—
Another name kept popping up in her search. Vikram “Vicky” Wadia. He was a politician, an MLA out in Eastern UP, with a whole range of criminal charges against him: six of kidnapping for extortion, one of torture, four of rioting, three of attempt to murder. There were no convictions, only cases pending, stacking up, stacking up. No doubt about it, Vicky Wadia was a gangster, a dada, a rough-hewn country godfather. Several articles talked about the “Kushinagar incident,” but none of them could tell her what it was. Eventually she found a grainy photo of him from a lurid piece on a Hindi news website, where he was referred to as “Himmatgiri,” and my God if he didn’t look like a more brutish version of Sunny.
* * *
—
She turned her attention to Sunny, but there was nothing there. He seemed perfectly anonymous—he didn’t even appear in the photos of the society pages. And when she searched for the name of the foundation—the ?ūnyatā Foundation, wasn’t it?—she was disappointed by a simple page with no links and only a line of hackneyed, ungrammatical text espousing the transformative power of art in the urban landscape. Really? This was him? She examined the page more carefully for a sign, a hidden doorway, but it was bricked up and mute. She printed all the articles on Bunty and Vicky, put them in her drawer to read later, and returned to work.
* * *
—
That evening, sitting alone in her car outside Alkauser in Chanakyapuri with the window down, waiting for the boy to fetch her kakori in roomali, watching the charcoal grill glowing, the sparks leaping and blinking out of existence, she felt a vertiginous tenderness for the tangled complexities of her city. She took a photo of the kiosk with her Nokia and texted Hari.
—Guess where?
He replied almost immediately.
—home away from home:)
She waited a minute.
—Oh yeah I meant to ask. what did you mean when you said I made an impression?
Her kebab was delivered. She dipped the end into the chutney, garlanded it with onion, took a bite.
—u know wat I mean
Trust Hari to be difficult.
—I really don’t know what you mean by impression. Did I embarrass myself?
She finished her meal.
Finally the phone beeped.
—FYI, he’s seeing Kriti
Kriti was the TV actress from the other night.
—Yeah I knew that
She didn’t. She thought the actress was with the film star.
—Ok gud
—Anyway, he’s not my type
—Yeah right
* * *
—
Sunny fit into the long line of boys she’d flirted with in school, slept with in college, all those boys she’d parked with on the ridge, whose daddies were wealthy businessmen, who represented the vulgar new India her mother railed against. He fit into that line, and he transcended it. While those boys had appealed by being so very different to her, they’d always disappointed in the end. They’d been conservative and dull at heart, or painfully dumb, or just plain boring. They had been her rebellion, but they themselves rebelled against precisely nothing, and that always ended dead. Sunny . . . he was something else. His family came from the soil. His family, his uncle at least, was dangerous. And what he represented himself was radical. Could he pull it off? Could she watch him try? Even to watch him fail would be a thrill. As the days passed by she smoked his cigarettes from her bedroom window and wondered what Sunny was doing, what adventures he must be having. Why wasn’t he calling her? She felt like she’d had a glimpse through the clouds of a fantastic world below, only for the clouds to close again. She’d anticipated another party soon, one she’d be invited to, but no invite came. Hari didn’t get in touch again. Every time her phone beeped or rang, she held her breath, but there was nothing. So, what should she do? Finally she texted Hari, asked if he wanted to meet for a smoke, but he was already up in the mountains, in Kasol, for the next three weeks. She stopped herself from asking if Sunny was there too. And then she got a grip on herself. Forget it. If he wants to get in touch, if he wanted his lighter back, he’ll find a way. Assume whatever it might have been is over. After two weeks Sunny started to fade from the front of her mind. In the decadent night you might have heard his name, but in the harsh light of the city she inhabited, in the evictions and the police bulletins, in the spurious ghee and stereo gangs, he disappeared.
* * *
—
Then she bumped into him in Khan Market. She’d been sent there by her city editor to conduct a voxpop: “Will the new malls kill Delhi’s traditional markets?” But she was mostly killing time, roaming the lanes, eating chaat, smoking cigarettes, chatting to the shopkeepers she had known since childhood. Occasionally she’d wave down shoppers: a couple of teenage girls, an upmarket housewife, a retired army man, the token white person. On one of her rounds, she glanced into the fancy electronics store that used to be a toy store when she was a kid. And there he was, in a straw cotton suit, the jacket slung over his shoulder, busy directing the various boys who were clambering up the shelves under his commanding gaze, hauling down bulky cardboard boxes containing all manner of gadgets and high-end equipment. She was still watching him when Mr. Kohli, the owner, waved at her from inside. “Neda, dear!”
Sunny glanced back and casually took her in. Had he already seen her? He seemed to betray no surprise.
Well, she could play that game too.
“Hello, Uncle,” she said to Mr. Kohli. “How are you?”
“Very good, my dear, very good. And you? How’s your mother?”
“Oh, she’s very well.” She stepped inside. “Having a good day of business, I see.”
“Yes, Mr. Wadia here is one of my best customers.”
“Really?” She drew level with Sunny. “Hello, Mr. Wadia here.”
He glanced at her, nodded quite formally, but his eyes were smiling. “Ms. Kapur.”
“I see,” Mr. Kohli exclaimed, “you know each other.”
“Ms. Kapur is a famous journalist,” Sunny said.
“And Mr. Wadia is an outrageous”—he turned to face her—“flirt.”
“I could think of some other words.”
Mr. Kohli took his cue and buried himself in his books.
“You’re looking well,” he said.
She wasn’t, unless he liked the tomboy office look, and who knows, maybe he did, so she ran with it.
“Thank you. You’re dapper as ever. I never imagined seeing you in the day like this.”
“I’m flattered you imagined me at all. I have to apologize,” he said, quickly, “for not being in touch.”
Her eyes roved over the boxes of toys and gadgets. “You’ve clearly been busy with very important stuff.”
He laughed. “I like to get whatever’s new, see what’s out there. I usually give it away very soon.”
“You go visit orphanages, do you?”