“Will you sell your plot to these brokers?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have their names? Their cards? Anything?”
“No. They just turn up with cash and give us the money and take our deeds away.”
* * *
—
She reported this news to Dean.
“Interesting,” he said. “And what about the parents?”
“Nothing. They’ve gone.”
“OK. I want you to do something for me,” he said. “Get in touch with Sunny Wadia. You met him before. You must have a number. His official lines are shut, but let’s try to see what he has to say.”
“I never knew him like that.”
“Get it from your friend.”
She waited until the end of the day to come back to Dean.
“They say his number has changed.”
* * *
—
After weeks had passed she tried Hari again.
She sent the text so breezily.
—Hey! Long time. Are you back? Do you want to catch up for that drink?
He replied an hour later.
—I’m here. Leaving tomorrow
—Oh wow. How come?
He didn’t reply for another two hours, then he said:
—Meet at Market Cafe. Tonight. Six.
His tone was flat. There was none of his old warmth.
* * *
—
She met him on the small terrace at Market Café where everyone went to smoke pot. He was leaning over the railing, alone. He looked tired; he saw her and hesitated for a moment before giving her a hug. It had rained an hour earlier, the lingering tail of the monsoon. The cars in the outer parking lot shined.
They stood side by side, old friends who’d fast become strangers, with no word of the thing that had come between them.
“Did something happen?” she finally said.
“I’m just trying to figure out who my friends are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re in demand.”
“I found an apartment.”
“Where?”
“Bombay.”
“But you love Delhi. You’ve been planning so many things.”
“Plans change. You can fall out of love with a place.”
She lit a cigarette. “Was it a girl?”
He glanced at her oddly. “No.”
“What then?”
“People make promises they can’t keep.”
“It definitely sounds like a girl.”
“Does it sound like you?”
There was spite in his voice.
“Have I done something to upset you?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Why are you pretending you don’t know?”
“Know what?” she replied in a quiet voice.
“Tell your boyfriend he’s an asshole.”
The shock made her laugh. “My what?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Sunny.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Right.”
“I swear. I have nothing to do with him. Nothing.”
“Sure.”
“I haven’t seen him for months.”
“Come on, Neda, everyone knows you’re fucking him.”
“I fucked him once Hari, and it was a mistake. He’s an asshole. I hate him.”
“Really?”
“Listen, just tell me what happened.”
* * *
—
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?”