Love Has No Boundaries

By Raj Singh

This is a most unlikely love story. Nikesh is a successful dermatologist with a booming practice in Durban, South Africa. Rani is a Bollywood star and is on top of her profession, and apart from their good looks, they have very little else in common.

They would normally not move in the same circles since he lives and works in South Africa, and she is based in Mumbai, India.

No matter how different they are, they are destined to meet. They face many hurdles, but will they overcome it since love has no boundaries?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Oct 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482803594

Raj Singh

Dr. Raj Singh was born in Durban, South Africa, and completed his schooling at Isipingo Secondary South of Durban. He completed his medical training in Mysore, India, and was awarded both the United Nations and Common Wealth Scholarship during his undergraduate training. He returned to South Africa and worked in various hospitals and was in general practice before he decided to specialize in dermatology and qualified as a specialist dermatologist in 2004. He is currently in private practice as dermatologist in Pietermaritzburg and Durban. He resides with his wife and three children in Durban.

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Copyright © 2014 by Raj Singh.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-0360-0

                Softcover        978-1-4828-0358-7

                eBook             978-1-4828-0359-4

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CONTENTS

Mumbai

South Africa Durban

Mumbai

Hong Kong

Mumbai

South Africa Durban

About The Author

MUMBAI

T he afternoon sun beats down on a hot and humid city. People in their tens of thousands go about their business, dashing here and there, dodging in and out of traffic, avoiding animals, bumping into stalls. Tourists gladly part with their money in the shops of Colaba while opportunist thieves ply their trade. Astute businessmen buy drinks and exchange ideas. Lives are risked crossing busy streets. Deals are struck and fortunes made and lost. All are driven by the urge to live another day. Within a stone’s throw of such major landmarks as the Victoria Terminus, Rajabai Towers, the Prince of Wales Museum, and the Cowasji Jehangir Hall, stench and squalor greet one’s nostrils and eyes. Crippled children beg for food, an emaciated old man beats his oxen, a toothless woman eats scraps. There are modern highways, dingy alleys. And in the shadows of gleaming malls, luxurious hotels, and modern office buildings, there is the noise, the turmoil, the ever-spreading slums. Originally seven islands, it is now one city; it is the country’s business and financial capital. A vast metropolis of contrasts: Rich and poor—ancient and modern. The gateway to India. This is Mu mbai!

Behind the high walls of the Chhatrapati Motion Picture Company, in the suburb of Goregaon, exists another world. Here all the men are handsome, all the women beautiful. Here everyone is happy; all are comfortable. Opulence abounds. Fine dining is to be had in the fine restaurants within the studio’s walls, where fine clothes are flaunted. Even the villains come back to life when the director calls Cut! Here is created a world of make-believe. Here the boy always gets the girl. Good always triumphs over evil. And any excuse to throw in a dance and musical routine is always taken. A celebration of life! Ah! If only life were really like that!

Life is like that, at least for Rani Sen. At 32 years of age, she is considered one of India’s most beautiful women. The success of her films has afforded her a palatial home in the suburbs, together with all the attributes that accompany wealth: perfume from Paris, clothes from New York, art from London, and cars designed and manufactured in Italy.

She’s bloody useless, opined the assistant director. She couldn’t act her way out of a paper bag if you ask me.

Shhhh! responds the director, putting a finger to his lips.

The scene being filmed isn’t over. Rani stands in front of what appears to be the veranda of a detached colonial house. In fact, it’s merely a backdrop, in front of which is an array of real plants and shrubbery. Rani stands beside a cluster of white azaleas and leans forwards to clip a sprig when she suddenly hears someone approaching. She turns and faces the actor.

Ah, it’s you! I knew you’d come back. Well, it’s too late. I’m leaving this place.

Where would you go? scoffs the leading man convincingly. My affairs don’t concern you any longer.

You’ll be back.

No, I won’t. Unlike you, I never go backwards in life.

As she delivers her line, she takes a step backwards. Behind the rolling cameras, the director shakes his head in despair. After what seems an interminable few seconds, Rani walks out of the shot.

And cut! calls the director. That’s a wrap!

The well-schooled crew remember to burst into a spontaneous applause at the end of the scene. The director knows all the tricks for keeping his leading lady’s ego well stroked. She feigns not to notice the adulation. This is the sixth film the director has worked on with her. Her films gross millions; all are blockbusters. She’s a star!

But she hesitated and stepped back, whispers the assistant into the director’s ear.

I can get out of it by cutting to a close up of his face, then back to the wide shot. Don’t worry, we’ve got it covered.

How can you work with this woman?

She’s Bollywood’s biggest box-office draw. She makes our lifestyle possible. Never forget that.

The young assistant wanted to say more but held his tongue when he saw Moonilal, Rani’s personal assistant, sidle over. Though the assistant director was still learning his craft, he knew enough about communication not to trust the sly Moonilal. He knew that any derogatory remark or mild criticism concerning Rani would go straight back to her. Moonilal deservedly had the reputation of being a man who could not be entrusted with even the smallest scrap of crew gossip. The assistant director knew that if he displeased Rani he’d be out of a job.

Ah, Moonilal, said the director, remaining in his chair, would you ask Rani is she’d come and see me when she’s finished taking off her makeup? I need to discuss something with her.

Might I ask what it is? asked Moonilal with contrived courteousness.

It’s to do with travel arrangements, the director informed him, deliberately wishing to be vague.

Moonilal scurried off on his errand.

Rani was sitting in her luxurious trailer, carefully removing her makeup, when she recognised Moonilal’s familiar wrap on the door.

Come, she commanded.

He was the only person she would allow to see her without makeup. He’d been with her since the start of her career. As long as she could remember, she had wanted to be an actress. Her father, a successful businessman, was totally against the idea. He would have liked to see her marry one of the promising sons of his many business associates, but Rani’s mother had taken her side and persuaded her husband to allow their daughter to chase her dream, at least for a year or two. Her father, who’d always indulged her, agreed. So at the ripe old age of 15, Rani had walked into an acting agency. It was a one-man show run by—you guessed it—Moonilal. He had few actors on his books, none of whom were amounting to anything. That he made a living at all was a miracle. However, he immediately recognised that Rani, though inexperienced and untrained, had the good fortune to have the looks that his industry required. He closed the agency and offered his exclusive services as her manager. Both were in luck. Rani was cast in a small role at her first audition. Though the film wasn’t a great success, Rani was spotted by a big-time producer, and she had never looked back. She no longer needed a manager; she’d manage her own affairs. Moonilal was demoted to her personal assistant. She hadn’t kept him on so much because he had taken a leap of faith regarding her career (and his) but because the young Rani soon realised she could manipulate him. Besides, she didn’t want to have to undertake such mundane tasks as sending out photographs of herself to adoring fans.

Having removed her stage makeup, Rani now began applying the makeup she used for the real world. Yes, she was beautiful. But like all beautiful women, she knew her flaws, and it was these that she was determined to conceal. Satisfied with her appearance, she stood up and marched out of the trailer. Moonilal followed, like an obedient peon.

The director was talking with several crew members when Rani approached. He immediately cut his conversation short and turned to face her.

Ah, Rani. The scene went really well. You were wonderful.

Rani merely smiled and waited to hear what was so important that he’d called for her.

I just wanted to let you know about some changes in the flight arrangements.

Rani’s eyebrows raised slightly, and she dropped the smile. She didn’t like changes in arrangements; they could be most bothersome. As far as she was concerned, she was booked to fly to South Africa that evening for three weeks of shooting on location to complete the present film. She’d insisted on a night flight. She’d always found long flights tedious, and she was hoping to catch up on some sleep.

As you know, Rani, we’ve run over the shooting schedule by a couple of days. This has caused some confusion with the seating arrangements. The producers tell me we’ve secured the last two first-class tickets. We couldn’t get seats together, but I’m sure the chief steward will be able to work it out.

Good, responded Rani in her matter-of-fact manner. By the way, I intend taking all my gym apparatus. If I should decide to exercise, I certainly don’t want to use a treadmill someone else has used.

I’m sure that will be fine. Unfortunately, Rani, the plane leaves at two in the morning. The limo will pick you up at your home around one.

Rani drew a deep breath. I don’t see that being a problem. Where’s Moonilal?

I’m right here, he informed her, stepping forwards as if from nowhere.

Arrange for the morning newspapers to be in the limousine and for copies of the same papers to be waiting for me in the plane. If there’s one thing, I hate it’s having to carry newspapers.

Moonilal bowed, taking a step backwards, and vanished as mysteriously as he’d appeared. Wanting to end the interview on a positive note, the director resorted to stating the obvious, Well, that’s a wrap for all the scenes set in India, and, desiring to keep his leading lady in a good frame of mind, added, You were really wonderful, Rani. Good work!

Rani smiled. It was as fake as her acting. She turned and walked away, watched by the director. What an Ice Maiden that one is, he said to himself.

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At the other side of town, in the large conference hall of the Razhbai Hotel, sat a large gathering of men. A dozen or so women numbered among them. The majority of those present were doctors. Others were connected, in one way or another, with the medical profession. They’d come from all over the world. Addressing the audience from the large dais that stood centre stage was Dr Nikesh Singh, a specialist dermatologist. Although still in his early thirties, Nikesh had risen far in his chosen career. Back in South Africa, where he was from, he was recognised as one of the leading authorities in his field. He’d been delivering a paper for nearly twenty minutes and was now drawing to an end.

As every dermatologist here knows, hair is formed by the dividing cells at the base of the follicle. This is, literally and figuratively, the root of the problem we call hair loss. It’s my firm belief that within the next five to ten years, we will have a cure for baldness if research along the lines I’ve indicated is maintained. Our field of discipline has come a long way since Ferdinand von Hebra first made his microscopic examination of skin lesions in the mid-eighteen hundreds. Unlike pemphigus, scleroderma, and lupus erythematosus, baldness is not life threatening. However, I’m sure every man who sports a fine head of skin will, in the future, seek our skills when hair loss is a thing of the past.

Nikesh gathered his papers and stepped away from the dais. The audience broke into spontaneous applause. He was pleased. His paper had been well received. Several of the older distinguished-looking men seated behind him on the stage stood and came forwards to shake his hand.

The members of the audience began to file out of the hall. As Nikesh thanked the last of the gentlemen that had surrounded him, a man of his own age stepped forwards and introduced himself.

Dr Singh, an excellent and incisive paper. My congratulations. I couldn’t agree with your reasoning more.

The two men shook hands. I’m Dr Pranesh Gangapersadh, by the way. I teach at the university, and my research is in the same area outlined in your paper.

I’m pleased to meet you, Dr Gangapersadh.

Please, call me Pranesh.

I’m Nikesh, Pranesh.

Yes, I know. I thought I’d make myself known to you because I certainly feel we have a lot in common.

I don’t doubt that we do, said Nikesh with certainty. "Is there somewhere we could talk?

I would like that very much, said Pranesh. If I could have your contact details, perhaps we can meet tomorrow, and I could show you my department at the university. Or if you prefer, perhaps we could get together at your hotel early in the morning. You see, unfortunately, I must be getting home now. It’s my sister’s birthday. I take it you are staying here at the hotel?

I am, answered Nikesh, though that isn’t going to work for me. I fly back to South Africa in just a few hours, at 2 a.m. to be exact.

Pranesh’s features showed his true disappointment. Perhaps if you come to India again, I’d very much like to show you our laboratory and the work we’ve accomplished. Here is my card.

Nikesh took the offered card. Pranesh offered his hand again. Nikesh quickly put the card into the breast pocket of his jacket. The two men shook hands again, each promising they would be in touch with the other. Pranesh turned to walk away when he was suddenly struck with an idea.

Listen! he exclaimed, If your flight is at two, that’s eight hours away. It’s been a long day, and if you’re anything like me, you must be starving. Why don’t you collect your things from the hotel and come back to my home? My wife has organised a small party for my sister. There’s always plenty of food on these occasions. We live with my parents—it’s my father’s house—and it will be an honour to have you at our table, and we can find time to have that talk. I don’t know how familiar you are with the city, but we stay in Bandra, which is in west Mumbai and not too far from the airport. I can personally drive you there. What do you say?

I must say, Pranesh, it is a tempting offer. He checked the time on his Rolex before continuing, To tell the truth, the hotel food isn’t what I’m accustomed to eating. A little spicy.

Then it’s settled, pressed Pranesh. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.

Nikesh nodded his agreement and went up to his room to pack his case. Ten minutes later, he was at the reception desk, settling up his account. Five minutes later, he and Pranesh were heading for the party.

Two burly guards were being kept busy at the main entrance of the Chhatrapati Motion Picture Company, trying to hold back the scores of adoring fans who regularly hung around at this time in the evening hoping to see one of their idols. They were rewarded when the electric gates opened and a long black limousine slowly drove out and edged its way through the crowd. It was part of the driver’s duties to drive slowly, thereby allowing press photographers to snatch photographs of the studio’s stars. The vehicle’s windows were deliberately opened just enough so one could catch a glimpse of the occupants. Next to the driver sat Moonilal, a look of self-importance on his face. Sitting in the back, alone, was Rani, looking bored with the whole contrived procedure.

Stop the car! she suddenly called out.

The driver dutifully obeyed.

I’ve left my script in the trailer. Moonilal, go back and get it and bring it straight to the house.

Moonilal and the driver exchanged a look. Moonilal, whose timing for his schemes was always perfect, took a glossy photo of Rani from out of his inside pocket. He leaned over towards the back of the limo and handed it to her.

I wonder if you would sign this for me. It’s for my niece. She’s a big fan.

Flattered, Rani signed the photograph and handed it back. The driver unlocked the doors and Moonilal got out. He immediately closed the door and heard the limo’s locks re-engage. He began pushing his way through the crowd, back towards the gates. No one cared. The driver drove on, leaving the fans shouting with glee at having seen Rani. Moonilal stood for a moment, watching the limousine drive into the sunset. How appropriate! He was joined by a fat greasy-looking individual who smelt like he hadn’t washed in weeks. The man had several expensive cameras swinging from around his neck and a card attached to his shirt telling the world he’s Press.

Any stories or gossip for me? the man asked.

Not today, replied Moonilal, lifting his hand and passing the photograph to the man, who snatched it up.

Signed, acknowledged the man, nodding his head to show his appreciation. Do you have any idea how rare these are? I don’t know how you do it!

As easy as sticking out my tongue, responded Moonilal, a note of contempt in his voice.

The lights were ablaze in every room of the detached house Pranesh called home. In the spacious dining area, he sat at the head of a large table that easily accommodated the entire family. Nikesh sat to Pranesh’s right. On his left sat Pranesh’s wife, Sana. The house was modern in style, open plan, allowing for a quartet of musicians to be sitting at the rear of the area. They played modern music at a volume that wasn’t intrusive. To one side there was a long server from which two servants are taking up dishes of desserts and serving them. Family members talked over one another. A jovial atmosphere enveloped the party. Pranesh and Nikesh had their serious talk earlier, in the comfort of Pranesh’s study. Now they were engaged in light banter.

So tell me, Nikesh, are you married, single, or happy?

I’m single … and happy,

Both men, as well as those within earshot, laughed. Pranesh gave his sister, sitting to his left, a knowing look. She needed no explanation of what was in her older brother’s mind.

Did you hear that, my little sister? Here’s your opportunity to meet a successful, prominent—and I might add—very distinguished-looking doctor. Perhaps we should swap places.

Nadine, who had already been introduced to Nikesh, cast her eyes down, embarrassed by her brother’s boldness. However, her mother’s ears perked up. Seeing the situation for what it was, Nikesh thought he’d better explain something.

The fact of the matter is I’m engaged. Well, sort of.

Sort of? queried Pranesh, good-humouredly. Isn’t that rather like saying to a patient you’re sort of pregnant? Either you are or you aren’t!

There’s a girl back home, Nikesh thought he’d better explain, my family and her family have been friends since before I was born and it’s always been understood that one day—

Ah, I see. Does this girl have a name?

Simran.

Mrs. Gangapersadh could not resist saying what was on her mind, Sometimes an arranged marriage can be the happiest.

Mother! We are now living in the twenty-first century, Pranesh pointed out.

That doesn’t change what I said.

Pranesh was too polite to enter into an argument with his mother, who already knew her son’s views on the subject and that he thought her old fashioned and out of touch with modern India.

Are you in love? Pranesh inquired.

I’m … We’re very fond of each other, Nikesh informed his questioner truthfully.

Enough with the questions, remonstrated the father of the household. You are embarrassing your guest.

No, really, it’s all right, Nikesh assured everyone. It’s a legitimate question. The fact of the matter is I don’t know if I’m in love with her. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, not in the romantic sense that is. Of course, I love my mother and my sister and my late father, my family.

Love is merely a degree of caring, piped in the mother. By your own admission, you are fond of her. Marry her, and you will come to love her. You will see.

"But you’re