“Right.”
“Now imagine the Yamuna sparkling clean. Imagine swimming in it. Imagine boating in it. Imagine marinas and promenades.” He grew more animated as he spoke. “Imagine nature reserves, wetlands, opera houses! Imagine a business district, skyscrapers, trams, parks, coffee shops.” He painted a vista with his hands. “Imagine finishing work and going down to the river for a cocktail, a Michelin Star meal, then the theater, then a stroll along its banks.” She watched him, pleased with the vision he conjured in his mind’s eye. “You can do it in London,” he said. “Why not here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can,” he said. “Because I’m going to build it.”
And with that, he was done.
“Well,” she said, “that’s . . .”
“Ambitious.”
“That’s one word. Another is crazy.”
“You don’t think I can do it.”
“It’s not that,” she said, “it’s just, you know, that’s London, this is Delhi. I mean, how do you expect to . . . ?”
“That’s for me to worry about.”
Something about the way he spoke antagonized her.
She knew instinctively that he was wrong, that there was more to it than that, but she didn’t have the ammunition to fight back his broad-stroked bravado. Still, he had started to irritate her. She thought, What does he want from me?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Why?” she said.
“What do you mean ‘why’?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t think I can do this?”
“No, it’s just, what does it matter what I think?”
“Because I’m asking you.”
“Then I think it’s a nice idea.”
“Which means bullshit.”
“No,” she replied, “it’s a nice idea.”
“But?”
“Nothing.”
“Why don’t you come work for me?”
She laughed out loud. “What?”
“You’re clearly wasted in your job.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You could come on board, help with PR, media, whatever.”
“Yeah, you can be my vocation,” she said mockingly.
The venom did its thing. They lapsed into silence.
She couldn’t get a grip on the situation, couldn’t tell if he was serious, sincere, deluded, if he was toying with her, if this was just a circuitous routine to try to get her into bed (it was failing!), or whether he was just exercising his arrogance on her.
The silence went on, and he held all the cards.
So she thought: fuck it.
“You know,” she said, “I was actually debating whether or not to do a profile on you. For my nonvocation. After I met you that night.” Where was she going with this? “I was excited. It was going to be something frothy, fun, but with a serious undercurrent, for the culture pages, you know, about the parties, the restaurants. How the city was changing.” She watched him listening to her.
“OK.”
Was she really going to do this?
“And then I asked a colleague about you.”
He placed his fingers together, touched the tips to his lips.
“OK.”
“Do you know what he said to me?”
Why was she doing this?
He sat motionless, waiting.
“He said: ‘Sunny Wadia? That joker?’?”
She felt the rush of adrenaline up her spine, a scarcity of oxygen in her lungs.
He remained motionless.
“Right afterward he said, ‘Do you know who his father is?’?”
As soon as she said it, her stomach dropped. She felt sick. And she caught the red light of the Dictaphone in the corner of her eye. Surely he knew it was still running?
“Do you?” he asked, turning to look at her. They held one another’s gaze. “Or did he tell you?”
“He told me something.”
He inhaled long and slow. “You know, I’ve dealt with this all my life.” He lit a fresh cigarette, drifted off into a private land of contemplation. “All my life.”
She didn’t dare move.
“So? What did he say?”
“My colleague?”
“Yes.”
“He said he was a . . .” She couldn’t finish.
“What?”
She resolved to be straight with him.
“He said your father was one of Ram Singh’s cronies.”
“Ram Singh . . .” He closed his eyes, smiled again, nodded to himself. Then he began to speak. “My father is a businessman, pure and simple. He wasn’t born with money or connections; he had no friends in high places. His father before him was an alcoholic, a grain merchant. Papa left school and took over the business when he was fifteen. His father died soon after. He did what he had to do to survive. Out there in UP. Where no one helps you if you don’t help yourself. Where the odds are stacked against you. He worked every hour God sent. He worked in his sleep. But he wasn’t like other people. He had vision. He had a talent for making money. In every rupee note he could see three fifty-paisa coins. Is that a crime?”
“No,” she said.
“The only thing he’s guilty of is ambition. Of rising above his station. Did my father cut corners on the way? Yes. This is India. The game is rigged, the rules are stacked, you people make the rules in the first place. You already have everything, and you don’t want to share. So sometimes things must be taken. But ultimately, he gives the people what they want. People like you, your colleague, they’ve always talked about him behind his back. I spent my school days listening to it. You know he sent me to a good school, he wanted to improve me, to mix with people like you. I was expelled. My classmates spoke just loud enough that I could hear. I could be reminded that we’d never be like them. Thing is, the world has changed. I don’t hear them whispering anymore. Instead, they come asking for jobs. Instead, they come to the party. Of course, your colleague, he’ll never change his opinion, I’m sure of it. He can afford not to. I bet he never really had to struggle, right?”
“I don’t know. Everyone has their own struggle.”
“But not like us.” He put his cigarette out. “It’s a struggle to get to the top. To get there you have to learn to be ruthless. But once you’re there, then you can start to do good. My father is clean.”
“And what about Vicky?”
There was a thrill in the dropping of the name.
His face was unreadable.
“I haven’t seen him in years.”
“He’s part of your family,” she said.
“But he has nothing to do with our future.” He leaned forward and clicked the Dictaphone off. “We freed ourselves from him a long time ago.”
“What do you want me to do with this?” she asked.
She waited for him to remove the tape, to put it in his pocket or set fire to it in the ashtray, but he just slid it over to her.
“That’s up to you.”
He stood from the chair, smoothed down his shirt and pants.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting. It was nice talking to you, Ms. Kapur. Ajay will see you out.”
* * *