Ali is a good man, he’s loyal to a fault, but he likes his drink as much as anyone else. He leads me into the living room, to where his master is. I point at Ali and say, Who’s this? And as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world he says, It’s Ali. No clarification, no smile.
We sit in silence for half an hour, the three of us, Ali embarrassed and ashamed in front of me. He pours himself drink after drink. I see him suddenly. I see that his face is bloated, unrecognizable to me. I get up to leave and he grabs my arm. I pull myself away.
I meet the Businessman in September in the bar of the Taj Mansingh. It seems I am drawn to this place. Half an hour later I’m in a suite taking off my clothes.
Seated at the bar, I know I’m being watched. I’ve taken to sitting in these hotel bars in the afternoons with a drink in my hand, perched on the bar stool, my face perfectly calm. It’s always peaceful at this hour, but then the men come over to me soon enough. Vulgar men, fat and rich men, drunk men, the sons of men. Delhi is rotten with the sons of men. I rarely even look at them. Sometimes they become angry and insult me.
But the Businessman is different. He’s watching with distance, trying to place me, to work out what I’m doing here. I watch his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, see myself there too. He’s in his late thirties. Handsome, well dressed, some grey forming on his temples, lines appearing on his once-smooth forehead. Wide eyes slightly downturned on a beautiful face, giving a melancholy look. A narrow nose, a pretty mouth, already some stubble after shaving. A youth misspent, callow and privileged, but not without its own pain.
He’s been groomed for a life of power. But he has another power that is not the same as wealth and privilege, something inscrutable, a trick of genes or God, a power that exists parallel to the one that all these men have. He doesn’t rush it. There’s no threat anywhere. I see this in the way the barman brings him his drink with cautious respect, and the way he accepts it as if this is the most natural thing, without thanks or apology. He looks at me in the mirror.
I light a cigarette. The barman brings an ashtray for me. The Businessman lights one himself. I already know what will happen next. It’s something we can feel easy about. So I smile in the mirror. The room is dim and quite empty in the afternoon.
He walks over, asks very properly if I’m waiting for someone. No, I reply. No one.
In that case would I mind if he sits?
I say I don’t mind.
He raises his hand for the barman to bring him another drink.
But you’re not a guest. He says it as a statement instead of a question, as a fortune-teller might.
No.
He waits for me to go further and when I don’t he smiles and smells the whisky he’s been served, brings it to his lips. We look at one another in the mirror.
He’s a Delhi man, that’s for sure, though not the kind Aunty dreamed of. He sips his drink and looks at me. He says, What are you doing here?
Nothing, just sitting, killing time. There aren’t many places to sit in the city.
He asks where I’m from.
I say I’m from here.
Am I in college?
I’ve just finished. Now I’m looking for work.
In the suite we stand and look at one another for a long time. I go into the bathroom for a line. It’s nothing like love or desire. Just the urge to destroy.
I make sure he knows nothing of my life. I remain a mask to him, superior. He says he can’t understand where I’ve come from, that I’m a dream turned into flesh.
September 11. Everyone remembers what they were doing this day. I was with the Businessman in a hotel room, fucking, doing coke. He takes his shoes off and places them neatly at the side near the minibar. The lights are low, the plate-glass window shrouded with a curtain like the kind covering a stage. Lutyens’ Delhi is outside, cars forever going round the traffic circles. The TV is on, the sound turned down, and night is coming upon us. We come to this room and fuck for hours. We are doing this, he is trying to possess me, climb into me, open me up, but he can’t, however hard he tries. And then the towers are on TV, collapsing, and everything stops.
I meet him two or three times a week. In hushed hotels in the daylight I become his girl. He calls me to the room, leaves it for me when we are done. Nothing attached to it, no demands, though he likes to bring me expensive clothes, diamond earrings, more cocaine. Cocaine that strips the world away. Pares it to a point, trims off all fat, increases pleasure, numbs my pain. No past, no future. All inwardness gone. And a thirst like no other to consume.
One night he takes me out to Gurgaon and shows me what he is building there. He says it is the future and he owns it all.
His wealth is immense. It weighs on him sometimes. He tells me things about the land he’s acquired, the real estate that he holds, the luxury apartment complexes, the miles and miles that are being built. His father is a failed man, a gambler, hot-headed and paranoid, he made rash deals in the past, almost lost everything the family owned. But he sent his son to study in Europe, and when his son returned he went to work building the business again, ruthlessly, brick by brick. Luck had played a part, the right place at the right time, but after that it was skill, talent, willpower, hard work. A certain lack of morals. He talks about the things that have to be managed, police and politicians, how every party must be appeased, groomed, positioned on the board, how bribes must be paid, how rivals have to be disappeared or destroyed, how every day is harder than the last, how there’s never any peace, how life is war. I say nothing, I make no judgement at all.
The hotel room is hushed and sealed. The AC is on. It’s 4 p.m. I undress. Stand naked above him.
Now the sun has risen outside and all the coke is gone, her mind is clogged, has reached the point of saturation, can go no higher. But she still tries, searches for every packet, looking for one that might have been missed, fingering the insides of the empty ones, turning them inside out, rubbing them on to her gums, something to make it all numb, to make the aching go away.
Searching through his clothes she puts her hand on his gun. She holds it, feels its weight, raises it up, points it at his face, holds it to her own. Caresses the trigger, pretends to squeeze.
Later, in the bathroom, grinding her jaw, staring down the mirror, she takes a pair of scissors and starts to cut at her hair.
Late November in the world in which he’s still alive. Winter is coming, Diwali is here. The city is lit up at night, fireworks explode in the chill, wedding venues are crammed to bursting, bridegrooms on horses ride in the presence of drummers, elephants march along the highway in the mist, the markets are overflowing, their cash registers are ringing. Strings of red-and-gold tumble down the front of buildings, twinkling, gift-wrapping Delhi.
I called him from college and said I wanted to talk. I’d made a decision, I was tired. He told me to come over but I refused, I said I’d meet him in another place, so we agreed on a Chinese restaurant we both knew, a family place in Green Park, frayed around the edges with Formica tables and frosted-glass booths. He sounded amused on the phone. He said he’d be there in an hour. When I got there he was already waiting for me, looking half wild, puffy in the bad light, plain ugly, at once familiar and unknown to me. I sat down opposite. He went to touch my hand. I pulled it away and this caused him to laugh. He lit a cigarette and he asked what this was all about. Had I left home, was I moving in with him now? The smile on his face said he knew that wasn’t the case, but I shook my head anyway and told him, No, nothing like that. I said I couldn’t see him any more, that was all, it was too painful for me, too much to take, I was worn down, I couldn’t trust him, I didn’t know who he was any more. I had college to think about, my exams, my future. He listened to me patiently and then he told me it wasn’t the case, because he was my future, and he wouldn’t let me go.