We were in Jaipur, not many weeks before lockdown. As we sat, eating dinner in a marquee the size of Terminal Five, all sparkling in our various International versions of evening dress, an elegant, serious-looking Indian women glided towards us from across the lawn. Positioning herself beside”The Writer’s” gilt chair, she bent down, gracefully, to his ear and whispered, “I hope you don’t mind if I say something personal?”.

“The Writer” gazing up into her intense face, close enough to his for him to feel the warmth of her skin, clearly didn’t mind what she said, as long as she didn’t move from his side. She bent closer still, her voluptuous lips nearly touching his face, and breathed into his ear, “You know, if God were a lion, he’d look like you”. Then she straightened, fixed him with an intense stare and vanished into the night in a rustle of silken sari.

I mention this today because, “The Writer’s” hair is the topic of discussion at breakfast. (Surprisingly, most of the men I speak to and few of the women, seem concerned about the lack of hairdressers).

Me: “Would you like me to cut it?”

“The Writer”, rearing back in his chair, “What? Are you mad?”

Me: “Well, I could have a go or are you going to let it grow down to your shoulders?”

(I wonder, fleetingly, whether it’s only that he doesn’t trust my technique or is his virility at stake here. Has he developed a Samson complex during Lockdown?)

” She said I looked like God AND like a lion”.

“Who did?”

He gives me a half-piteous, half furious look that says, “If you loved me, you couldn’t possibly have forgotten”

So powerful is the look, I immediately remember. I remember the tent, the smell of a thousand Biryanis, Jalfrezis and Vindaloos on the already fragrant air, the men lounging with embroidered pashminas flung across their shoulders – and, of course, the woman.

“I think the longer it gets, the more leonine I look and, besides, I like looking feral”

“Disinfecting the shopping doesn’t seem very feral,” I remark.

He looks at me with scorn and shakes his head. His hair falls about his shoulders – almost.

It’s not as though I look upon the return of his hairdresser with any pleasure. He’s a beautiful young man who comes to the house and talks incessantly about cricket: World cricket, Test Cricket, One day cricket, Limited Overs, Twenty20, his own team, his batting averages, bowling averages, catches taken. Thinking about the ending of Lockdown and his return, I decide my husband does, indeed, look God-like and give up. I know when I’m beaten.

Besides, how can I compete with the prophet in the silken sari?