“Mostly I just let whoever comes to my apartment take things. I’m good like that. I don’t get attached.”
“I see. Remind me to visit your apartment.”
“I look forward to it.”
She laughed. “One day maybe.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I am working. You know, that thing most of us have to do.” She corrected herself. “Not that you don’t work . . .” She was embarrassed, flustered. He was looking at her, watching her, intimidating her with his ease. “We’re not all our own bosses. Some of us have people to answer to.”
He just smiled.
Waited.
Smiled.
“What?!” she said.
“Nothing. You’re cute, that’s all.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she rolled her eyes. “That’s the last thing I want to be.”
“I’m serious though, why don’t you come over? This is a serendipitous meeting. I have a free afternoon. We never really got to talk much the other night. It was mostly”—he reflected on the memory, and she braced herself—“shouting.”
“Shouting?”
“Yeah, shouting. Lots and lots of shouting. Laughing too. Things getting knocked over.” He scanned her blank face. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”
She winced. “I remember the next morning.”
Mr. Kohli had prepared the bill, he caught Sunny’s attention, and Sunny took out an obscenely thick roll of cash and started counting it. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll just handle this.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
Outside she weighed up the pros and cons of going back with him to his apartment. The only con was that she was supposed to be working. The pros were manifold. Mostly to satisfy her curiosity, to get a private audience with this mysterious young god of Delhi. She watched his back as he paid. So at ease, but so constructed too. But was she just projecting? Was she transposing the outlines of his father, his uncle, onto his body? Again the question entered her mind: Who is Sunny Wadia? She couldn’t say. He stepped outside, followed by four boys, each carrying several boxes. Two TVs, several gaming consoles, a rice cooker, a fancy blender. He waved at her, pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “At least walk with me.”
“Sure.”
Immediately she became aware of eyes on them. Or rather, him. It wasn’t as if everyone knew him, though some certainly recognized his face. It was more how he carried himself, a combination of stature and style, the way, she thought, movie stars carried themselves. Then there was the not insignificant train of boys carrying expensive objects behind, confirming his wealth. No one saw her, she was merely in his orbit; she felt, for a second, as if she were his secretary, his assistant. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but still, she felt she should assert herself somehow, get back to work at least . . .
“What are you thinking?”
She realized he’d been watching her.
“That I should get back to work.”
“What are you working on?”
To say a voxpop seemed pretty lame.
“Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m assessing the socioeconomic impact of the shifting commercial landscape through the oral testimony of consumers.”
He made a show of concentration, mouthing the words back to himself.
“You mean you’re conducting a voxpop?”
“Vox populi, to be precise.”
He laughed.
“I’ll give you some juicy quotes. We’ll make some up together. Then you’ll have no excuse not to come back with me.”
They crossed from the shopping lanes into the parking lot.
She squinted at him in the sun. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you so eager?”
He stopped, looked at her.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
His smile said the rest.
Then she was saved. His driver saw them coming, came running, began to fret over the boxes, dashed back to the Land Cruiser, and popped the rear door. Sunny had clearly bought more than the driver or the SUV could handle.
“Besides,” Sunny went on, “there’s no room in my car. I need you to give me a lift.”
* * *
—
It felt strange to have Sunny Wadia squashed in the passenger seat of her beat-up little red Maruti. His knees pressed against the plastic dash. Just ahead, his driver was guiding the box-cramped SUV through the streets.
“I like your car,” he said.
She pressed a tender hand on the horn, gave it a little pip. “I know you’re being sarcastic, but I love her. She’s temperamental, she gets me from A to B, what more could you ask?”
“A bit more legroom,” he smiled, trying to work the seat back.
“Oh yeah, that’s broken.”
He looked awkward and it amused her a little. This was her domain now.
“You like old things, don’t you?”
“I like good things.”
“That’s more subjective.”
“You don’t think this car is good?”
“Let’s put it this way, I couldn’t pull it off. To do that, you have to be at the top of the food chain.”
“So says the Crown Prince of Delhi.”
“No, no. You’re so far above me. I’m nowhere near your level.”
“Rubbish.”
“I mean it. You can get away with just about everything. I bet you insult cops when they pull you over, don’t you?” Her silence told him he was right. “And you don’t even need money. You have it rooted into you. Look at this shitty car.”
“What about it?”
“I bet you can drive it right up to a five-star and jump out and swan inside and no one bats an eyelid.”
“I never really thought about it.”
“One look at you, in this shitty car, and everyone knows. You’re right up there at the top. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
“I know I’m lucky,” she said.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he went on, “I admire it. How easy it is for you. For me, no. I’ve had to construct myself. I’m reminded daily, in the mirror, I’m nothing without my suit, without my car, without my watch. Without these props, I barely exist.”
“Speaking of props,” she said, “do you have any more of those delightful cigarettes?”
“Sure.”
“I finished all yours, by the way.”
He took out his pack. Held one out for her. “You changed the subject.”
She placed the cigarette in her mouth.
“I guess I was uncomfortable.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
She gazed out at the road.
“It’s hard for me to believe,” she said, “that you’re just a construct. I don’t think of people that way.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I feel like you’re . . . like you’re purposely devaluing yourself.”
“No, I value myself.”
“Like it’s false humility.”
“I never said I was humble.”
She tried to follow the train of thought, to think of something witty to say. I mean, this was flirting, right?
“So how does it feel,” she finally asked, “riding in this shitty car?”
“Honestly?” he grinned. “It makes me kind of nervous.”
She laughed. “I can let you out anytime you want.”
They fell silent.