Czytaj książkę: «The Love Asana»

‘If you’re doing me the kindness of marrying me, have the decency to at least give me time,’ Pari tried negotiating shakily.

‘Time? For what?’

‘To despise you a little less.’ There, she’d said it.

‘I’m giving your brother seven crore rupees.’ Vivan’s voice had a dangerous edge to it. ‘Uske ellava I don’t need to give you anything else. Not time. Not anything.’ Vivan turned away from her. ‘And as far as despising goes, Pari, you have no idea what the word even means. But have no worry. I’ve never had to force myself on a woman yet and it’s not going to happen now either. You’ll be the one begging me to take you.’

‘Kabhi nahin! There’s no chance in hell that’ll happen!’ Pari shot back.

He took a few long strides towards the door and then turned to extract a platinum card from his wallet. ‘Here. This is what I actually came to give you.’

Pari stood in a daze as Vivan curtly handed her the credit card and said in a mocking voice, ‘Use it to buy whatever you need for the wedding. It has no limit. So no matter how much you loathe me, it won’t make a dent.’

‘What makes you think I would even use it?’ Pari had never been so humiliated.

‘Get used to it.’ Vivan smiled sardonically. ‘One of the perks of being Mrs Parasher.’

Dear Reader

Mills & Boon and I were introduced to each other when I was in my early teens. Then about a year ago an idea came to me as I was practising my yoga, and I knew right away I wanted to write the story of a young yoga instructor who falls in love with a charismatic man who walks into her class. I had barely finished writing the story minutes before the online deadline was up. To my surprise it went on to win first prize. I was even more amazed at the interest it generated. I knew Mills & Boon^® romances were popular, but I had no idea how many women connected with the books so strongly.

I started thinking more about my characters now that the story was going to evolve into a book. While I still wanted my heroine to be a yoga instructor, I decided I wanted both my protagonists to be self-made people who didn’t come from cushioned backgrounds; they had to have dealt with disillusionment but in their hearts still be hoping to find that one person they can believe in and who believes in them too.

I also wanted to give my hero and heroine unique names that reflected something of the kind of people they were and that weren’t already names of actual people I knew. I love the names I finally decided on—Vivan (meaning first ray of the morning sun) and Pari (or fairy angel). I hope you do too and can relate with their love story!

Pari is fiercely loyal, cautious but still pretty impulsive. She’s done an admirable job of building her life, despite all that she’s had to face. She is like so many inspiring women I’ve met in India—no different from women anywhere else in the world, hiding her vulnerabilities and hopes while she takes on the world.

And Vivan? Well, Vivan is the kind of man we’ve all found ourselves irresistibly attracted to, infuriatingly confounded by, and who we want to be able to understand. And if by some major miracle he ‘gets us’ (impossible as that may sound) and yet loves us it can help make sense of everything.

I was lucky to find my Vivan years ago. If you haven’t already, believe that you will too!

At one time I’d never have believed it if someone had said I’d be writing a Mills & Boon^® romance with Indian characters and so much of the country I love in it—and look! It happened.

Love

Milan Vohra

About the Author

Three years of pretending to study economics helped MILAN VOHRA realise her true love was writing. That led to two decades of seriously fun work, writing ad campaigns for all kinds of stuff from pizzas to lingerie. Milan met her husband when she was seventeen; they dated for seven years (very sensibly) and have been married twenty-two years. They have two children—one who just got out of her teens, the other just getting into his—but ask Milan’s husband and he’ll tell you there are three teenagers at home.

Milan grew up in Delhi, but has spent large chunks of her life in Bangalore and grown to love both cities equally. She is grateful to be at a happy place in her life now, working out of home with a supportive family—especially as the only way she can write her books is longhand, when everyone’s finally asleep. Her biggest challenge as an author is first to be able to figure out how to beat that online Scrabble addiction.

The Love Asana
Milan Vohra

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Papa and Mummy

K.C. Kartar and Hira Kartar Dalwani

Your love is the greatest example

CHAPTER ONE

‘THERE are many better-known ad agencies than Firefly we can talk to,’ Dev, the Country Manager, said nervously. ‘Fitness Fanatics is such a big brand … all the big agencies would kill to add it to their portfolios and we—’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Vivan cut the man short, his voice polite but firm, brooking no further discussion. ‘Firefly is owned by Deepak Dewan, correct?’

‘Correct,’ Dev mumbled.

‘They are on the verge of declaring themselves insolvent, isn’t that right? You’ve reconfirmed this with your sources?’

‘Yes. The bank managers tell me Firefly is in deep trouble. The last two years have been bad in retaining their clients as it is, with the recession. They’ve made a big error in judgement with the media risks they took, extending far too much credit to a new client. Now that client has reneged on payments. So unless Deepak Dewan can come through with something really big …’

‘He risks losing the accreditation for his agency,’ Vivan finished for him. ‘And what about his personal assets?’

‘Car, house, all mortgaged already. He stands to lose it all.’

‘Excellent. And Deepak Dewan has been told what my business could bring his agency, of course?’ Vivan asked without looking up as he signed some documents.

‘Ten lakh rupees a month as retainer and eight, maybe even ten per cent as pure profit on media commission on our entire ad budget, all told that should add up to close to seven or eight crore rupees … but really, sir, the retainer in itself is very substantial, you needn’t give any commission at all to the ad agency … we could tie up directly with a media buying house and get much better value.’

‘Please carry on,’ Vivan said coldly.

‘Well, as you directed, Deepak Dewan also knows that whoever we give the business to stands to make this money over a six month burst. If I may suggest, sir, this budget could easily be spread over a twelve month period to give us a pretty good media launch …’ Dev left the sentence open-ended.

‘For India I’m looking to make a big splash—I want our brand to be seen in all the glossies, on TV, on every prominent hoarding site,’ Vivan said conclusively.

‘Deepak Dewan is very eager to see you with his team to present their concepts.’

‘All in good time.’ Vivan allowed himself a little smile, stretching out his long lithe legs under the heavy teakwood table that was part of the Grand Presidential Suite custom-made for him at one of the top hotels in New Delhi.

Vivan had waited for close to a year just for this opportunity to close in on Deepak Dewan. He had had every business decision of his tracked. The day Deepak had signed on the dubious client, Vivan had rejoiced. The client was a bad debt in most parts of the world and Deepak was a fool not to have done his research with due diligence. Vivan was not given to being harsh but, this once, he was glad the man he needed to see suffer was a fool. Revenge would be his soon. Deepak Dewan would be grovelling for a lifeline from Vivan to save his company, his home, his name. And Vivan intended to reel Deepak in, closer and closer to believing he was home and dry, before taking all hope away from him. God, how much he hated even the sound of that name. Yet strangely, even this long-awaited vengeance, though so close now, felt inadequate. He wished there were a way he could make Deepak Dewan suffer more. The kind of suffering that he had been through when he’d learnt the truth about Sonia’s death.

‘There’s one more thing.’ Dev’s voice broke through Vivan’s musing. ‘Deepak has been very keen to recommend a particular lady, a young yoga teacher, as a brand ambassador for Fitness Fanatics. Someone called Pari Chand who runs a small studio in Vasant Vihar,’ Dev said hesitantly. ‘Of course, I’ve already told him that Fitness Fanatics can pull in any world-famous celebrity it wants; if you do decide to even have a brand ambassador,’ he added quickly.

‘And who is this Pari? Have you met her?’ Vivan asked, his interest piqued, eyebrow raised just the slightest.

‘Er … no … Though I did send someone to get her details.’ Dev pulled out a simple two-colour flyer from his briefcase, handing it to Vivan as he left the room.

‘Pari’s Purist Yoga’ the flyer said simply, with a picture of a slim woman in a classic yoga pose, one leg extended back horizontally, arms stretched forward like a graceful bird ready to take flight. Vivan’s eyes rested on the curve of her neck, its sensuous line accentuated by the slender shoulders in the sleeveless tee. The tilt of her head was feminine yet something in it suggested fierce independence.

Instinct told Vivan there was more to this recommendation. Why was Deepak championing a small-time yoga instructor when the Fitness Fanatics account wasn’t even in his bag yet? There had to be a personal connection. Men like Deepak Dewan were predators. Users. So either this Pari was Deepak’s latest squeeze or, Vivan allowed himself to hope at the very possibility of it, at long last a missing link had just fallen into place. The investigator’s report a year ago had outlined a family of father and younger sister that Deepak had cut off ties with after coming to Delhi. The father still lived in Chandigarh and Vivan knew there had been no contact between the father and son, but, concerning the sister, the investigation had gone cold. One way or another Vivan was glad he had bided his time before making himself known to Deepak. This was going to be worth it. He could feel it deep in his bones.

A year ago, Pari would never have thought she could be at peace with her life. For as long as she could remember, she had lived with a sense of fear. That any moment now something bad would happen and change it all again. Her mother dying when she was born—she could still maybe have come to terms with, difficult as it was. But then her father never let her forget it; constantly managing to make Pari feel responsible. When her father married again, Pari allowed herself to hope that somehow things would get better … that her father would stop being so nasty and mean, not just to her, but to all of them.

It hadn’t happened. Instead, her stepmother had become increasingly silent, afraid of doing anything that could bring on another vitriolic outburst from the man it was impossible for any of them to please, and finally just ran away. Then it was like the old times at home. Only many times worse.

The one thing that had brought it all to a head then was the one thing that was now helping her rebuild her life. Her yoga. Pari’s stepmother had introduced her to it. Their time practising yoga together had bonded them both, a refuge against the tirades of the day. When her stepmother left, the yoga became Pari’s lifeline. And the biggest source of annoyance to her father.

But that was long ago. Pari forced herself back to the present, exhaling deeply as she began her set of fifty surya namaskars for the day. A purist by nature, Pari never did her own yoga while teaching it. It was important to her to keep an eye on her students. This hour between classes was her special time for herself, when she could just put the past behind her and recharge herself with the calm only yoga gave her.

Vivan put the phone back on the table with a sense of irritation. Two calls, one after the other, had only served to remind him of the annoying fact that people sometimes did business based on reasons that had little to do with business.

The first was from Dev, delivering the news that Catalisis, a leading IT company associated with initiating the first big outsourcing burst in jobs, had suddenly decided against giving their multimillion-dollar uniforms contract to Fitness Fanatics. This, despite advanced stages of discussions and the fact that the company had acknowledged that Fitness Fanatics’ designs and pricing were unparalleled.

‘I thought you were confident this contract was in the bag?’ Vivan asked coldly. ‘Why would they string you along for a whole fortnight of negotiations if the intent wasn’t there?’

‘We had it in our hands,’ Dev said softly. ‘I had even shared details of all the vendors we source from.’

‘Without a signed contract? Was that wise?’

‘It was essential. They are a conservative company, sir. They like to be sure they are correct in every way.’

‘Every single aspect of our product is impeccable. Surely they can’t fault us on any of that?’ Vivan asked abruptly.

‘It’s just that, sir, they are a little old-fashioned,’ Dev mumbled.

‘Meaning?’

‘Er … I think perhaps it’s because Mr Mahesh Swamy is a very family-oriented man. And even though he’s retired and taken on a corporate mentor role now, the company ethos is still pretty much guided by him. Perhaps that’s why they, er … preferred to give the business to a like-minded partner like Karamvir Singh of Nirvana Designs. His wife and he are a very visible couple. His wife does a lot of charity work too.’

‘You’re not serious! That’s a pretty far-fetched hypothesis. Maybe you need to find out what the real inside story is.’

‘Actually, sir, my source within the company informs me that until the day that … er … photo of you with that Hollywood sex symbol came out in the newspaper, they hadn’t even considered anyone other than our company,’ Dev somehow found the voice to say. If he had to hold down his job as Country Manager, he would need to make sure at least he wasn’t keeping anything back from his boss.

Vivan cursed himself inwardly. Considering the many stunning women he had been with, he had still managed to keep a relatively low profile in the Indian media to quite a large extent. This bloody picture had been taken on a day when he had been escorting a desirable but rather needy blonde supermodel to the red-carpet opening of a show on Broadway. To his distaste the woman was way too interested in public displays of affection and the paparazzi had a field day. One of those images had made its way to a very undesirable tabloid in India. Usually that kind of nonsense never came in the way of winning him business. If anything, it had just added to the enigma—making him an even more coveted success symbol. But come to think of it, this wasn’t the first time Vivan had been given feedback of this nature.

In Australia too, on a few occasions lately, Vivan had wondered if his playboy reputation, albeit low-key, had worked to take away from the hard-core professional he was. He wondered if it was time he did something about it. Perhaps he would give some thought to settling down.

If this development wasn’t bothersome enough, there had been that other call with the investigation agency. Becoming one of the top ten billionaires in the US had got Vivan used to instant top-of-the-line service. His brief to the agency was clear-cut. They needed to check the antecedents of a Ms Pari, of yoga teacher fame, and do it right away. It was inexcusable that they needed forty-eight hours to get back to him. To think this was one of the leading multinationals in the investigation field he was speaking with! Yes, of course he knew this was the festive season, and of course he knew that during the entire period running from Id, Ganesh Chaturthi, then Durga Puja and Dussehra, right up to Diwali work practically came to a stop in many different parts of the country.

Vivan told himself once again—Welcome back. Isn’t this just the kind of thing you missed about India? The fact that money isn’t everything here.

There was only one thing to be done, Vivan decided. A visit to Vasant Vihar was in order. And it wasn’t exactly a place off his radar either.

Years ago he and Sonia had spent practically every evening they could just hanging loose about the Priya cinema area in Vasant Vihar, watching the folks with the money burn it with careless abandon.

Not any more. Now Vivan was the youngest billionaire in the under-thirties list.

Creating the first eco-friendly stretch that became the most sought-after fabric in the US and Europe, with practically every major sporting team and top-rung designers all vying to incorporate this ‘green’ versatile fabric into their apparel, he took a meteoric rise and was now reckoned to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world—a fact he found only brought out the bloodhound in every woman he came across.

‘Your car will be here within a few seconds, sir.’ The manager was at Vivan’s side within seconds.

‘I’m looking to drive something myself today.’

‘You have driven in Delhi before, sir?’ the man asked, concerned.

Vivan nodded, the lump in his throat barely visible. The last time he’d driven here was ten years ago. A borrowed motorcycle from his boss to take Sonia out for an ice cream. She had loved to feel the cool summer breeze on her cheeks as they drove down the wide roads of India Gate at night, parking as close as they could to the sacred Amar Jyoti on Rajpath—the perpetual flame kept burning in honour of the many unknown soldiers who gave their lives for India’s freedom. ‘Didi, I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten for days.’ The beggar child would fix her sad, soulful eyes on Sonia—a sucker for any sob story. And so often his tender-hearted sister would quietly hand over the unopened ‘orange bar’ ice lolly that she had waited so long to have, without a second thought.

Vivan had been fourteen and Sonia twelve when their father, a marketing man, had abandoned the family for a younger woman. Leaving barely enough in the bank to pay the bills for that month. With both his mother and sister engulfed in deep grief, Vivan had felt he could never allow himself the luxury of emotion. So what, he told himself, if they had been well off? They could get used to the government-funded school they changed to. So what if they had led a protective life? He knew they could move on. They had to move on. Vivan had resolved he had to fast become the man of the family and picked up small jobs cleaning people’s cars straight after school to help out. Dreaming of the day he would save enough to buy back the life they had left behind.

But that dream was crushed too when his mother died just a year later, broken-hearted and defeated from it all.

Sonia, though younger than Vivan by only two years, thought she had to play older sister to him. She would wait up late most nights for him. They would sit together laughing as they ate her failed cooking attempt of the day, no matter what time he got home from the gruelling ‘assistant to the assistant to the head designer’ evening job he had finally got when he was sixteen. ‘You’ve got to concentrate on your studies and sleep early. Stop being such a mere bhaiya sacrificing type,’ he used to tease her. Right till the day two years later, when he got onto that plane that took him away from India. He blamed himself for letting her convince him that she would be fine, that there was no reason for him to worry at all. She kept assuring him she was in a safe hostel; she liked her new part-time job at the store; and two years from now, when he had got his design specialisation from America, none of this would matter. That his going away on that scholarship was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity he shouldn’t blow. He had to go, he must go; Sonia had kept urging him to give his dream a shot at least; to change their lives. And how it did!

Sonia. The only family he had had. To think that he had even briefly believed the police report that was sent to him, that the cause of death was an accident. That Sonia had been crossing the road carelessly, when the lights had turned green and a speeding SUV had run her over. He should have guessed right then that it was just not in Sonia’s nature to be that distracted. The police had told him that in the time it had taken them to trace his contact details, the funeral had already been taken care of. And then, when he’d come back, the earliest that he could, the hostel warden had handed him all of Sonia’s meagre belongings. That was when he’d found it. Her perfectly ordinary-looking diary.

At first the entries had been full of worry and hope, missing him, her only brother; counting the days to their once-a-week phone calls, which were all he could afford then.

7th Jan: It’s been 5 days since Vivan called. Hope all is OK.

9th Jan: I can never get used to it. Imagine Vivan is starting his day when I’m ready to go to bed. He’ll be working all the time while I’m fast asleep.

And then Sonia had started writing about a customer who had walked into the store.

20th Mar: Today this man came to the shop and all the girls got so excited I thought it’s some film star.

Waise lagta film star ki tarah hi tha. Even I—and you know I never stare at any customer like the rest of the girls—couldn’t help noticing his thighs. It’s because he was wearing these jeans which are in fashion … all torn near the knees and iski jeans were torn a little more.

21st Mar: He was in the shop again. I like the dark blue shirt he was wearing. Tightly fitted and tapering to his waist. Looks like John Abraham but of course I didn’t tell the girls or anyone. It’s our secret. BTW I got to see his credit card and his name is Deepak Dewan.

30th Mar: I don’t know why Deepak keeps coming to the shop and asking only me to attend to him. 2nd Apr: The girls have started teasing me he’s interested. He hardly looks at the shirts I show. Interested? In me?? I don’t think so.

7th Apr: Deepak looks at me so intently and says such beautiful things—I feel so special … Wonder what Vivan would think about him? It’s not something I can tell him about in just five minutes on the phone.

Vivan’s blood boiled just at the thought of how the bastard had seen Sonia for the innocent she was and played with her emotions ruthlessly. That trusting love-struck girl had been putty in his hands as Deepak had flirted with flamboyance; charming her, learning that she lived alone with no family in Delhi.

10th Apr: Today when we were walking in Deer Park, I know he wanted to kiss me. I wanted it too but I know he won’t try anything funny like that. He’s crazy and fun and all that but he’s decent that way. I think Vivan would like him. But I don’t know how to start the topic.

12th Apr: Deepak is mad. Just MAD. Can you believe today he shouted from the top of the Qutub Minar that he loves me? I felt so shy. Everyone must have heard.

13th Apr: When Deepak kisses me I feel so beautiful. To think he wants me, me, out of all the girls in the world. But he says he wants me 100%, not just these stolen kisses in movie halls and parks. I wish Mama was alive. I’m so confused.

15th Apr: It happened today. I feel shy to even write about it but you know everything, dear diary, don’t you? It wasn’t very romantic or even comfortable … How can it be …? In the back of a car … but it’ll get better I’m sure.

Vivan had felt uncomfortable even reading about Sonia’s most private experiences; written in a shy way—full of love for the insatiable and, by the sounds of it, very reckless Deepak. And then when Sonia started sharing with Deepak her dreams of a future with him, her need to stay connected with him right through the day; wanting to hear his words of love—it started falling apart.

7th May: How can he be busy all day? It doesn’t take two minutes to send a message.

15th May: Called Deepak six times today. Still doesn’t pick up.

25th May: He doesn’t answer the phone. I don’t even have any other number to contact him on.

28th May: I’m pregnant. And does the father even care!! He doesn’t even know. I want to punch the wall hard. I want to curl up in a corner and sleep for some days.

The page was blotchy with Sonia’s tears.

3rd June: When will it stop? This sadness. Feels so hopeless. Vivan must be worried. I know he could tell I wasn’t myself.

Vivan wished she’d given him some hint of what was torturing her; said something. Maybe it would’ve all turned out differently.

Instead, the last time he had spoken to Sonia, he’d even asked why she sounded a little down and she had just said the same thing she did every time. ‘Don’t worry about me, Vivan. I’m fine, sachi, believe me!’

Fine? Deliberately stepping in front of a car without telling him a thing about what was going on in her life was not fine!

The last entry in her diary was written hours before she died. Those final words that said:

5th June: Forgive me, Vivan.

Why wasn’t I there to protect you? Vivan had asked himself this again and again, every time he read that name. Deepak Dewan.

It had smouldered inside him, pushed him to work relentlessly. Knowing that the burning desire to find and thrash the living daylights out of the man would still let him off too lightly. Vivan needed to destroy Deepak Dewan; his entire life. For that, Vivan needed to have power and patience. He needed to become not just successful, but unimaginably successful. Vivan grew from award-winning fabric designer to entrepreneur, from millionaire to billionaire. Creating the best products and then closing the deals, smart to strike when the moment was right. Vivan had taught himself to be ruthless so that when the time came he could track down Deepak Dewan and make sure the retribution he exacted was total and unforgiving.

That was the only reason he was here, Vivan reminded himself as he backed the sleek car the hotel manager had thought fit to arrange, into a narrow parking slot next to a rather dilapidated hatchback that looked as if it hadn’t seen a service in many years. Vivan walked briskly past the relocated Nirula’s back lane, where the still-familiar smell of melting mozzarella cheese on freshly baked pizzas from the kitchen exhausts hit him with a punch.

He didn’t allow himself the luxury of dwelling on the bittersweet memories every little alley in this now very happening shopping district of New Delhi had for him. The flyer had listed the last yoga class for the day at eight p.m. and it was already a little past that.

Steeling himself, Vivan climbed the narrow staircase past a tattoo parlour to a mezzanine level where a gum-chewing teenaged receptionist put a call on hold to tell him, ‘The batch is full and class has already started.’ A charming smile, a few persuasive words and Vivan’s platinum card had been swiped. His rich brown hand-stitched leather shoes joined the motley bunch of worn sneakers and shiny chappals right next to the dimly lit reception desk. A brand-new rolled-up yoga mat lodged securely under his arm, Vivan opened the door, blinking at the sudden change in lights to get a bearing.

Through a gap between a woman with purple hair extensions and a young ‘hate to be parted from my mobile phone’ corporate executive, Vivan saw her. She was more petite than he would have guessed from the flyer. Barely five feet something, she had her face turned to the side as she instructed a student. Her dark mahogany hair shone richly under the spotlights—the silky natural waves refusing to be tamed by the big scrunchy band trying to hold them together off her neck. The body was slender, yet the curves were full in just the right places. Her bright fuchsia yoga pants began low, sensuously draping her pert bottom and hugging her slim, well-proportioned legs. Her pure white scooped-neck tee shirt ended just a little short of her yoga pants. Suddenly Vivan had a ridiculous urge to run his palm on the smooth little strip of flesh that was revealed on her belly as she lifted her arms to continue demonstrating a posture to her students.

She’s probably just made this part of her innocent seductive act to get ahead, Vivan reminded himself grimly. But Vivan Parasher was no stranger to women. That Pari was hot, there was no doubt about.

Vivan murmured his apologies to the students around him as his late entrance seemed to have created a disruption. The ripples of it reached Pari as she turned to see the cause of the buzz towards the back of the room.

Time and again Pari had specifically instructed the receptionist that new students should be asked to join only when a new batch began and by no means when a class had already started. Obviously the man had charmed his way in just as he was doing now, flashing his deep dimples, barely nodding his head to acknowledge the students around him. Pari had always been partial to men with long lashes and dimples and the two together in this chiselled tanned face and strong body were a killer. Good thing, she reminded herself, that her experience with Kunal had made her immune to all things male.

He exuded a casual, self-assured confidence as he walked straight up to a space smack in the centre of the second row and unrolled his yoga mat. Pari couldn’t help but notice how Sheila, the student to his left, was practically drooling as she stared at him. The way his ink-black hair flopped about was admittedly mesmerising but not something to gape at. As the man removed an understated expensive-looking linen shirt to stand nonchalantly in a sleeveless black ganjee over very cool low-waisted khakhi linen drawstring pants, he looked Pari in the eye and mouthed a silent apology for his late entry.