The Delhi Deception (3 page)

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CHAPTER 2

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he tried to run, but her legs were heavy; they wouldn’t move. The suffocating heat of the dark, dank alley replaced the ice-cold sensation of fear. They were watching her; she could sense them. Finally summoning up the courage to look back over her shoulder, she saw nothing but overfed rats scurrying like a repugnant tide of vermin, edging closer. Her skin crawled as she pushed open a heavy wooden door, using her shoulder to shift it.

Stumbling and using every muscle in her body to prevent herself from falling facedown into the filth, she looked up and was met with smiling Indian faces drinking from tall glasses. The beautifully dressed women were strolling around in an exquisite garden. Unknown creepers and exotic flowers floated above and around her. She looked desperately for her grandfather, searching for the sky-blue of his starched turban, but every time she saw what she assumed to be a familiar figure, it turned out be a stranger. The yearning to see him was so strong that she felt herself suffocating.

Carla woke up to find her mother’s overweight, graying Labrador lying on top of her. The dog was snoring loudly. She tried to recall her dream, rubbing her eyes vigorously. With a groan she remembered the recurring nightmare and pushed the dog off her. He responded by wagging his tail and joyously licked her face. She had been having this dream about her father’s birthplace since the sudden death of her grandfather seven years ago. It was always the same: the urgency to reach her grandfather’s house, but being unable to find it, lost in an alley and then a garden of smiling strangers. The colors and smells of India were so vivid in her dreams that she had to marvel at the fact that she had never visited this ancient land of her father’s heritage.

Her parents had met each other on the cobbled street of Via Cavour not far from the Duomo in Florence in 1972. Carla’s South African mother, Sara, was on the customary European tour, a gift from her parents for her twenty-first birthday, while Carla’s father, Dilip, was visiting Italy with some of his American college friends. According to him, it was love at first sight; Sara claimed he wooed her with such fervency that she had no choice but to fall in love with this dashing, daring Indian man. But like all great love stories, theirs was fraught with difficulties. The ultimate sacrifice was to walk away from one’s own culture and embrace a new one, alien and sometimes cruel.

Carla’s reverie was broken when Ben, the Labrador, jumped up and with his tail wagging barked a warning, staring at the door. A second later the door opened, and her childhood nanny, dressed immaculately in a traditional cotton dress and headgear, walked in carrying a cup of steaming coffee. Carla noticed how she had aged: her dark complexion was still smooth, but fine lines around her kind eyes and her weakened posture confirmed the indomitable advance of time.

“Thanks, Prudence.”

“Your brother said to get up now; all children are ready and waiting for you on the grass.”

Stretching her long, golden arms above her dark blond head, Carla smiled and remembered the cricket match. It was an annual family tradition on her father’s birthday that her brothers and nephews observed with solemn obligation.

Dressing hurriedly into shorts and a collared T-shirt, she joined them on the vast lawn of the family farmhouse. Their wine farm was nestled in between the magnificent Drakenstein Mountains in the Franschhoek Valley. The farm had belonged to her mother’s family for generations, and it was on the sudden and unexpected death of her grandparents in an airplane crash that her parents had moved back to South Africa from Gabarone, Botswana, in 1989.

Luckily, this had coincided with the election of the new South African president, F. W. de Klerk, who began the process of dismantling apartheid. The Prohibition of the Mixed Marriages Act of 1949 had forced Dilip and Sara to marry and settle in Botswana, a small, independent state on the South African border. Sara’s parents had been worried about the union but gave their blessing and helped Dilip secure a job at one of the new diamond mines at Orapa in Botswana. Returning to India was not an option, as Dilip’s family vehemently opposed the marriage. A union between him and the daughter of a powerful family in Delhi had been prearranged before he had embarked on his education abroad. Informing his family of his decision to break off the engagement and marry Sara, a white South African girl, outraged them. After an ugly argument, Dilip, young and very much in love, packed up his belongings and left his family home, vowing he would never return.

The cricket match ended in tears after the first innings. Brandon, her youngest nephew of five, hit the red cricket ball with surprising strength. It flew right past his uncle, who dived for it dramatically. The little boy, dressed in his older brother’s school cricket kit, was jumping up and down with excitement. He screamed, “It’s a six, it’s a six!” The checkered dishcloth no longer held up the oversized cream-colored cricket pants, and they fell down in a heap around his ankles, exposing his skinny legs. His cousins burst out in raucous laughter as he fell to the buffalo grass, his face crimson with embarrassment. Carla ran toward him, trying her best to hide a smile. He was devastated, tears of humiliation shining in his jade eyes.

“It’s OK, Brandon,” Carla said as she pulled up the pants and secured them firmly at the waist with a double knot. She handed him the wooden cricket bat and gave her laughing nephews a look that silenced them instantly. The umpire, her sister-in-law, ruled the match a draw and suggested lunch on the veranda after the players had cleaned up.

Later that evening, while sitting at the long, yellow-wood dining table, Carla’s father, Dilip, still handsome at seventy years old, raised his glass of Kanonkop Cabernet Sauvignon and said, “To all my sons, their charming wives, and my five wonderful grandsons, thank you. Thank you for joining us as we celebrate this old man’s seventieth birthday.” Then, lifting his glass toward Carla, he said, “And especially to you, my only daughter, who gave up a few days in her very hectic schedule to fly down from London to be here with us. I appreciate it greatly. And tell that husband of yours, Andrew, next time, war or no war, in bloody Afghanistan or wherever, he must be here. Where is he exactly?”

Carla smiled, wiped a tear from her eye quickly, and said, “In Peshawar. Happy birthday, Daddy.”

There was a brief moment of silence; then, as the rowdy bunch continued their noisy conversations, Sara smiled at her daughter gently and said, “Come back soon, my darling.”

The thought of London’s gray skies, present even in April, depressed Carla so much that she had decided to extend her trip. She had leave due anyway, which she had saved for a trip to the Caribbean to celebrate Andrew’s fortieth birthday, but the night before he had confirmed that he wouldn’t be able to make it. Andrew had told her that he was working on an important story, and they had to postpone the trip indefinitely.
Being married to a war reporter has its challenges
, she thought glumly.

As her family continued chatting, teasing each other and laughing about the cricket match, Carla stared at the food on her plate. She yearned to start a family of her own, but it was so difficult with Andrew and her traveling so often for work. After Carla completed her degree at Harvard University, she had moved to Washington, where she became a junior political correspondent with CNN. She had met Andrew at a party at the White House. A tall, handsome British war reporter for the BBC, he was everything she had ever hoped for, and luckily he felt the same about her. After a whirlwind transatlantic courtship, which had left them both breathless, Andrew had proposed. They were married on the family’s wine estate on a perfect summer’s day surrounded by the magnificent mountains and lush vineyards, grapes glistening as they ripened in the sun.

After their idyllic honeymoon, they had moved into Andrew’s flat on Harley Street. CNN had been happy to transfer Carla to their political desk in London, and life for the newlyweds was bliss. But then the shadowy clouds of war darkened the sky on that warm autumn morning of September 11, 2001. Andrew was assigned to Afghanistan and Pakistan to cover the war against Al Qaeda and the Taliban. He was often away for months and weeks went by with no contact between them. Carla realized that she couldn’t ignore the fact much longer that after ten years of marriage they were beginning to drift apart.

Carla looked up from her plate at the suntanned faces of her family and smiled wryly. It was no wonder she had welcomed the chance to join her family in South Africa to celebrate her father’s birthday.

After dinner Carla asked her father if she could join him in his study for a Cognac. “Of course,” Dilip replied and stood up, following Carla to his walnut-paneled study. She sank down in the old, leather armchair.

Dilip handed her a crystal glass. “So what’s on your mind, honey?”

“Daddy, please hear me out. Don’t say anything until I’m done, OK?”

Dilip frowned. “OK, I’m listening.”

“It’s about India. Daddy, I really want to go—”

“But you won’t be welcomed,” he said, interrupting her. “Just because you had a relationship with your grandfather…the family’s attitude toward us has not changed.”

“Please, Daddy, let me try.”

“I suppose you’d like to see the property your grandfather left you.”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but that’s not the only reason. Daddy, you have told me such amazing things about India.”

Sighing, he looked at her and said, “What’s the use? You’ve made up your mind. You’ve probably already planned the trip and everything.” Carla blushed, confirming his suspicions. “You want my blessing, right?”

She stood up and hugged her father. “Thank you, Daddy. I’m flying via Pakistan. I thought I’d surprise Andrew for a day or two.”

Disentangling himself from her embrace, he looked at her with noticeable concern. Then he opened the desk drawer, took out a business card, and handed it to her. “This is the name of a senior advocate in Delhi. He is one of the best and a dear friend. We were roommates at college. Explain the situation to him, and if he needs to speak to me, call. OK?”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow. I’m flying to Peshawar on Emirates via Dubai. I’ve called Elouise; I’ll stay with her and Harry.”

He looked at her for a long time. His eyes were saddened and concerned as he kissed her. “Good night, my sweet. I’ll take you to the airport.”

The next day, after hugging her childhood nanny for the umpteenth time, Carla kissed her mother and hurried to the driveway, where her father was waiting impatiently in his vintage 1969 silver Mercedes Benz 280 SL Roadster. Her father drove fast, and they were at the airport earlier than expected.

After drinking a coffee, they proceeded to check in. For the first time, she noticed tears in his eyes as he hugged her. Sometimes she wished she could remain in his bear hug forever, and now was one of those moments, but he pulled away, kissed her on the cheek, and walked back to the entrance.

While checking in, Carla bit her lip and briefly considered phoning Andrew.
No, I’ll surprise him
. She smiled and thanked the agent who handed her the boarding pass. An unexpected queue at immigration made her late for the flight and she ran to board on hearing the final boarding call.