No Strings Attached

by Sheila Kumar

  ‘Do you often go back to Jaisalmer then?’ Nina asked, stumbling a little over the pronunciation of the city’s name. She was getting better at most Indian names and, always good with languages, had acquired more than a passing knowledge of Hindi. But the occasional word still stumped her.

  ‘Not so much anymore. My mother moved after my father died – six years ago. And my sister also lives in Delhi.’ As Samar spoke, he looked at Nina’s smiling mouth and suppressed a sharp pang of hunger. He didn’t want to talk about Jaisalmer, much as he loved the place. He wanted to lean forward and capture that mouth, to find out if it tasted as sweet by morning as it did by night. He wanted to pull her out of the chair and into his arms, thrust his hands into the heavy weight of her curls, to mould her to his body, to feel those breasts grow taut and heavy against him…

  And then Alan Pereira walked in, with the news editor behind him. He walked up to Nina, bent down and kissed her cheek by way of greeting. Nina smiled up at Alan, then caught Samar’s gimlet eye on her and the smile withered. Alan asked jovially, ‘And what are you doing here, Samar Singh? Planning to join our meeting?’

  Samar gave him a level look, then moved to the door saying, ‘Nope. I was keeping Nina company. Just till you got here to do the job yourself, Alan.’ The air suddenly turned tense and Nina shot Alan a quick look, but the editor was already shuffling papers and hadn’t heard a word. The news ed had, though, and he raised a questioning brow at Nina.

  Oh great, thought Nina savagely, now that’s the buzz which will do the rounds. The office, she knew, still indulged in random speculation as to whether she was having an affair with Alan Pereira and now they would talk excitedly about how Samar was vying for her favours, too.

  However, Nina had learned to smile noncommittally whenever some gossip was relayed to her; and when she was the hub of the gossip – something she could pick up on instantly – she knew better than to react. A few days and this too would blow over.

  Disturbed at the anger she felt emanating from him, she watched Samar walk away and realized he too was clearly under the impression that she was involved with Alan. How could she let him know … and even before she completed that sentence in her mind, she felt a burst of anger: how dare he jump to the first obvious conclusion? If he preferred to deal in stereotypical thinking, let him. Nina wasn’t going to disabuse him. And having decided that, she was actually able to focus on the meeting.

  Samar, meanwhile, stormed out of the room in a foul temper. Damn, the woman had him lose his cool each and every time. So, what was his strategy to be: steal her from under Alan’s big red nose? If he did that and he could, though it might not be all that easy, Samar knew he would be doing Sita, whom he quite liked, a big favour in the bargain. But was Nina Sabharwal worth the effort of muddying hitherto clean waters? Alan was a grown man and if he wanted to wreck his marriage over a pair of eyes as blue as a clear sky, that was his problem.

  Samar Singh brought a laid-back attitude to his work that belied the sharp eye and keen gaze so necessary for a photojournalist. That’s how editors trusted him and let him push the boundaries; that’s how politicians dropped their guard and let something vital slip into their hitherto impassive faces; that’s how he got past most people’s unseen but very much present picket fences to click pictures that revealed a new angle, a new facet. Sometimes, his ‘victims’ would be deeply chagrined, annoyed, even furious after the pictures ran, revealing to all and sundry what they had not wanted revealed. Of course, it helped that Samar Pratap Singh was impervious to both blandishments and threats.

  Nah, Samar now decided, no woman was worth that much of an effort. As for the way his body reacted to Nina, well, he’d have to work on some measure of self-control. That’s the trick, Singh, he told himself and flashed a huge smile at the receptionist in the lobby as he passed by on his way out, causing her to drop a sheaf of papers and sigh audibly, wistfully.

  FOUR

  BARELY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER though, Samar was looking at Nina with almost all traces of that self-control gone. He was in Alan’s cabin, discussing a story idea with the resident editor. Alan was a shrewd journalist, Samar respected his nose for news, his ability to scoop and then fix focus on the main event. This was going to be a short-term conflict rather than a war, said Alan of the story under discussion; it was going to show how, in a year the government had officially declared the Year of the Girl Child, little girls were still very much the second sex. Far from being favoured, out in India’s villages, they still came a poor second to their brothers when it came to being given an education or any kind of opportunity in life; the urban reality wasn’t all that drastically different. They were trafficked with impunity. They were raped and strung from trees out in the villages. They were falling through the cracks. Alan wanted India! to document that reality through Samar Pratap Singh’s camera eye.

  Samar agreed with the editor that the best way to run this series would be through a photo feature, to give prominence to pictures that spoke for themselves. The series was going to ruffle up feathers in New Delhi, that was for sure; both Alan and Samar knew the paper’s bosses preferred ‘safe sensationalism’ (which was what it was, irrespective of the more profound and pretentious terms they came up with, thought Samar cynically) to taking on the establishment. Commenting on a visiting president or prime minister’s fondness for curry was always a safer bet than a piercing analysis of what India could hope to gain from the visit. The average reader apparently had all the attention span of a capricious four-year-old, though it was a moot point whether editorial really believed that, even for a minute. The Girl Child series meant there was a battle on the anvil for Alan. While the editor did not relish such skirmishes, deeming clashes with marketing a big waste of time, he could fight like a tiger if the cause was worthy enough to move him. Hopefully this would move him; everyone on the second floor of the India! offices was counting on just that.

  ‘Let’s go to Delhi and make a formal presentation of this to the Ivory Tower,’ Alan now said, referring to the paper’s top brass at HQ. ‘Try and play it safe in the pilot pictures,’ he continued, then caught himself up short and chuckled. Samar joined in, the laugh dying when Nina walked in with just a perfunctory knock on the door. She was wearing a tailored jacket in deep blue and Samar recognized the designer to be a Bangalore-based friend of his. He also recognized the tightening of his body and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Nina had not noticed him; she went straight up to Alan, saying, ‘Sorry for barging in like this, but I just had to tell you…’ Then she saw Samar and she said, ‘Oh, I didn’t know you had someone here. I’ll be along later.’

  The editor looked up at her and grinned. ‘If you came in to tell me what I think you came in to tell me, Beauty, then I have to tell you I already know.’

  Beauty. Samar pushed his chair back and got up in one fluid motion and ground out, ‘I’ll see you later, ed.’

  Alan looked startled and interpolated, ‘We still have to work out the format for the story.’

  But he was talking to thin air, Samar Singh had left the room.

  Alan Pereira sank back into his comfortably large chair and chuckled, looking up at Nina. ‘That man fancies you like mad and thinks the two of us have something going.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nina through her teeth, then went pink. ‘I mean, I don’t know about him fancying me but yes, he thinks you and I…’ She petered out and Alan said, ‘So, shall I put him straight or will you?’

  ‘I’ll speak to him, don’t worry,’ Nina said and wondered if she really had any intention of doing so. Or if she had the inclination to do so. She ignored the voice in her head that went, Well, once you clear the air with Samar Pratap Singh, who knows what the future may hold for you, for him?

  Alan said, ‘Actually, I’m not sure it’s a good idea, putting Samar straight. You are a lamb, sweetie, and he’s a wolf. And why would I send a lamb in for slaughter? I’m a man with ethics.’

  ‘Yo
u are also a man who falls back on a lot of clichés,’ Nina told him gravely. Both of them dissolved into laughter. Nina decided what she had come to talk to Alan about could wait.

  She left the room and walked straight into Samar, who was lounging against the wall outside, talking to Sid. Once again, a distinct frisson ran through both of them at the contact, blowing Nina’s mind. If an accidental touch had her reacting like this, she thought shakily, she’d go up in one big blaze if he made love to her, this man with the usually smiling mouth now drawn into a straight line, those demonic eyebrows swooping down into a frown. Unnoticed by both of them, Sid looked from one to the other, then quickly slipped away.

  ‘Will you have dinner with me? Tonight?’ Samar asked with all the polish of a teenager asking his crush out on a date. Nina gaped at him and Samar took a deep breath, smiled a slow smile and started again. ‘Are you free tonight, Nina? There’s a new Italian place on Lavelle Road which I hear does some great pasta. Do you like Mediterranean food? Or should be it “when in India, eat Indian”…?’

  Nina’s characteristic serenity had again deserted her, and now she felt like a schoolgirl whose object of desire had deigned to ask her out. If you smile at me like that, she thought dreamily, I would walk to the ends of the earth with you. She realized Samar was looking at her quizzically and hurried into speech. ‘Well, I love Indian food but if the Italian place you are talking about is Biscotti, I’d like to check the place out. The reviews have been great.’

  ‘Then check the place out we shall,’ said Samar, giving her one of those toe-curling smiles, a dimple flashing deeply in his left cheek. ‘Will seven-thirty be convenient? I could pick you up from your place...’

  Later that evening, Nina dabbed some Rive Gauche, her favourite perfume, in the hollow of her collarbones, checked her reflection in the mirror and went to answer the doorbell. Framed in the soft light as she stood in the doorway, her floral muslin curtains billowing in the slight breeze that blew in through the French windows, she looked almost ethereal and Samar felt his pulse speed up before he reflected cynically that she had probably stood at just that spot for pure effect. And boy, were you affected, he derided himself before telling her in all truth, ‘You look lovely, Nina. The outfit suits you.’

  She had gone ethnic tonight and was wearing a raw silk tunic over a churidar, both a golden shade of mustard. The colour of the outfit served to deepen the blue of her eyes while simultaneously brightening the halo of curls which framed her face. The only concession she had taken was in dispensing with the dupatta, the inordinately long stole that made up the outfit. It was warm and Nina didn’t want to spend the evening trying to keep the soft fabric from sliding off her shoulders. Leena, Mini and most Indian women she’d seen, knew how to move about gracefully without dislodging the dupatta from their shoulders but Nina knew her limitations in that direction.

  She thanked Samar for his compliment, trying very hard not to devour him with her eyes. He was wearing a white shirt that showed off his burnished skin to perfection. At the restaurant, it was clear many women felt drawn to him too, judging from the looks that were thrown his way. He was hailed by a few of the diners and waved a casual hello to them while escorting Nina to their table.

  The restaurant was done up vibrantly in bright blues, yellows and greens. The food, when it came, was delicious. Nina chose escalope milanese as her main dish and on Samar’s recommendation opted for an Indian wine, a mellow rose, that went perfectly with the meat. Increasingly, most people were trying the new fusion cuisine, Indian food with Western wines and vice versa, and there were those who swore a biryani pulao went best with a bottle of Sauvignon blanc from France’s best vineyards. If what Nina was having was an example of this felicitous fusion, well, then she understood what the buzz was all about.

  Samar proved to be a smooth conversationalist, deftly steering the talk to the other new eateries that had opened in town, the upcoming theatre festival that was hosted annually by their paper and the new Bond film now running in town.

  ‘Daniel Craig makes a great James Bond but nothing can beat Ranveer Singh’s energy on the big screen,’ Nina told him and watched that mobile eyebrow shoot up.

  ‘You—’ began Samar but Nina interjected smoothly, ‘Yes, Samar, I watch Hindi films. It gives me a clear idea of what my potential client is thinking of right now…’

  Samar said solemnly, his eyes dancing, ‘Ah, all in the line of duty, I see,’ and then started to laugh. His dimple really was the deepest one she had seen.

  Nina smiled sweetly at Samar. ‘Not really. I suspect I am getting hooked onto Hindi films with their songs, dances, the emotional see-saws everyone has to go through before everything comes out right, in the end.’

  ‘Mmm, we are an emotional people,’ Samar told her. ‘Then again, not all the English people I know are models of restraint.’ And immediately, Nina had this vision of him bending over some blonde who was anything but reserved in his arms as she drew his dark head down to hers. She blinked as if to banish that vision and said, ‘But I’m not English. At least, I’m only half-English.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he assented, not bothering to disguise the fact that he knew, and then asked, ‘Tell me, how has Bangalore been treating you?’ even as he raised his glass in a silent toast to her.

  ‘I love this city,’ Nina replied, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. ‘The tree-lined avenues, the parks, the juxtaposition of old gracious bungalows down one road, gleaming high-rise buildings down the next, the vibrant nightlife. Sometimes it reminds me of London, at other times it is so very Indian.’

  Samar smiled but did not say anything.

  ‘I find the people incredibly hospitable, too,’ she continued. ‘The only thing that still tends to throw me is being asked personal details within minutes of meeting someone…’

  ‘Ah, that’s an old Indian tradition, mining everyone one meets for information: are you married, how many children do you have, if you aren’t married, why aren’t you married,’ Samar supplied dryly.

  ‘Yes, and you forgot the last one. If you aren’t married, you must meet my cousin’s brother-in-law – he’s single, the CEO of a Fortune 500 firm and is looking out for a bride. And you’d fit the bill very well.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Samar and Nina watched that eyebrow do its upward climb again. It really was the sexiest thing.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she told him serenely. ‘At least three friends have tried to fix me up with eligible men, I’ll have you know.’

  Samar leaned towards her, fixing her with an intent look. ‘It’s not all that improbable an idea when one considers it,’ he told her. ‘I can see you in traditional Indian bridal wear, with masses of gold jewellery on your neck, ears and wrists, your hands all covered in henna…’ His voice trailed off as he picked up one of her hands from where it lay on the table top and smoothed open the palm.

  That old sexual charge immediately fired up. Don’t react, she told herself even as she felt a searing shaft of longing racing like liquid fire in her veins. If anyone had told her that having her hand held was such an overtly sexual gesture, she would have laughed. She didn’t feel much like laughing now, though, as his long lean fingers caressed her palm, sending incredibly strong jolts shooting through her. Almost absently, he moved the back of his fingers to and fro across her wrist and she actually felt her toes curl.

  I give up, thought Nina on a sudden note of decision. If this was purely sexual attraction, well, she was going to go with the flow and see where it took her. She wouldn’t fight, couldn’t fight it any longer.

  And then the spell was broken by a voice that enquired in dulcet tones, ‘Telling her fortune, Samar?’ Nina looked up into Karishma Jhala’s perfectly made-up face, into cold eyes that belied the smile on her lips. Samar stilled, then let go of Nina’s hand lazily, got up and made the introductions. ‘Oh yes, I’ve heard so much about you from Alan Pereira,’ said Karishma, her smile purely per functional, her tone on the verge of being pa
tronizing.

  She may be beautiful, but I’m the one with Samar and the evening isn’t over yet, thought Nina, and she gave Karishma an easy smile. ‘Alan and I are old friends,’ she said and felt Samar shoot her a look, which she ignored.

  Karishma’s dinner companion had caught up with her, a handsome young doctor who had all the grace of a deer caught in and blinded by the glare of a car’s headlights. He kept fiddling with his belt buckle with all the finesse of an awkward adolescent, and Nina was hard put not to laugh. She smiled a kindly smile at him, and he immediately went purple.

  ‘Are you just coming in to dinner?’ Samar asked them, to which Karishma replied, ‘No, actually, I spotted you just as we were leaving. We are going on to the Rain Dance,’ naming a popular disco in another part of town. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ she asked him, her kohl-lined eyes full of promise and persuasion. She was wearing a flame-red chiffon sari tonight, and the fabric curved lovingly around her voluptuous figure.

  Samar looked at Nina, who shrugged. Karishma Jhala had not included Nina in the invitation, and she wasn’t going to reply. ‘Some other time, Karishma,’ Samar said with an easy smile. ‘I need to talk to Nina.’

  Karishma looked disappointed, her escort looked relieved and Nina hoped she didn’t look as bemused as she felt.

  He wants to talk to me. What about, she wondered, not daring to take the thought further, not daring to indulge in any kind of hope. But Samar kept the conversation light for the rest of the meal. He had invited Nina out tonight with a fixed purpose in mind, though the sexual tension that always reared its head between the two of them had nearly derailed him. And the moment he touched her, all he wanted to do was to get her out of the restaurant and take her to his place, lock the front door and make love to her, hard, fast, urgently. And continuously, for the next three days at the very least.

  He wanted her scented body trembling under his, he wanted her moaning under him, those curls which turned him on so spread out on his pillow, her long legs wrapped around his waist. Samar Singh wanted this woman badly, and he was finding frustration a tough emotion to live with.