Dutiful, diligent, burning with hidden fire.
He trained Ajay to be Sunny’s bodyguard, to fight in Krav Maga, Brazilian jiujitsu, or at least know the fundamentals. Gave him dedicated firearms training too. Grew close to him, was proud to watch him bloom. Sunny was just the asshole upstairs. He remembered this one time Sunny decided to learn Krav Maga too, crashed a couple of Ajay’s classes with some ditzy model on his arm, used Ajay as a human punching bag, Ajay never fighting back, never laying a finger on Sunny, just crouching like a dog with his tail between his legs, taking his licks. Eli willed Ajay to give it back just once, to wipe the sanctimonious smile off Sunny’s face. He wanted to see Sunny hurt.
Then he wanted to see him dead. It was the morning after the night he was called to the lawyer’s place, no idea what was going on, even when he was ferrying Sunny to the farmhouse.
It was only when he turned on the TV in the villa as Sunny slept that he got to know. Seeing Ajay’s face projected on-screen, seeing his cuffed hands as he was led out by the cops. He understood enough to know that Ajay had been offered up as a sacrifice. Full of rage, he turned off the TV and crept into Sunny’s room while Sunny slept his sedative sleep. He could have done anything in that brief moment. Put a pillow over his face and pressed down. But no, no. He was a professional. He valued his own life. He went back outside and played cards and waited for orders. By eleven a.m., a new directive—go with the lawyer to Rajasthan. In the SUV he was told: you can take your anger out on Gautam Rathore.
Amazing how these fuckers read your mind.
His career followed the trajectory usually reserved for a laser-guided bomb. He was assigned to guard Sunny full time. Guard, babysit, protect, spy on, whatever. It was surely going to blow up in his face. At least he didn’t have to wear a bow tie and make drinks. And why him? He didn’t know for sure. He guessed it was due to his being alone with Sunny on the dark, downward slope of that fateful night. He’d seen the worst of it already (or so he thought), and they had sealed a bond in arak and blood. At the start of this tour of duty, Eli was granted his one and only personal audience with God himself.
Bunty Wadia, wandering through his hothouse in that roundabout, mellifluous way of his, said: all Sunny needs is saving from himself.
“That all?” Eli deadpanned.
“And if he ever speaks about the Neda girl . . .”
Eli finished the sentence in his mind.
It was understood.
And of course he was still angry with Sunny deep down, but the wanting-to-kill part of it quickly waned. I mean, he was so miserable, so pathetic, so lost. So adaptable Eli still carried a flame for the fallen Ajay, but switched allegiances in his mind and bore his mission with the same droll sense of humor he was famous for among his friends back home. Risus sardonicus, you could call it. Sardonicism under fire.
It sat well with Sunny, truth be told, the backchat, the fuck-you cynical asides. Maybe that’s what he’d been missing most of his life. Maybe he needed a punching bag that fought back. No, no. He needed much more than that. But it was a start. In their grimly invigorating dialogues—no subject taboo (save father, Neda, Ajay, crash), no joke too far (save see above)—their twisted, inexplicable companionship grew. Truly, Eli was the only real person left in Sunny Wadia’s life, present for every minute of the masquerade, biting his tongue, averting his eyes, shit-talking when shit-talking needed to be done, watching Sunny eat, drink, drug, and fuck his way to the hills and back again. He’d never known anyone show so little pleasure, so little joy in the business of living. He told him so, when they were alone, and was invariably told to fuck off in return.
Then there were the times they weren’t alone, and Eli had to fall silent and position himself behind the line. This was genuinely exhausting work. Yeah, there was something corrosive about Sunny Wadia. Something corrosive about standing guard as Sunny taunted so-called friends, used them, mocked them. Tempted and humiliated them. There were the sudden outbursts of manic violence to take into account too. How many times had he dragged Sunny away from a trashed hotel room, a punch-up in a nightclub. Smoothed things out after the fact with a wad of cash, a splash of humor, the knife-edge of his right hand in the bridge of a nose. One time, to Sunny’s grotesque amusement, all of the above (in that order). Then there were the sojourns to Dubai. In Dubai, all Sunny wanted to do was go over the edge. That one time with the Siberian escort . . . my God, some things you couldn’t unsee. If you’re going to pay a beautiful woman that much money, the least you could do is have sex with her.
Eli shakes his head, spits on the ground with such venom all the guards look. He waves a dismissive, clownish hand.
Fucking Sunny Wadia! Crazy guy!
Dinesh, on the other hand—he knew the time of day. This shit with the farmers, Eli was sure it was a smart play, a masterstroke. Who wanted to build these shitty apartment buildings anyway? Not Sunny, not really. In his heart Sunny seemed to hate the whole thing. In his heart Sunny seemed to hate . . . well . . . no . . . Eli wasn’t about to manifest that thought.
After all, they could read minds.
Truth be told, if he could, he’d work for Dinesh Singh in a heartbeat. Calm, resolute Dinesh, the man with the plan. But he also knew, if he was to go to the other side, he’d just as likely find a bullet in his . . .
Friday, June 8, 2007, 5:28 p.m.
“We’re leaving!”
Eli is smoking his seventh cigarette when Sunny staggers out the front door.
Staggers like he’s been knifed between the shoulder blades, eyes wild, face drained of color. Eli springs to his feet and Dinesh’s guards come forward too, and Dinesh, he’s right there behind Sunny, pulling him by the shoulder, calmly whispering something in his ear, pressing an A3 manila envelope into his hands. Sunny regards the envelope with dismay, then reels toward the Bolero as Eli lopes over, climbs in, starts the engine, spins the Bolero round. One of the guards walks over to the gate, a little too casually.
“Motherfucker,” Sunny cries, clambering into the passenger seat, slamming his hand on the horn.
“Boss . . .”
Sunny tries to light a cigarette.
The guard pulls open the gate and smirks.
Eli is scanning the horizon for threats. The sky burns an intense blue. And Sunny is still trying to light the cigarette, becoming more agitated, to the point where he opens the window and tosses the lighter out into the dust. So Eli has to light it for him, his eyes darting between the cigarette and the road and Sunny’s sweating, clammy brow. Sunny sucks it down to a stub in record time. All in silence. And when it’s done he turns his attention to the envelope on his lap.
“Boss. What happened?”
“He’s fucking crazy,” Sunny mumbles.
“Who? Dinesh? Yeah, sure, he crazy. This we know.”