—
Standing out in the corridor, she took a cigarette from Sunny’s pack, lit it with his Zippo.
Dean motioned to the lighter. “May I?”
She handed it to him, he examined it all over, opened it, closed it, checked something on the base. He made a grunt of approval. “Seems legit.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He pointed to a detail. “There’s a code right here.”
“I really, really wouldn’t know. I’m just holding it for a friend.”
“Lucky friend. It’s probably worth quite a bit.”
“Maybe I should sell it?”
“In Manhattan, sure. Here it’s just scrap metal. Anyway, the more you keep using it, the less it’s worth. Tell your friend he should lock it away.”
“You’re assuming it’s a he.”
He gave her a look that said “Come on.” “Anyway,” he said. “What’s new?”
“Nothing new. You?”
“I was at Nangla this morning,” he said, frowning. “The high court put through another demolition order. It’s just a matter of time before they execute it, rip it all down. They don’t even name the settlement in the documentation. It’s just called ‘the obstruction.’ The Obstruction. It’s people’s lives, their homes. Anyway, I might need you to transcribe some interviews later, if you’re not too busy.”
“Sure.”
“Your Hindi is better than mine.”
“Anyone’s Hindi is better than yours.”
“I’ll leave them on your desk. I’m heading out to the Pushta now.”
* * *
—
Yes, the Pushta. The Yamuna River and its banks and its “illegal” settlements, tens of thousands of households living on the edge of existence, tens of thousands of households already demolished, lives resettled, displaced. Dean was obsessed with it all. The slums, the demolitions. The courts were ordering demolitions all over the city, tearing down the poor, unplanned settlements that had grown up and become communities over decades, but the epicenter was the riverbanks, the Yamuna Pushta.
All Neda’s life, this was a part of Delhi that she saw and didn’t see. The slums had always been there; every time she crossed the river she looked down on the ramshackle city clinging to the banks. They were inevitable, they were ugly, they induced shame, guilt, in momentary flashes, but their people were submerged in her mind. If she thought about any of it at all, she thought it was Delhi, an eyesore, a sign of failure. But Dean saw the slums as people, and he saw their destruction as a tragedy.
She listened to him talk, indulged him, tried to learn from him, never spoke up herself. He said the Yamuna was seen as a “nonplace,” a place without history or culture that flowed empty through the heart of commerce, that it was seen as a wasted space in the eyes of global capital, but the Yamuna and its banks were neither wasted nor dead nor empty, it was all alive. He’d been doing a series of reports from there, along the floodplains, among the fishermen and the subsistence farmers and the slum dwellers who made up the laboring classes, who made up the maids and servants and drivers of the city; he was tracking the government’s eviction efforts, their plans of relocation. There were plans afoot for a World-Class Delhi, plans to turn Delhi into a “global city.” The courts called it “the showpiece of the country.” The riverfront should be a window to the world, a “public” space, a recreational and cultural landmark. There was a buzz of excitement about the future river. But all Dean saw was the damage done.
* * *
—
“So tell me,” he said, walking back from the smoke. “How’s the head? Because I know a hangover when I see one.”
“It’s that obvious?”
They entered the newsroom. “You know what, don’t worry about the interviews. I’ll get someone else to transcribe them.”
“Actually,” she said, as they reached her desk, “can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“There’s this guy.”
“Ah . . .”
“Not like that.”
“Good, because I’m the last one to give relationship advice.”
“I met him with my friend.”
“Last night?”
“Right. I wanted to know his deal, professionally speaking. I wondered if you heard of him. If he was worth writing about. Maybe doing a profile.”
“Name?”
“He’s bankrolling a lot of art projects in the city. Sponsoring musicians, painters, designers. Putting on parties, this kind of thing. Something different. Something fun. I thought maybe I could do a profile on him.”
“Neda, what’s his name?”
She suddenly didn’t want to say it.
“Sunny.”
“Sunny . . . what?”
She braced herself a little. “Wadia.”
“Sunny Wadia?” He shook his head. “That joker? Seriously, don’t waste your time. He’s just another rich kid in a sandpit. Empty calories. I don’t mean to rain on your parade—I do actually—but he doesn’t deserve your attention. He doesn’t deserve anyone’s.”
“I don’t know,” she was flustered. “I’m just saying it’s not all doom and gloom, it might be nice to cover some positive news once in a while.”
“Do you know who his father is?”
“Some kind of farmer, I thought.”
He clapped his hands together in glee. “Bunty Wadia, some kind of farmer? That’s a hoot.”
She hated him when he was like this.
He went on. “He’s one of Ram Singh’s mob.”
“The Ram Singh?”
“Yes, chief minister of UP Ram Singh. None other. He’s one of his cronies, and by all accounts he’s a nasty piece of work.”
She thought of Sunny, charming her in his suit, being a “citizen of the world.”
“Still, you can’t blame the sins of the father on the son.”
“Listen, I know you think I’m old-fashioned. Or maybe just old. But these guys, with their dirty money, they get treated like gods now because money talks, but it stinks. They’re gangsters, however you want to dress it up. And kids like Sunny, throwing their cash around, whatever they say, whatever they do, in the end it’s always the same, they’re always doing more harm than good.”
* * *
—
She searched online for news articles on Bunty Wadia. There were surprisingly few, and none with photos. In the handful of pieces he was routinely described as “liquor baron Bunty Wadia.” Or else the “controversial businessman” and once “the reclusive businessman.” Another talked about his being the “chief beneficiary of the surprise election victory of Uttar Pradesh chief minister Ram Singh.” According to reports, he bagged several lucrative contracts in the proceeding years, ranging from transport, sand mining, liquor, and construction, and had successfully completed the distress purchase of two apparently unprofitable state-owned sugar mills.
* * *