Darkness falls like a curtain, guests spill in, spread like ice floes through the grounds, escorted by Siberian hostesses, tall, blond, sympathetic, displaying just enough skin. Powerful men form confidential rings. Drinks and canapés are passed around. The road outside is crammed with gleaming metal, an impatience of horns. Inside, everything strewn with flowers, light. The reception is a festival, a mela.
In Sunny’s realm: men and women; drunk, hungover, high, drunk again. His friends, those men he has tempted and courted and ruined, those who are yet to be ruined but waiting, who are curious and foolhardy, the ones who have demeaned themselves long enough to be barnacles on a hull, those insignificant enough to be more or less ignored, or those who have just enough power not to care. They have colonized the distant villa and pool. Their comedowns have been massaged all day. They have begun to ride intoxication’s next wave.
They march out from the mansion, skirting the large bright lawn in the dark, heading for the woodland behind, where, in a hidden hollow, the parallel party is due to begin. DJs from Tokyo and Berlin play psytrance and deep tech and tech house. Bartenders from the speakeasy Death&Taxis craft bespoke cocktails of exotic ingredients. Farah’s cousin Randy has managed the drugs. One hundred grams of cocaine, fifty grams of MDMA. Cream has been carried down from Malana. Grass up from Kerala. Eye drops of white fluff LSD have been shipped from Amsterdam. Some of the drugs have been stashed inside ornamental wooden eggs, waiting to be found. Others are handed out in goody bags, along with watches, perfume, and in one lucky bag, the key to a Maserati Quattroporte.
* * *
—
The main lawn is a more sedate affair. Sixty tables, each seating twelve. Each table with four bottles of Johnnie Walker, six bottles of Pol Roger on ice, boxes of Montecristo No. 4, all to be replenished at the blink of an eye.
There are thirteen separate stalls, with street foods of the world.
And a long, long bar with almost every drink under the sun.
There are ice sculptures, five thousand paper lanterns arranged in the trees, strung across invisible wires. Beyond the sea of tables and lights, two stages dominate the lawns. A company from Tel Aviv is in charge of lighting, sound, and set design. One stage for the classical musicians, the other for Bollywood stars. Right now, the old musicians play a gentle evening raag.
* * *
—
The guest list is a who’s who of modern India. There are senior bureaucrats, police chiefs, ministers from across the political board, aviation ministry, environment, health, transport, mining, to name a few; there are God-men, retired bureaucrats, four media barons, editors and columnists of all stripes, a fierce and muckraking journalist known to hunt down the corrupt; there are film producers, directors, actors and actresses, legends and starlets and upcoming heroes; there are representatives from multinationals and major NGOs; there are captains of industry, mining barons, steel billionaires, property developers and shipping tycoons, three different jailed ministers, ostensibly on medical leave. There are royals, of course. There are poultry kings and Formula 1 drivers. There are cricketers and hockey stars, wrestlers and shooters, there are the TV anchors, noted surgeons, and cardiac specialists enjoying their fat cigars.
* * *
—
Everyone knows this is a rare sight; they may never see this again. Bunty Wadia and anyone who ever leaned on him, or has been leaned upon, all in one place. For this moment in time, they can try to guess how far his web has been spun.
2.
Ajay holds on to his precious minutes in the back of the car, knowing how soon they’ll end. He has freed himself of all masters in his heart. And yet here he is once more, picked, chosen, delivered toward death. Why is he doing this? Ah yes. He looks at the photo of his sister again. The only thing in the world tying him to control. But even when he’s rescued her, will he be rid of them? Cut adrift? No, they’ll always have something over him. They can take her away any time they want. His mother and younger sister too. He can only pretend he doesn’t care so much. The city swims in his head, the sulfury light. He hasn’t seen the city at night since the night it all changed. He sees it now through the Mandrax, the whisky, through murderous eyes. He watches the world pass by, counts the money Tinu gave.
Two thousand rupees.
Would that be enough to . . . ?
He looks to the driver. “Show me the gun.”
The driver looks back in the rear mirror. “When we arrive.”
* * *
—
Sunny and Farah Wadia sit upon the throne, upon the dais, on the main lawn, side by side, receiving the blessings of guests. Their gifts are placed by several bearers on tables to the side, which groan under the weight. “You could at least smile,” Farah grins through her teeth. “Why can’t you be happy? You’ve got everything you could ever want or need.”
Sunny says nothing in response, mutely accepts each guest’s blessing and gift, presses his palms together in thanks each time.
“You’re the most miserable sonofabitch in the world.”
He’s scanning the crowd behind his shades.
Looking for Dinesh.
Looking for Eli.
Trying to stave off a panic attack.
It’s happening now. There’s no turning back.
Gautam Rathore gets up from his table to join the queue. A passing waiter offers him a glass of champagne, which he politely declines. He’s four years sober; bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He has assumed gray hairs and a certain gravitas, ever since his father died in that helicopter crash. He’s a property magnate now: his political contacts buy up and flip agricultural land, the kind of land where cities love to spread. Very soon he’ll have the wealth and connections to become a major power broker in his state. When the proper kinds of leaders come in, who knows where the mining rights could land?
He stands before Sunny, hands over a simple envelope, lingers just a moment, perhaps hoping to hear a word. But no, Sunny only nods, presses his hands together in thanks. Looking at him for the first time in years, Gautam has a sudden Pavlovian urge to say something cutting and unkind.
Then he remembers his Twelve Steps.
Steps One through Twelve: Bunty Wadia.
He compliments Farah with sincerity and is gone.
“I need a bump,” Farah says, when there’s a lull. “I’d seriously consider one too.” He doesn’t move. “Trust me,” she slaps his thigh, “I have everything you need.” With that she gets up, waves at everyone, gives him one last look. She says, “I’ll be by the lake, between here and the woods,” and is gone too.
Alone.
Now Sunny is left alone.
On that throne, looking out at the guests, he has never felt so alone.
And it hits him, the panic attack he has been fighting all day, all week, all month. The panic of years. The loneliness of a lifetime. The rage. The knowledge that tonight, it is happening. It is most definitely happening. And he doesn’t even know what it is. He’s left all of it in Dinesh Singh’s hands. All he knows is that their fathers will soon be pushed aside, embroiled in some business that will wear them down, allow Sunny and Dinesh to take the crown.
The crown.
Oh God!