“No,” she replied. “I’m coming.”
“Excellent. Give your name at reception when you arrive.”
She hung up and cursed herself and then him.
* * *
—
She knew it was a bad idea. “This is a bad fucking idea,” she told herself, crossing the Yamuna into East Delhi, lighting a cigarette. Over the river she turned south into Noida. The new city was still sprouting—there were tower blocks and apartment buildings interspersed with vacant plots of land and fields. By the time she got onto the highway it was already 3:15. Already the sun was beginning to dip in the sky. As she drove along the highway, the smooth construction of road began to fall away, and on either side the land turned into derelict waste, bulldozed mounds with diggers and workers, then there were long stretches of nothing, fields and farmers carrying loads on bullock carts. She’d been out here a few times, but not recently, and never on her own. As she continued south along the highway, she hit stretches where the tarmac was replaced with potholed sections through which she had to pick her way at a crawl. At some of these spots, men stood on the roadside or sat at stalls with umbrellas protecting them from the sun, holding out brochures for property developments. Their eyes fixed on her, alone in the car. What the hell was she doing here?
* * *
—
Finally, about thirty kilometers down, on the side of the expressway, a dreadful black cube looming in the middle of nothing, was the Wadia InfraTech HQ. She pulled inside the complex, past a guard who waved her into the parking lot. The difference from the outside was stark—the lot was perfectly paved in dark asphalt, with parking spaces demarcated by bright yellow lines. There were a handful of cars, mostly shiny SUVs. She locked hers and headed toward the main entrance. The building was imposing in an anonymous way. Aside from the glass doors of the main entrance, inside which she could see a lobby green with tropical plants, all the windows were tinted, impossible to see through.
* * *
—
The receptionist was a young man with baggy eyes, a high forehead, and gelled hair. He looked at her without smiling.
“I’m here to see Sunny Wadia,” she said.
“Ma’am, do you have an appointment?”
“I’m expected,” she said.
“You can’t see him without an appointment.”
“I have an appointment. I spoke with someone on the phone.”
“Who did you speak to?”
“Mr. Sengupta. He told me Sunny wanted to see me today,” she said, trying to sound authoritative.
“I don’t know Mr. Sengupta.”
Just then the reception phone began to ring. The man picked it up and listened. He looked her over. “Miss Kapur?”
“Yes.”
He put the phone down and held out a hand. “Please, take a seat. Mr. Wadia will be with you when he’s free.”
She crossed the lobby to the waiting area. It was done up like the living room of a luxury apartment—she could detect Sunny’s hand. There were cream leather easy chairs, a sofa, a low mahogany table covered with glass, full of magazines and brochures. Water ran through the whole lobby in small channels, trees and plants like a jungle. She took one of the easy chairs. A boy came out of nowhere carrying a tray with a single glass of water. He asked if she wanted tea or coffee. A snack? She took the water and nothing else and waited. There was a TV on the side wall. It switched on, as if by magic. She swung her chair to watch it. It played a promotional video—Sunny, wearing a power suit, addressing the camera. Behind him, superimposed images of luxury flats at regular intervals.
* * *
—
The video was twenty minutes long. She watched it twice, frowning at Sunny’s banal appearance and unimaginative speech, before she approached the reception desk to ask how long she would have to wait. It was almost 5:30; she couldn’t wait much longer. The man made a call.
“He’s just coming,” he said at the end of it. “Please, take a seat.”
She returned to the easy chair.
Don’t close your eyes, she told herself.
It’s only for a minute, she said.
* * *
—
“Ma’am?”
The receptionist was standing over her. She opened her eyes, sat up in panic.
“I’m awake.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid we’re closing the office, you’ll have to leave.”
“What time is it?” She looked around.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to leave.”
It was dark outside.
“What time is it?”
“Seven forty-five.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Seriously? Where the hell is Sunny?”
She was getting agitated.
“I’m afraid Mr. Wadia had some business.”
“No!”
She got up out of the seat, began to look around wildly.
She looked for the security cameras, spoke into them.
“This is bullshit!”
“Ma’am, please mind your language.”
“Go fuck yourself!” She looked into the cameras. “Sunny! You fucking prick!”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
He waved over two security guards.
* * *
—
She stood out in the parking lot beside her car. The guards were waiting for her to drive away. She looked up at the building, trying to see which lights were on. This was not a joke. She felt terrorized. She fished out her phone and dialed the number of the man who’d called her—the electronic voice told her the phone was turned off. She looked at the phone. “Asshole!” Then she got into her car and started the engine and sped away in anger, and suddenly she felt very alone.
* * *
—
She drove onto the highway—there was nothing there, the road was unlit and desolate at this hour, the men handing out brochures, selling dreams, had long since packed up and gone. She knew she shouldn’t be out here. The roads weren’t safe. There were carjackings all the time. She cursed herself for being so dumb. She drove along the highway toward Delhi, eyes open, adrenaline running. The absence of other cars unnerved her.
* * *
—
About fifteen kilometers along she realized there was a vehicle behind her at some distance. It had its full-beam headlights on. Maybe half a kilometer away. She kept a steady pace, continued to check the vehicle in the rearview mirror. It seemed to keep distance, whether she sped up or slowed down, too far to be anything other than a set of headlights, too close to be ignored. Five kilometers passed.
“Fuck you, Sunny.”
She finally reached the stretch of highway close to Noida where the streetlights worked. She sped; several cars appeared around the service roads and joined the highway, there was normal life again. In the rearview mirror she saw many headlights and couldn’t distinguish the ones she was sure had been following her. She felt idiotic. Sunny was an asshole, that was all. Right?
* * *