The Delhi Deception (5 page)

Carla smiled in delight at the accent and rather old-school English.

“Thank you so much, Om Prakash. I’m very happy indeed to be traveling with you into the city,” she said, mimicking him.

With a coy smile and no words rehearsed for an appropriate answer, he grabbed her suitcase and tried to take her purse from her, but with a firm tug she managed to hold onto it.

On the way to the car, he expertly managed to ward off the dozen or more helpers keen to assist with Carla’s small suitcase. The white Ambassador, with little lace curtains in the windows, was surprisingly spacious, and it wasn’t any wonder that it was still the preferred car used by politicians and ministers in India.

As Carla gazed out of the window, she saw traffic everywhere: cars of most descriptions; three wheelers, or “tuk-tuks”; cargo trucks painted with garlands of bright flowers, carrying loads three times their size. Between the honking and chaos, a couple of white, dirty, and painfully thin cows sauntered along, oblivious to the noise and threat of the traffic.

After forty minutes the scenery started changing. The traffic eased up. The wider roads were lined with beautiful flowering trees.

“The diplomatic enclave,” Om Prakash said, beaming.

“This must be Lutyen’s Delhi,” Carla muttered to herself, having read extensively about Edwin Lutyen, the British architect, commissioned by the Raj to create the new administrative center known as New Delhi. With many of these buildings still in use today, Carla had decided to add it as a must-see while in Delhi.

They passed a massive park with some impressive ancient architecture, and Carla asked Om Prakash if he knew what the buildings were. Sitting a little taller in the driver’s seat, he said, “It is the tomb of Mohammad Shah, last of Sayyid dynasty rulers. Building in the early fourteenth century. It was all village around tombs from Lodhi dynasty to defeat of Moghul dynasty. It was at the time of the English in 1936 that the village was moved and big garden was made by Lady Willingdon, wife of Governor General.

“After independence of India in 1947, it was changed from the Lady Willingdon Garden to Lodhi Garden.” He slowed down and pointed out the original name, Lady Willingdon Gardens, still at the entrance.

“Thanks, Om Prakash. You know your history,” Carla said with a smile, genuinely impressed.

Om Prakash grinned modestly. “I am always number one in history at school.”

A uniformed guard saluted as they drove through wrought-iron gates down a short driveway of neem and peepal trees. Rows upon rows of terracotta pots, a single Delphinium in splendid canary yellow in each, lined the walls of the Colonial-style bungalow.

.

CHAPTER 3

E
louise Parker Singh was sitting on a rattan chair in the middle of her large garden, reading the
Indian Times.
The lawn, manicured to perfection, equaled the most respectable golfing greens in the city. She wore a cream cotton kameez over a pair of skinny jeans with Indian beaded chappals. Her long, dark hair was casually knotted under a wide, frayed straw hat. As the Ambassador coasted up the driveway, her hazel eyes lit up with joy, and she jumped up to open the car door, much to Om Prakash’s dismay.

“Carla! I’m so glad you’re here,” she said as she pulled Carla out of the car.

As they hugged one another, Carla said, “Oh, Elouise, you have no idea how happy I am to see you!”

Elouise looked at her beautiful friend and noticed that she hadn’t aged a day in the past five years. Carla’s dark blond hair, with a few golden highlights framing her oval face, was pulled into a long ponytail. Her aquamarine eyes were almost translucent as she lifted her hand to shade them from the bright Indian light. The contrast with her golden complexion was startling.

“Is it possible we’re going to be thirty-five this year?” Elouise teased.

Carla smiled wryly. “Too old for my husband, I guess.”

“What do you mean?” Elouise asked, concerned and noticing the quiver in Carla’s bottom lip. She put her arm around Carla’s waist and led her to a rattan chair on the lawn.

Carla sat down heavily, the tears now flowing freely, and told Elouise what had happened in Peshawar. Elouise listened intently without interrupting her. A servant appeared and was waved away. When Carla had recounted the previous night’s events, they both sat quietly for a few minutes.

“Oh, Carla, you poor thing,” Elouise said, shaking her head. “Andrew is a fool. In no time he will be back looking for forgiveness.”

“I don’t know. I had no idea it would hurt so much. We haven’t been very close lately, but I just presumed it was because we were spending so much time apart. Not the case, it seems. I feel like such a fool.” And, laughing self-consciously, Carla added, “I’m not going to bore you with all my problems, Elouise. We haven’t seen one another in ages, and I think we should have fun and worry about Andrew later.”

“I agree, but please, Carla, if you want to talk about it or need a shoulder to cry on—”

Carla squeezed her friend’s hand and said, “I know, thank you.”

“Are you going to try and see some of your dad’s family?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll consult with an advocate-friend of my dad’s regarding my grandfather’s will. I told you he left me quite a valuable property. My dad said this is certainly going to stir things up, especially with my step-grandmother.”

“Oh my God, the Enchantress! Is she still alive?”

“Oh yes, she was much younger than my grandfather; don’t you remember that time she came with him on his first visit to me in the States?”

Elouise threw back her head and laughed loudly. “Of course, how could I forget?”

They had been roommates for most of their college education in Boston: Elouise, with all her American confidence and self-assured manner, and Carla, the foreign student, shy and in awe of her surroundings and fellow students. They complemented each other perfectly, becoming firm friends. At that unannounced visit, Elouise had accompanied Carla to dinner with her grandfather. Carla was awkward and unsure of how to handle the situation, as her father had not spoken to him in more than twenty years. At first the stately, bearded man wearing a starched blue turban seemed stern and formidable. But her heart very soon opened up to him when she saw the streaming tears streaking his gray-white beard. It wasn’t long before he became one of the most important people in Carla’s life.

Noticing the wistful expression in her friend’s eyes, Elouise said, “Come, let me show you your room.”

They walked through a huge, carved wooden door. A white jasmine creeper in a terra-cotta pot climbed up the doorframe, pregnant with the weight of its heady, exquisite fragrance. Once through the cool, single-story bungalow, they crossed an open courtyard of paved sandstone. The bedroom to the right of the courtyard boasted high ceilings from which an enormous fan rotated lazily. As Carla followed Elouise to the en suite bath and dressing room, she marveled at the pleasing décor of green and white marble floors, the cool, white, marble-clad walls in perfect harmony.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Rest a little, then come and have some breakfast with me. Seema, the maidservant, speaks a little English, and she will be at your service the whole day.”

Carla stared in wonder at Elouise, who spoke to the maid in fluent Hindi before heading back to the other side of the house.

The houseboy—his name quite escaped Carla—put her suitcase in the dressing room, and Seema started unpacking. The cook, Kishan, knocked gently and with a friendly smile presented her with a cup of tea on a silver tray.

“What for breakfast, Madam? I, Kishan, can make Indian breakfast or conti-style. You like to have some fruit?”

Carla had to smile. “Thank you, but I’m fine with a cup of tea for now.” But, observing the disappointment on his face, she changed her mind and said, “Actually, some fruit and Indian breakfast sounds wonderful.”

Beaming, he rushed out, scolding Seema in Hindi on his way to the kitchen.

Muttering something under her breath, Seema smiled at Carla and said, “Madam take bath now? Clean towels in here.” She pointed to the wooden glass cabinet.

“Thank you, Seema.”

“You call me if Madam need somethings,” Seema said, and left, closing the Burmese teak double door behind her.

Carla kicked off her shoes and sank into the oversized dark wooden bed, little carved cherubs framing the sides at the head. On the opposite wall, a display of framed lithographs depicted scenes of life in Delhi during the Raj. A carved chaise longue, upholstered in mink silk, rested under the artwork. To one side stood a table on which an ornate silver vase boasted a cascade of watermelon-pink roses.

She sighed. It was a contented sigh, not happy, but at least not one of desperation, hurt, and betrayal. She still could not think of Andrew and Leila in bed together, not consciously, at least. But the image kept resurfacing, making her feel sick in the pit of her stomach—the skin tones contrasting and glistening in the dim lamplight. She quickly shook her head, as if the movement would make the memory disappear forever.
India is the perfect distraction
. With that she put her head back against the pillows and breathed deeply.
I have a good feeling about India
, she thought as she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, she was surprised to realize that she had slept for almost an hour. She yawned lazily and decided to take a bath. After her bath, she dressed quickly in a white linen dress with a narrow brown belt and matching flat sandals. Lifting her chin resolutely, she brushed her hair and pulled it back into its signature ponytail.

The moment she stepped through her door, Seema and Kishan were standing with a ready smile, beckoning her to the wide veranda. Kishan pulled out a chair for her under a large fan, and to her surprise, a cup of hot tea and a plate of cut mango and melon were set on the table.

“Aloo paratha coming presently, Madam,” Kishan said and disappeared into the kitchen.

Carla picked up her teacup as Elouise walked in, smiling brightly. Carla’s spirit warmed immediately—she was so grateful for special friends like Elouise; she knew the bright smile was purely for her benefit, to cheer her up without mentioning anything about Andrew.

“Good, you’re up,” said Elouise, as she took a seat opposite Carla.

“How did they manage to time all this to such perfection?” Carla asked amused.

“Seema was posted outside your bathroom, and the minute your bathwater was heard running out, Cook was told and breakfast was started.” Looking up she saw Kishan walking over with a tray. “Oh good, here’s your breakfast. Thank you Kishan.”

“I could get used to this all too easily.” Carla laughed and bit into the steaming hot, spicy, potato-stuffed flatbread. “Delicious.” Feeling her stomach grumble appreciatively, she realized she hadn’t really eaten since leaving for Peshawar two days earlier. “Do you have this every morning, Elouise?”

“Would love to, but I’m afraid of outgrowing my wardrobe.”

Carla surprised herself by eating every last bite on her plate. Kishan cleared their plates and discussed something with Elouise in Hindi.

“We were just discussing lunch,” Elouise explained.

“Your Hindi is pretty good.”

“I guess it should be. I’ve been here for over three years.”

Carla smiled, but noticed a strange undertone in Elouise’s usually upbeat voice and wondered if she was happy living in Delhi.

After breakfast, Elouise suggested a trip to Khan Market, the local shopping market near their house. As Elouise was calling Om Prakash to bring the car around, a Jeep pulled into the driveway, and Harry got out. He was still a handsome man, with his Indian clean-cut cricketer looks, Carla thought.

He embraced Carla and said rather formally, “Welcome to India. I hope you enjoy your visit.”

Carla watched the married couple as they greeted each other. Elouise smiled and greeted him warmly. He did not return her pleasantries, but asked her to see to his packing, as he had to leave for a conference in the early afternoon. Carla was concerned for her friend, and a thought flashed across her mind that perhaps no marriage was perfect.