—
It was another story of vanishing. Sunny had set up the record label he’d been talking about. He’d hired dozens of staff and they’d been spending wildly on it, having a good time. Hari was in charge; he was recruiting other DJs and artists. His future was set. Then one day Sunny just vanished. Stopped answering his phone, stopped replying to messages, stopped paying salaries and bills. His phone was disconnected, and the plug was pulled. The office was cleaned out by some goons, equipment and furniture taken away, the space sealed. Hari reached out to other friends in despair, thinking he’d done something wrong. But the story was the same. Sunny vanished from everything. And all the other projects he’d been funding, those restaurants and gallery spaces, all the money and support, it was cut overnight.
“He really fucked us all,” Hari said.
“I didn’t know,” she replied.
“He’s an asshole. He got bored of his toys.”
“There has to be more to it than that. Has anyone seen him?”
“No one’s seen him, no one’s heard from him.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“He’ll be somewhere. Singapore. London. He was always shady. Should have known from the start he’d cut us loose.”
“This is why you’re going to Bombay?”
“Yeah. Fuck Delhi. It’s too heavy these days.”
* * *
—
Fuck Delhi. She drove back to his mansion that evening, parked her car a little way from the gates. Hesitated lighting the first cigarette. Wound the window down and killed the engine, put the seat back like a common driver waiting for a master and fixed her gaze on the comings and goings of the many dozens of staff, in and out. Where had Sunny gone?
* * *
—
Then he began to appear in public life again, but never in the flesh. He was an image, a projection. She saw his photos in the newspapers, his hair cut shorter, more precise, bringing out the sternness of his face, his high cheekbones and strong jaw. His eyes were blanks to her. She’d open the newspaper and there he was in the society pages, at some glitzy event, some grand wedding in Rajasthan, the opening of a new hotel, a Polo Club event, a charity gala, glad-handing everyone. A forced smile. Gone was the Neapolitan debonaire youth. He had been cinched and armored by Savile Row suits.
* * *
—
She was out again at night in her car, out in front of his mansion smoking. She was wearing down her third cigarette. What was she waiting for? He’d never step out. She’d only see cars. All their windows were blacked out. She could pick one, follow it, hope that it’d be him. It would give her something to do. One time she might get lucky. Then what?
She was angry with herself. But she couldn’t let it go. Now that it was confirmed he was safe, she wanted to confront him for vanishing like that. For being a coward. At the same time, she couldn’t forget that image—his father with his foot in his chest. What kind of father did that to his son?
* * *
—
She finished her fifth cigarette. She’d been there an hour. She’d broken her three-cigarette rule. It was stupid. She was wasting her time. She flicked it out the window. She almost hit a man passing by. He glared at her for a second before walking on. Her blood went cold. She recognized him instantly. It was the froggish goon from the resettlement colony, the Caravaggio boy. He was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. His boyish body seemed grotesquely muscled. He walked on ten or twelve paces, then stopped again, turned around slowly, and stood dead still, staring into the front windshield of her car. It was dark. He couldn’t see inside. But he was just staring at her. What was he doing? Memorizing her plates? Trying to place her?
She dare not move. Dare not drive away. She moved her hand to the ignition just in case. She thought she could detect a smile on his face as he lit a cigarette and walked. All the way to the Wadia mansion. The guards opened the gate without question, and he stepped inside. She stared at the gate.
The fact of it sank in. She was still piecing together the connections—the goon, the resettlement plots, the Wadias—when Caravaggio emerged again, this time with three others. They walked straight toward her car. She panicked, turned the ignition on, and drove off fast, leaving them stranded in the road. She pulled a left and accelerated, turned left and right and left again through the colony maze, sped for several minutes before she pulled down a service lane. Even then she checked the mirror, kept the engine running. Her heart was pounding. She lit a cigarette. That was definitely him. This was proof. But proof of what?
2.
That Sunday she received a call on her mobile. A gentleman with a clipped, privately educated accent.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Who is this?” she replied.
“Am I speaking to Ms. Neda Kapur?”
“Yes,” she said. She sat on her bed, watching the street.
“Very good.” His voice was delicate. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wadia.”
She half expected something like this, but still she was caught unawares.
“Mr. Wadia?”
“Sunny,” the voice clarified. “He’d like to see you.”
She checked the street doubly hard, answered cautiously, tried not to betray herself. “He wants to see me?”
“That’s correct.”
“Who are you?”
“An employee.”
“Could I get your name?”
“Mr. Sengupta.”
“OK, Mr. Sengupta, can you give me any idea of what he wants?”
“It’s a private matter.”
She hesitated. She should hang up now.
“And where does he want to meet?”
“He’d like to see you in his office.”
“Which office?”
He gave the address of a place out of Delhi, across the Yamuna into Western UP, out on the Greater Noida Expressway. The desolate farmland regions being developed by Ram Singh.
“What office is this?” she asked.
“The headquarters of our property division.”
“Your property division?”
“Indeed. Wadia InfraTech.”
“And that’s where he’s working?”
“That’s correct.”
“Why can’t he call me himself?”
“I make his appointments.”
“And he wants to meet me when?”
“Today.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Indeed. It’s his only free time.”
“It’s a little far out for me, this office.”
“It’s perfectly easy to find. There are signs along the way. Shall I confirm, let’s say four p.m.?”
She checked the clock on the wall. It was 2:30. It would take an hour or more to drive out there with the bad roads. It was the kind of place she didn’t want to be driving alone around after dark.
“I’d really like to hear from him myself.”
She could hear the fear and sadness in her own voice, and it made her flinch.
“My dear,” the man laughed, “he’s a very busy man and he has only a small window. If you can’t make it, I’ll just cancel, and that will be the end of things.”