because they were a present from Arul Sinha, the head of global investments at Zurich Bank, who had sent them after a lunch party where he had struck a lucrative deal with American Steels. Neha remembered the glee with which Arul – a schoolmate of Sharat’s youngest uncle – had greeted the news that Doug Fairbanks III was going to be at their lunch too. (‘You know Doug? Hey, you guys know everyone, yaar,’ he had said, only pretending to be jealous given the vast spread of his own network of contacts.)
Neha cast a glance at the elegant palms whose fronds were a lush green in the morning sunshine. ‘I’m always astonished that these two giants didn’t just survive, but even thrived in the heat of that summer,’ she said. ‘Do you remember how they arrived in the middle of May, Sharat? Ten feet tall, and with such massive root balls, in the back of a truck? I used to expect every morning to wake up and find them all dead and shrivelled up in the garden. But just look at them now – and they’re probably not even fully grown yet!’
Sharat laughed at the memory of that chaotic morning. ‘Typical Arul, that kind of attention to detail. Sending not just a pair of palms but a complete team of labourers and gardeners who set to work planting them with some kind of crazy Swiss efficiency. I bet he even ensured that they would grow to identical width and height before shipping them over from China!’
‘Well, whatever he did, it worked – our Delhi heat notwithstanding. If anything, they’ve grown a bit too big now, towering over everything else in the garden,’ Neha said, turning her attention back to the flower wallah who was perched on his ladder awaiting his next instructions.
‘I’ve always wanted to ask Arul if his business deal enjoyed as swift a growth as the trees, but that would be prying, I guess,’ Sharat continued.
Neha smiled. She had no doubt that the deal would have been hugely successful, not just because of Arul Sinha’s business skills but also Sharat’s famed Midas touch. But he would be embarrassed if she said that, and now she was distracted by the large roll of black insulation tape that the flower wallah was using to tape the end of the garland to the pillar. ‘Ooffo, yeh kya leke aaye ho?’ she asked, her voice exasperated as she turned to call for her own roll of imported extra-strong and, more importantly, colourless sticking tape.
It was Sharat’s turn to grin. Neha was a fine one to joke about Arul’s attention to detail. She was at least as finicky as the best Swiss bankers, and on the morning of their big parties, Sharat generally made it a point to stay well out of her way. He put an arm around his wife’s shoulder and dropped a discreet kiss on her neck. ‘Going to go have a shave. Got that meeting with Prasad, remember?’ Sharat explained as he turned to go indoors, although Neha was by now too preoccupied to even register his departure.
He was still smiling as he walked down the corridor, thinking of Arul’s typically flamboyant present. Generally, the gifts he and Neha received took more veiled forms, people’s gratitude for useful introductions coming in subtle ways, via favours and preferential treatment and, quite simply, the kind of magical opening of doors without which life in India could be very difficult. Sharat recognized this and, in his customary pragmatic way, knew that the goodwill caused by his generous networking would do no harm when the time came for return favours to be called upon. Neha did not get this, though, remaining always a little discomfited by what she considered a mild form of nepotism even though she quietly indulged him whenever necessary. In a strange way, that was what Sharat loved most about his wife: she was exactly as she seemed. With Neha, what you saw was what you got. There was no hidden agenda, no gossip, never any secret deal-making, nothing underhand at all.
Neha surveyed the crowded drawing room again and flicked her eyes at a passing waiter, signalling that the Home Minister’s wine glass required topping up. She couldn’t help noticing as she walked on that the dapper politician was deep in conversation with V. Kaushalya, the rather comely head of the Indian Institute of Arts whom Neha regularly met for lunches at the Museum of Modern Art café and who was beautifully turned out tonight in the most gorgeous cream silk Kancheepuram sari. Now, what interesting transaction could be brewing there, Neha wondered. It could just as easily be personal as professional, given the minister’s reputation for enjoying the company of beautiful women and Kaushalya, an ex-Bharatanatyam dancer, still cut a stunning figure, even in her fifties.
Neha continued to weave her way through the room that was now full of the rustle of silk and organza, stopping to enquire after one elderly guest’s health before steering someone else across the floor in order to make a mutually useful introduction. She had long grown practised at spotting pairs of guests who looked like they had got ‘stuck’ and needed to be moved along. Although she had at first resisted Sharat’s fondness for parties and gathering dozens of people around himself, Neha had to admit that, over the years, she too had gradually grown to enjoy the business of playing hostess and using her elegant home to its fullest advantage. Why, an art collection like hers was meant to be shared and admired, not stashed away. Not that she wished to draw attention to her wealth at all – God forbid! – but, in recent times, Neha had learnt to derive amusement from seeing herself referred to in the society pages as ‘the legendary hostess’ or ‘famous socialite Neha Chaturvedi’. She, Neha Chaturvedi, who had been the class bluestocking with her nose firmly stuck between the pages of a book all through her school days! She wasn’t even much of a cook but, luckily, she had never had to worry a jot about the catering arrangements, seeing that Jasmeet, her old school chum and best friend, was one of Delhi’s best known food consultants and took able charge of all arrangements weeks before any party, making numerous trips to INA market to buy spices and condiments and sourcing the best fish that would be brought to Delhi in a huge refrigerator van from the Orissa coast.
Tonight, however – and perhaps for the very first time – Neha was having immense difficulty facing up to her hostessing duties. She had been nursing a headache all afternoon, despite popping two paracetamols with her evening cup of tea, and was now feeling both nauseous and dizzy. As she recalled the reason for her distress, that now familiar cold hand squeezed at her heart again, robbing her of breath. This had been happening at regular intervals all day, sometimes at intervals of ten minutes, only disappearing briefly when the caterers had arrived, their purposeful colonization of her kitchen providing a temporary distraction from her unease. Even the arrival of her guests had not been diversion enough as Neha found herself listening to all the usual social inanities regarding Delhi’s traffic and how long it was since they had all seen each other. She had listened and murmured assent and nodded politely but all conversation, even her own, seemed to be coming from a tunnel somewhere far away. Her mind, normally capable of focusing in calm and orderly fashion on the welfare of her guests, had behaved like a trapped bird all day today, flapping and darting frantically about inside her head. Once again, Neha felt her insides go deathly still as she remembered the reason. She could not help coming to an abrupt standstill in the middle of her drawing room, feeling for a millisecond like she might drown in the sea of conversation that was swirling around her. Was this what a panic attack felt like, Neha wondered, wrapping the pallav of her mauve Chanderi sari around her shoulders and trying to steady herself. Try as she might, Neha simply could not get on with the job at hand. She was only just about managing to keep the smile plastered on her face because, every so often, something would remind her of the letter and she would feel close to collapsing again.
It was incredible – the kind of thing that happened only in movies – but there, upstairs in her Godrej almirah, locked away in the secret compartment that housed her diamond jewellery, was a letter with a British stamp that had arrived in the post that very morning. Luckily the maid had brought it in only after Sharat had left for an early meeting and so he had not been around to see her open it. He would surely have noticed her shock, for – however adept Neha had grown at masking her feelings behind an inscrutable smile, even from such a beloved husband – she simply would not have been able to cover up the sudden paling of her skin and lips, the trembling of her fingers as she read the scribbled lines and the dizziness that had finally caused her to crumple in a heap onto one of the armchairs on the veranda.
‘Dear
