“What was her name?”
Nothing from Sunny.
“Neda,” Dinesh says. “That was her name.”
He watches Sunny for a reaction.
“Oh, yeah, that bitch,” Sunny says, as if recalling a long-forgotten acquaintance. “She was a bad fuck. Nothing more. I threw her out.”
“Right.” Dinesh brushes crumbs onto the floor. Pinches off another piece of paratha. “I’m glad you cleared that up. That makes a lot more sense than the story I heard.”
Dinesh is waiting for him to take the bait.
It takes awhile to come.
But it comes.
“What did you hear?”
“Oh no, forget it, it’s nothing.”
“Fuck off, what did you hear?”
“You really want to know?”
“Fucking tell me or shut up.”
“Your father sent her away. That’s what I heard. With, pardon the expression, an offer she couldn’t refuse. A very generous one, monetarily speaking.”
Sunny is a picture of nothingness.
Dinesh pushes the plate his way.
“Why don’t you have some paratha?”
“Why don’t you shove your paratha up your ass.”
It makes Dinesh laugh.
“You really think you’re something, don’t you?” Sunny says.
Dinesh ignores him, picks up the nimbu pani. “When I taught myself about art,” he says, “I did it because I thought it was something modern people do, people like you. I taught myself about art like I was ticking off a shopping list. But I found it fascinating. And I discovered,” he frowns in thought, “in the Old Masters, in hushed galleries, and then later, in certain photographers, I discovered something in them that I later discovered was in me. Empathy. It was empathy. I was scared of it at first. I reserved it for the frame. But then I sometimes walked from my hotel and wandered. I did this in Paris, around the Gare du Nord, saw the bums and the down-and-outs. I looked at them like I was looking at a painting, then I took that painting into the world. I told myself, these men and women, they have autonomy, they are fully formed, I can look at them, I understand their pain.”
“What the fuck are you on about?”
“Empathy, Sunny. When I returned from that trip, I started to think. About the things we said in the past, and what we really meant, and about what was possible with the power we have. Would you like to hear my conclusion?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“I choose morality over aesthetics. I choose empathy. That’s my conclusion. In the current moment, morality should be above everything.”
“What’s the ‘current moment’?”
“The moment of our fathers.”
Dinesh sits back, lapses into silence.
Sunny’s head is foggy.
“I might look her up,” Dinesh says. “When I go to London next. I always liked her. I hear she’s doing well. With the apartment she was given, and the money . . . it must have been hard for her to go through what she did all alone.”
“Fuck off.”
“The real fool,” Dinesh says, “such as the gods mock or mar, is he who does not know himself.”
“Oh great. Quoting Shakespeare at me now.”
“It’s not Shakespeare.”
“And we’re not having this conversation.”
“OK,” Dinesh says brightly. “Let’s talk about something else. Tell me what you’re into these days. Talk to me about architecture, cocktails, watches. Sunny, talk to me about the big fucking cities you’re going to build on the land my father has given to yours.”
“Fuck you.”
“But this is our time, Sunny!”
Sunny just stares out.
Across the road, a liquor vend is opening.
Men line up before the metal grilles waving their rupee notes into the darkness within, until they are snatched away and replaced with little plastic bottles and clear plastic bags of hooch.
Dinesh’s voice becomes hard, flat. “You aren’t enjoying any of this, are you? Tell me. When was the last time you enjoyed anything?”
“Fuck off.”
“Tell me, the guy I once knew, who wanted to change the world, did he even exist?”
“He grew up.”
“Who wanted to make things better.”
“I never wanted to make things better.”
“Because it’s something we can actually do, you know that, right?” Dinesh becomes animated, passionate. “You do understand, it’s in our hands to do something good, not to make their mistakes. To do the right thing. Listen to me. Look at me. Take the shades off. Look at me.”