She ran to him. ‘Papa, you are late for my party!'

But he pushed her aside and spoke urgently to Ma. ‘We've got to talk.'

They went into the bedroom. A few minutes later, the door opened and an anxious Ma ushered out the guests, apologising profusely. ‘I'm sorry, my husband is not well. You will have to leave. I'm really sorry.'

Maya was in tears. ‘Ma, what about my cake?'

Ma shushed her. ‘Sweetie, listen to me…we will cut the cake later…'

Suddenly, with a loud banging, the door burst open. Three burly policemen stormed in. ‘We have an arrest warrant for Subodh Shome. Where is he?'

An audible gasp went around as friends, relatives and neighbours gawped. Horrified, Maya watched as they handcuffed Papa and dragged him away. Ma wept as she ran down the stairs to the police van. Maya rushed behind Ma. The policemen shoved him in the van and Papa gave her a shamefaced look before turning away. As the neighbours looked on, whispering among themselves, she clung to Ma's sari. Ma wept inconsolably and Maya wanted to cry too.

As the police van pulled away, she tore herself from her mother and ran down the street, Ma's screams fading into the background. She kept running till the van disappeared from her sight. She was faint, desperate, lonely. A bell chimed in the distance. She cried aloud, ‘Papa!'

A sudden burst of white light appeared as she saw Papa walking towards her in a white robe spotted with bloodstains. His face was smiling but wrinkled. She rushed to him. ‘Papa!' But he kept walking past her. And then she saw ten, twelve, no, many more, vultures swoop down towards her, wings flapping. Her heart pounded loudly. She covered her face in fright and screamed, ‘Papa!' But he was gone…All that remained was a path strewn with bright, vivid, lavender roses.

CHAPTER FOUR

H
EART POUNDING, MAYA
woke up. Totally disoriented. Soaked in sweat. The sunlight was streaming in through the curtainless windows. The pounding, though, had not stopped. With a start she realised someone was banging on the door and calling out her name.
Oh no! The wedding!
She checked her mobile. Eight-fifty a.m. And three missed calls. She rushed to the door, opened it a crack.

An anxious Rohan heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Madam, we are going to be late…'

Smiling apologetically, she said, ‘So sorry, Rohan. I will be with you in five minutes.'

Before he could respond, she shut the door and sped to the bathroom. Tepid water shot out of the creaky showerhead. The water brought her back to life, washing away the last vestiges of her troubled dream. She had been up for most of the night, had packed her stuff into the small suitcase. It had been too hot to sleep, especially after a power blackout some time after midnight. She must have dozed off during the wee hours of the morning. And the bizarre dream about her father…She still couldn't get over it.

She pulled on a pair of jeans and T-shirt. There would be just about enough time to get into her bridal finery at the hotel suite. She grabbed her suitcase and her handbag and took one last look around the bare room. She would miss this place—it had been her home and she had felt at peace coming back here in the evenings. In the early days, though, she had often been depressed and lonely in a strange city with no friends or family. That was when she had taken up dancing. She would put on some music and let herself go—immerse herself in the beat and physical energy till every dark thought had been erased from her mind.

A car honked impatiently.
Maya, you're running late!
She shut the door quietly and ran down the flight of stairs. Pulling out an envelope containing a cheque for the rent, she slipped in the key to the
barsaati
and pushed it under the door of the landlord's ground floor apartment. She dashed across the street and got into the passenger seat of Rohan's car.

* * *

The wedding
mandap
at the hotel lawns was bedecked with flowers. Strands of marigold garlands were strung out on the canopy atop a small raised platform where the wedding rituals would be conducted. The shaven-headed Brahmin priest was not to be messed with: he was taking his own sweet time arranging the flowers, herbs and essential ingredients like rice, turmeric, the auspicious vermilion and the myriad other objects that went into solemnising a Hindu wedding.

Krish's patience was at breaking point. At this rate, the wedding rituals would go on for hours and there was still no sign of the bride. Finally, the arrangements were completed and the priest declared, ‘You may call the bride now.'

‘About time!' Krish said under his breath, pulling out his BlackBerry from his pocket. Had she decided to renege on their agreement? He went cold. But then he stopped in his tracks. There she was—walking towards him, the picture perfect Indian bride. Her head covered by the gauzy chiffon
dupatta
, the shimmering red and gold
lehenga
swaying as her hips moved gracefully. The silver anklets tinkling softly, the
jhumkas
on her earlobes caressing her cheeks, the red-and-gold bangles on her henna-tattooed arms, the white flowers in her plaited hair and the jewel-encrusted
tikli
nestled on her forehead…She looked like an ethereal sixteenth century Rajput princess on the day of her
swayamvar.
Shaking away the unfamiliar tug that squeezed his chest, Krish approached Maya.

* * *

Maya looked up to find herself staring at Krish, impeccably dressed in a cream-coloured raw silk
kurta-churidar.
The red shawl and the turban on his head made him look like a dashing prince, ready to wed his princess. She was suddenly overcome with shyness. She almost felt like a real bride on the threshold of a new life with her chosen groom.

‘The beautiful bride is here finally! Now, can we get on with it? Or do you intend to take the rest of the day to walk to the
mandap
?'

His impatient words shattered her momentary illusion.
What was she thinking?
As a child, she had been fascinated by the tale of the dashing Rajput prince Prithviraj Chauhan who defied his family, and rode his golden steed into an enemy kingdom to carry away his beloved Princess Samyukta to happily-ever-after land. She was no Samyukta, nor was Krish her Prithviraj! Casting away the thought from her mind, she resolutely made her way to the
mandap
to sit in front of the
havan
—the holy fire that would solemnise their marriage according to the Hindu Arya Samaj rites.

The flames leapt up as Krish and she poured offerings of rice,
ghee
and assorted condiments into the holy fire at regular intervals, to the chants of the pundit's mantras. After the priest tied the ends of her
dupatta
and Krish's shawl together, they took the
saat pheras—
the seven steps. As they walked around the fire, the pundit invoked the gods to bless them with the seven most precious needs—nourishment, strength, wealth, health, progeny, luck and a loving relationship. Rohan and the priest's assistant showered them with grains of rice and rose petals, symbolic of blessings.

Maya's heart swelled with longing for her parents. How her mother would have filled with pride to see her darling daughter as a bride. How her father would have shed tears to see his precious princess being wed. As her eyes welled with unshed tears, she sneaked a peek at Krish—
her husband.
Was he thinking about his mother? It was obvious that he had been very close to her. And, no matter how much Krish rebelled against his father, surely he must have wanted him and the rest of his family to be there at his wedding? Even if theirs was a faux marriage. On the other hand, could there be anything more real than this? Taking vows before the holy fire, streaking her hair with
sindoor
and claiming her as his wife for the next seven lives?

A thought that, surprisingly enough, did not fill her with dread. She looked into Krish's eyes and could see the reflection of the flame glowing there. He looked down at her and fed her a sweetmeat. ‘So, Mrs Maya Krish Dev, here's to a long and happy marriage.' His voice was sincere and his eyes had a warm glow in them, which ignited a spark in her heart. She was lost for words but her stomach issued a rumble of protest.

Krish laughed. ‘Seems like the bride is hungry. And, as a husband, it's my duty to provide nourishment, isn't that right?'

A beaming Rohan announced, ‘Sir, ma'am, lunch is ready to be served in the Banquet Room.'

A sumptuous meal, comprising of several courses, was served to the newly married couple—ranging from the most deliciously cooked vegetarian dishes, melt in the mouth meat and chicken curries, a delicately spiced chicken
biryani
, flavourful mutton vindaloo and the most amazing array of syrupy sweetmeats. As Maya tucked in heartily, Krish watched her with indulgent amusement. ‘I have never seen such a ravenous bride.'