Faith Against Odds

By Puja Miri Yajnik

Vidya Ann Singh had a quiet, comfortable life. Her entire world was her brother, her father and her home which she loved so dearly. It did not seem as though that would ever change, until one day she meets a certain Yusuf Ali Khan, Nawabzada of Jahanpur. Although the two are from completely different worlds, they soon find themselves irreversibly attached to one another. The young woman is thus forced to discover that love isn’t always as idyllic as it is made out to be, as this newfound affection exposes her to a dark side of the world from which she had always been shielded in the past. Will the two overcome the mysterious dark forces conspiring against them? Vidya has no way of finding out, save for experiencing this dangerous, intoxicating love for herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823081023

Puja Miri Yajnik

Puja Miri Yajnik is a fiction writer. Her previous work includes: ‘The Curse of the Winwoods’, ‘My Strange Duke’, ‘Rose Cottage: Shimla, 1802’ and ‘Bandra Tales’, as well as ‘Love & Motorcars’, the first in a series. This is the sequel to the same.

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© 2023 Puja Miri Yajnik. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/20/2023

Cover design & illustrations by Garima Yajnik

Synopsis & technical assistance provided by Divvij Yajnik

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8101-6 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8102-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

INTRODUCTION

Falling in love was like an illness to me; I was blissfully unaware of the malady till it had fully taken hold of me. Slowly the symptoms grew till I could no longer ignore them… till I had to accept that there would be no peace anymore… till I passionately wished that there was some medicine that could cure me of this strange emotion; a pill that could miraculously take away this unexpected longing. I prayed that I would get up one morning, free. Back to being my old self, without a care of where he was or what he was doing.

Yusuf Ali Khan was the heir of the Nawab of Jahanpur: a small, exceedingly prosperous princely state towards the north of India. He was a proverbial hero; a regular in society columns, a popular figure known for excelling in all manner of sports… I might add that it was also said that he was a breaker of hearts. How much of this was true was a matter of conjecture. It was said that he was over six feet tall, of an athletic build, had jet black hair and dark, mesmerising eyes. Some said he was gravely indulged and was a very arrogant young man. At any rate, he was sent abroad for a European education. His autocratic father wished him to be able to deal with the growing foreign presence in his state. All this I of course came to know much later, that is when I began to look for every little thing ever written about him.

One would think that there was absolutely no reason or occasion for me – the daughter of a regular, run-of-the-mill, not particularly affluent Zamindar in the state of Chiraggarh – to come across the sophisticated and wealthy Khan.

Girdhari Roshanlal Kumar Singh was a kind, benevolent landlord who came from a long aristocratic lineage that could trace their roots back to the thirteenth century. He was proud of his heritage, yet a forward-thinking person who educated his daughter, Vidya Ann Singh (that is me), along with his son, Prithviraj George Roshan Singh. My brother, Bhaiyaji, was eight years younger than me, yet I addressed him as Bhaiyaji, which is generally used for an elder brother, out of respect for his position as the future Zamindar. He was a beautiful little boy, with blue eyes and golden curls. He bore a striking resemblance to our late mother, Lady Cynthia Morley of Yorkshire, England. Lady Cynthia had died of food poisoning whilst on a hunting expedition some years ago. My father had till now not married again, though several proposals were coming his way. He was a kind, somewhat distant parent, devoted to his estate and the well-being of his people. They said that my mother was a beauty unparalleled, that she worked tirelessly for the poor, and in fact went house to house distributing food during the last famine. Mother had adopted the language and religion of her new husband, though it took a lot more for the natives to accept her. Apparently they had been extremely critical of their Zamindar bringing a Mem Sahib to Chiraggarh. I had admired her courage tremendously. A woman who gave up her entire world came to Hindustan to wed a minor landowner, whom she had met at a horse sale in Yorkshire; they were apparently bidding for the same horse. Father loved that horse, and it remained the star of our stable for years.

I was a cheerful eighteen-year-old of average height and a petite figure. I had my father’s clear, olive complexion and dark hair, and my maternal grandmother’s grey eyes. The locals said I looked more like a gypsy than an aristocrat. As I grew, they begrudgingly proclaimed me a beauty, but invariably added, Not as beautiful as our Mem Sahib, that is, my mamma. I did not mind; forever in ill-fitting breeches, long boots, old shirts, oversized jackets and cardigans, I was hardly a fashion enthusiast. I was simply not interested in my appearance, at least not at that point. Bhaiyaji, my chief companion, thought I was just the ticket, and that was enough for me. I was the undisputed ruler of the Haveli (house). My word was law, and I had everyone wrapped around my little finger, as Papa put it. Our household consisted of lots of employees, some whose jobs I myself had no idea of. They were just there for generations, and lived in the quarters or grounds. My mamma had designed the house along English lines, with some local influences thrown in. It was a grand building, albeit a little mixed up in architecture, with marble floors, high ceilings, and innumerable white pillars. The quarter was an attached outhouse comprising four floors, where all the servants and their families lived. The grounds had handsome stables and two rather English summer houses; replicas of the ones in my grandmother’s house in Yorkshire. In fact, my maternal grandparents had contributed a lot to this home. They had wanted their precious daughter to be as comfortable as possible in an alien environment. Mamma would read fairy tales out to Bhaiyaji and me in the summer house. I loved that, especially when it rained. It was my custom when I missed her terribly to go there and have a good cry. Bhaiyaji usually came to look for me and would console me. Don’t be sad, Vidya. I am here, I will take care of you, he would say, and my heart would go out to the brave little boy who had been so young when our mother died. He had no memory of her. For him, I was the mother I suppose. He had a large, brown dog that he adored and was inseparable from. The staff had started calling his dog Raja, or King, as they thought him terribly indulged. The name suited the precocious, energetic dog. It stuck and Raja it was.

Bhaiyaji and me had an English tutor: a pleasant-looking, intelligent young man by the name of Henry Jones. He lived in a cottage on the estate. He was an academic who wished to study and understand Indian culture, hence his presence in Chiraggarh. We had grown to be quite fond of him and spent hours on the veranda in his cottage; discussing literature, history, geography… just about everything. It was education in the best possible manner, when you do not realise you are being taught. Mr Jones and Balbir ji, who was our major-domo, were our favourite people in the entire town.

Thus it was that I had a rather comfortable, on hindsight, almost idyllic life. I would spend my days scampering around the countryside with Bhaiyaji. Father did not interfere much with our routine activities; he was always busy. We doted on him, and missed him during his long absences. We spent our evenings in the large, airy drawing room, playing nonsensical tunes on the piano or board games – Bhaiyaji and myself. Sometimes when father or Mr Jones, or both, joined us, it was a party. I did not think I would want my life any other way, till that fateful afternoon in the summer of 1922, when I met Yusuf Ali Khan and my world changed forever.

CHAPTER 1

And then, the tiger looked at the boy… I said over my shoulder, making sure Bhaiyaji was following me. We were walking through the woods, pushing branches of trees aside and climbing over trunks of trees lying in our path. Raja was close behind, as always barking for no reason at all. I, as usual, was entertaining Bhaiyaji with a story. It was a sunny, though cool day. We were both wearing black shirts, brown riding breeches, and black boots. My long, wavy hair was in an untidy plait that reached my waist. Bhaiyaji loved to tug my plait whenever he wanted attention!

Then what happened? asked my demanding brother.

Then? Oh yes… the boy pulled out a mithai (sweet) from his pocket and handed it to the tiger to bribe him, I said carelessly. I had no idea where this story was going, as I was inventing it as I went along.

Oh! said Bhaiyaji, a little confused. Do stop, Vidya! Explain! he ordered, pulling my plait. Raja jumped up to my knees, to assist his master I suppose. I stopped short.

Yes… do explain… just how did the boy hand a mithai to a tiger? said a voice coming from somewhere above us. We looked up, then all around. We could see no one at first.

Did you hear someone? I asked Bhaiyaji, not in the least afraid.

Up here! said a voice. I looked up sharply. Just above us, on a thick branch of a tree, stood a man, bending down a little and looking intently down at us. Raja ran towards the tree. He was barking and running round and round the little clearing.

What are you doing up there? asked Bhaiyaji curiously, screwing his eyes in the sunlight to look up at the stranger.

Looking for a scarf… the wind blew it away, said the man conversationally; in a deep, cultured, slightly amused voice.

That high… forget it! You won’t find it in those thick branches, advised the young boy.

I might, if I look for it. It’s a gift… I was taking it for someone, explained the man.

Then you should have had it properly packed, said Bhaiyaji reasonably.

You are right, I forgot to do so, apologised the man.

Once, my hat flew away. I sent Moti up a similar tree. He spent a long time up there but eventually fell off, but he did not break a leg or anything, went on Bhaiyaji, chatting, sitting comfortably on the grass, resting his back against a tree. Raja snuggled up next to him, his tongue hanging out. But he could have… I mean you could also… break something, you know! Bhaiyaji paused.

You are absolutely right, replied the man. I never thought of that… I am very rash!

Why don’t you climb down now? suggested Bhaiyaji. Do you think he might fall? Bhaiyaji looked to me. Vidya?

Yes… What is your opinion, Vidya? asked the man, turning his attention to me; a long, intent look. Do you think I should jump down or slide down? I looked up at him but did not reply.

"It is always better to come down