by Sheila Kumar
‘Look up,’ ordered Samar, his voice almost a growl. She did and his head swooped down, his mouth capturing hers in a ravenous fashion.
They kissed hard, desperately, hungrily, and the kiss went on and on till they finally broke free for air.
All of Heartbreaker Singh’s famed finesse seemed to have deserted him. As he gazed upon Nina’s slim and supple body, his heart was racing and he had to force himself into some semblance of control. Then he looked into her stormy blue eyes and was lost again. The time for control was long past.
Samar lowered himself onto Nina’s body, feeling her soft as silk under him. Delivering a series of kisses along her collarbone and cleavage, he took one hard and erect nipple into his mouth and was rewarded by a soft cry from her. Even as he lavished attention on her breast, his hand slipped down between her legs, seeking and finding what he sought. Nina was ready for him.
‘Now the other one,’ she commanded, taking his head and guiding it to her other breast. Samar complied willingly, his fingers finding her nub and gently caressing it.
‘Samar,’ she groaned, her face flushed with excitement.
‘Yes, darling?’ he asked, moving lower, his tongue flicking in and out of her navel.
‘I can’t wait any longer,’ she said, pressing the length of her body against him.
But this time, Samar was back in control. Slipping slowly into her, his gaze never once leaving hers, he proceeded to move equally slowly on her until she matched his movement. And then they were on the most glorious ride of their lives, Nina’s soft cries the only sounds in the room.
It was perfect, their coming together. And as she orgasmed, Nina had just one clear thought in her mind: I love this man.
Moments later, she lay with her head in the crook of his arm, idly running her hand over his hair-roughened chest.
‘You need a cigarette,’ she told him with an impish smile.
‘You have been watching too many Hollywood films,’ he said lazily, his fingers caressing her damp temple.
She waited a beat, then asked, ‘And will you have to suddenly rush off now…?’
‘You have been watching too many Bollywood films,’ he said and grinned, then bent purposefully towards her.
And as he did so, Nina’s glance went to the ormolu clock on the console table. ‘Omigawd, it’s almost four!’ she wailed.
‘Okay,’ Samar said amiably. ‘It’s you who will have to suddenly rush off now, right?’
Nina was part of the bridal party due to take Leena to her husband’s home for the first time. They went downstairs together, Samar and Nina. She was now in a deep gold and navy confection; the mother of pearl buttons on Samar’s shirt front perfectly matched the checks on his tie. Their eyes met in the elevator mirror, and they exchanged a smile. Nina Sabharwal’s heart was singing.
It continued to sing all day long for the next couple of days. Though they didn’t meet at the office, Samar turned up at Nina’s flat every evening. They went out to a sushi place the first evening, stayed in listening to some vintage rock albums the next. They found enough to talk about, steering away from anything too personal, though. This was not of Nina’s doing; she found that Samar Singh was a close-mouthed guy, adept at taking conversations down other paths when he chose to.
But that was fine for now, or so she told herself stoutly. Nina was fully enjoying living in this magical moment. She wasn’t going to press matters. In fact, she didn’t even know what matters she needed to press, at this point. This was a no-strings-attached phase, and Nina wasn’t going to question it, not at this juncture.
Though they didn’t spend all their time together burning up the sheets, the sizzle was ever present, firmly tamped down by both of them but invariably rearing its head the moment it could. All it took was the touch of his hand as he tucked away a stray curl behind Nina’s shell-shaped ear. Or the touch of her fingers at the nape of his neck. Before they knew it, they were making love – slow and gentle love, fast and furious love, making light love, making intense love.
Samar was a generous lover and soon Nina, despite herself, found herself craving his touch, his kisses, and his body on hers. And whenever her brain told her she wanted more, deserved more than sex from Samar, she managed to shut it up, telling herself that it was still early days, that there was still time to deepen the relationship.
NINE
AND, OF COURSE, MOST of their circle at India! were quickly in on what Samar and Nina didn’t exactly keep a secret. There was much joshing and raillery; Mini and Leena made some far-from-subtle references to Samar’s nickname but kept it at that.
Alan Pereira, however, didn’t. Calling her up to his fourth floor office, Alan came straight to the point. ‘Nina Sabharwal, you are dabbling in deep waters, my girl.’
‘Because I’m dating Samar Singh?’
‘I never thought I’d mouth all the regulation crap but I need to do this. Sita, too, is concerned as hell. Samar Pratap Singh is, not to put too fine a point on it, a player, Nina. You are going to get your—’
‘Heart broken,’ Nina finished for him, her face calm and serene. She was touched that Alan cared, but she shied away from any discussion of this particular topic. ‘Alan, I know what I’m doing.’
‘And what is it that you are doing?’
Nina’s English reserve kicked in. ‘I’m having a good time, Alan. I promise you, I have no expectations, nor am I too deeply involved. Moreover—’
‘Moreover, Ed, you need to mind your own business.’
Both Nina and Alan turned to the door, which had opened to admit Samar Pratap Singh.
‘Don’t you knock before you enter?’ Alan asked in irritation.
‘I did. Both of you were too engrossed to pay any attention.’
Nina bent over her Pothole Project file, in order to hide her hot face.
But Alan didn’t leave it be. ‘This girl,’ he began just a bit belligerently, ‘is like a daughter to me. I don’t want her to get hurt.’
‘Mind. Your. Own. Business,’ said Samar pleasantly but on an unmistakably steely note. The men locked eyes, then Alan changed the subject but not without a last jibe.
‘Oh well, I suppose you both know what you are doing. Nina, the Pothole Project has really taken off. Readers are sending in photographs of potholes from all over the city. The Quirky Caption contest ends this weekend, and entries are pouring in. This has really fired the Bangalorean’s imagination.’
Nina smiled, the colour slowly subsiding from her face. ‘Yes, Rohan told me it’s having a collateral effect on new subscriptions, too,’ she murmured.
‘Big White Chief’s in town tomorrow,’ Alan told both of them. ‘He wants to meet Nina. Your dinner invites will be in your inbox. Black tie.’
They left the editor’s cabin together but silently. Samar seemed immersed in his own thoughts. She could sense some febrile tension in him. Nina, for her part, was more than a little troubled by Alan’s labelling of Samar as a player. Yes, she knew that but knowing it didn’t make her feel any better. What she didn’t like were the implications that came with that term. Or the fact that it seemed to ring true. Despite sharing quite a bit of intimacy with Samar, what did she know about his family, his background, what he was looking for in a woman? What she knew, she knew from conjecture and gossip, not from anything specific Samar Pratap Singh had told her. And that was typical player behaviour, wasn’t it?
As for the desire to deepen their relationship, Nina Sabharwal shied away from everything that lay behind that thought. If she admitted to that desire, even to herself, she would have to run the risk of rejection, of indifference and maybe of the very heartbreak Alan had warned her about. She slid a sidelong glance at Samar. He was wearing a cream linen shirt rolled up at the forearm, with formal trousers. It was the old story. He was obviously on his way somewhere. Well, if he wasn’t going to tell her, Nina wasn’t going to ask.
Samar was silently replaying Nina’s statement to Alan Pereira in his mind. T
he one that ended ‘nor am I deeply involved’. He was furious, and he didn’t dare to ask himself why he was furious. It was not that Samar Singh dated doormats; on the contrary, he preferred women with fire in them. And it wasn’t that Samar did all the loving and leaving, either; he could recall at least two girlfriends walking out on him and as many amiable breakups.
What the hell are you doing with someone who isn’t really involved, Singh, he asked himself angrily. Then he turned to Nina in one fluid motion and said, ‘Gotta go. Bye. See you later.’ He needed to leave; he didn’t trust himself if he stayed.
Nina stood near the elevator door, trying not to feel bereft.
It was not the best of days for her. Back in her office, she found Rohan Varma sulking because he had not been invited to the big bash tomorrow. ‘I’m the head of sales and marketing, how come I’m not on that list? Someone’s playing politics for sure.’
Nina looked at him, alarmed but realized he meant either HRD or Alan Pereira, and not her. In any case, the rest of the working day was shot since Rohan had a tendency to brood and then burst out every minutes over any and all perceived grievances; as a result, not much work got done.
As she walked to the car park, Mini caught up with her. ‘There’s a new Lebanese place that’s just opened in Indiranagar, Nina,’ she said. ‘Let’s go check it out?’
Figuring that Samar was not likely to drop in by her place, not this evening, Nina assented. She badly needed cheering up and if Lebanese food was going to do the trick, she was willing to give it a shot.
The restaurant was packed, and the moment they tucked into their barout del batata – spicy lamb served with potatoes – and baba ghanoush, it was clear why the place was packed; the food was superlative. However, both women seemed preoccupied. Nina still felt like there was a heavy cloud hovering just above her. Mini was on the horns of a dilemma. She’d been offered a job at a popular news magazine. Better pay, more flexible working hours.
‘So, what’s the problem?’ asked Nina, mystified.
‘Well, it’s like this. The place is run by Tarun Bhat.’
Nina’s mouth dropped open. ‘The man you lived with before you met and married Raj?’
Mini nodded, looking miserable. Nina had met Tarun Bhat a few times. Tall and gaunt, with his straggly hair caught up in a ponytail, Tarun was one of the media world’s wunderkind. On his watch, his news magazine blazed trails, fearlessly going after stories others were still considering gingerly, exposing politicians, corrupt bureaucrats and corrupt businesses with much flair and fanfare. Moreover, the news magazine had in its stables some really good writers. Mini, if she joined there, was to give the paper a light touch with her apolitical tidbits; this was Page Three stuff kicked upstairs. And Mini was very tempted indeed. Working at that news magazine would give her resume a certain edge and Bhat paid his team well, very well indeed.
‘Mini, join up. He’s being professional. You need to be, too. I mean, it’s not as if the two of you are still carrying a torch for each other, right? Didn’t you tell me he came for your wedding party?’
There was a pregnant pause. Then Mini wailed, ‘I’m not sure!’ and Nina took a deep breath. This was complicated. Did Mini still have feelings for her ex? She seemed quite happy with the reclusive, silent Raj. Mini would just have to make up her mind; how could Nina help her with it?
‘I need to think long and hard. But I don’t have the time to do so. Tarun wants an answer as quickly as possible,’ Mini announced.
Nina murmured something non-committal. Concerned as she was for her friend, this was Mini’s dilemma and she didn’t think she could say or do anything to help. ‘Stall for time?’ she suggested helplessly, even a bit lamely, but Mini seemed to think that was a good idea.
Eventually, though, they managed to push all troubling thoughts under the carpet for the time being and have themselves a good time. Mini heroically forbore to ask Nina about Samar and Nina was thankful for that.
As they walked out of the restaurant, they passed a couple of women with their backs to Nina. The younger one wore a dress with many striking shades of green in it and had on Christian Louboutin heels; Nina saw the flash of red under-sole characteristic of the designer’s shoes. The woman’s face was in profile and there was no mistaking the profile. It was Karishma Jhala.
The last time the two girls had met, Karishma had upended her sticky sweet right into Nina’s lap. Even as she considered cutting Karishma dead and walking on, the two women turned. There could be no mistaking who the older woman was, either. Clad in an olive green silk sari, with her hair sporting elegant swatches of silver, the woman’s nose and mouth were replicas of her son’s.
Mini hissed into her ear. ‘That’s Samar’s mother with his…’ she tailed off uncertainly, shooting a glance at Nina.
Mini went through the doorway and as Nina was about to follow her, Karishma suddenly spoke up. ‘Yasho aunty, there’s Nina Sabharwal. You know, the one I was telling you about?’
Well. The cheek of the Jhala woman. If I’ve got to go through this, I shall, thought Nina and turned a calm face to them.
The older woman’s face was unreadable. ‘I’m Yashodara, Samar’s mother,’ she said with a level look at Nina.
Nina greeted her. Karishma chimed in, ‘And this is Nina, Samar’s latest.’ The omission of the word ‘girlfriend’ was deliberate but both Yashodara and Nina didn’t indicate they had caught the jibe.
‘I gather you work in the paper’s marketing department. Where are you from?’ the older woman asked her in a distant, impersonal tone. It was clear that Yashodara Singh did not think it inappropriate to interrogate Nina at the entrance of the restaurant.
‘My mother lives in the Cotswolds, in a village called Armscote,’ Nina offered, adopting the older woman’s tone.
‘And your father?’ It was Karishma who asked the question. ‘Does he run the neighbourhood convenience store?’
Though the blatant insolence of the question took Nina’s breath away, she directed her reply to the other woman. ‘My father was one of the UK’s best cardio-thoracic surgeons. He worked at the Royal Brompton Hospital in London right till the day he died.’
Karishma flushed scarlet. Her move had clearly backfired, she had equally clearly overplayed her hand. Yashodara Singh threw her an icily disapproving look, then turned to stare at Nina. ‘Are you going to be in Bangalore for long?’
No way could that intrusive question be filed under friendly curiosity. And then, the most surreal thing happened. A third woman of a certain age joined them, and as if picking up the threads of a conversation, told Nina, ‘Because Samar isn’t. Going to be in Bangalore for long, I mean. We need him back up north. He has a family business to run.’
Which was how Nina was introduced to Samar Pratap Singh’s patrician and extremely haughty aunt, Hemant Singh Jamwal. Enough was enough, Nina decided. Without answering Yashodara Singh or Hemant Jamwal, she smiled pleasantly at them, then walked off. It took pretty much all she had to stay composed but she pulled it off. Both women were silent on the drive home and bade each other a very subdued goodnight.
That night, alone in bed, Nina took stock of her situation. She loved Samar Singh, there was no getting around that fact any longer. But Samar, for all the tenderness he showed her when they were alone, hadn’t for a minute said or done anything to show he reciprocated that love. He had Karishma Jhala, one nasty piece of work, status still uncertain, forever waiting in the wings. And his mother clearly had other plans for her only child, her son and heir. So did his dreadful aunt. What’s more, Samar had not even mentioned to her that the women were visiting him. So much of his life was still hidden from her, deliberately or unwittingly.
So where did that leave Nina Sabharwal, elder daughter of Anne and Dr Prem Sabharwal?
Nowhere, she thought miserably, pressing her face into a lace-edged pillow. Nowhere at all. My stalking plan is just not working. I need to get out of this as best I can. But I don’t want to, no
t at this juncture. And right now, I need to sleep.
TEN
SATURDAY, THE NEXT DAY, dawned bright and cold. By the time she was sipping her second cup of strong filter coffee, Nina had recovered both her equanimity and her mojo. This girl wasn’t going to give up that easily, no siree, she decided.
So, Samar Pratap Singh was one gorgeous male specimen. Moreover, Nina Sabharwal hadn’t met anyone who turned her on quite the way he did. Ergo, she needed a strategy. And for the moment, all she could think of was that with their current no strings attached affair, at least she got to be with Samar. If she changed the equation, maybe he would walk away. And right now, she couldn’t face a life without Samar with any degree of composure.
She was off work today. Which meant she had the whole day to attend to essential matters like a facial, a mani and pedi, and a blow-dry. Like always, her stylist baulked at giving her the blow-dry, exclaiming that Nina’s curls looked lovely au naturel and all it required was a dollop of extra-strong conditioner. But Nina insisted, as she always did, feeling good about the way her sleek and styled hair fell to just below her shoulders when she finally walked out of the salon.
Samar hadn’t called. Did that mean she would have to take herself to the India! party at the city’s only seven-star hotel? Big deal, thought Nina stoutly, if I have to, I will.
She’d already decided on her attire. Usually a conservative dresser, India had opened up her colour choices. This evening, she was going to wear a deep amber fitted dress with an asymmetrical hemline. The beauty of the outfit lay in its stark cut. She’d chanced upon it in the most charming little boutique off St Marks’s Road, a boutique funnily enough called LBD.
Samar called late in the afternoon.
‘I heard you met my mother.’
‘Yes,’ she told him sweetly. ‘And your aunt.’
She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Ah, my aunt. And what did you make of Hemant?’
‘Rather like Bertie Wooster’s Aunt Agatha, I thought,’ she continued in the same sweet tone.
