Ajay has never encountered Indians like this. In no time this small group seems to take over the village. Shopkeepers are sending packages and parcels of goods to their hotel. Drivers are loitering, itching to serve, waiting to take them on tours, take them to parties so they don’t have to drive themselves. And unlike the foreigners, who count every rupee, money is no object for this new group, money is nothing to be concerned with, there’s no virtue in penny-pinching. They spend. They want their comforts; they make no romance out of misery. Word of their big spending and the high tips that go with it spreads. The economy of the village is redirected their way. All the workers want a piece of them, all the villagers want a piece of them. Everyone vies for their favor. But some of the foreigners begin to grumble. These Indians, some say, don’t understand their own culture; they have been infected by the West. It’s a sad sign, how they’ve lost their way.
But the boys in Purple Haze fall into animated discussion whenever they see them, analyzing this group’s activities in great detail. Five of them! So glamorous. The men so handsome and rich. And one woman with the men! Who is she married to? Whose girlfriend is she? How is it possible? Where do you think they’re from? Chandigarh, Delhi, Bombay? Someone decides the woman is a famous actress. Someone thinks there’s a cricket player among them. These Indians sit in the cafés smoking charas every day, paying without hesitation for Malana Cream. They swallow up the places they go, they invade them, colonize them, move on. Money does that. They want the walnut cake here. They want the banana crepes there. They like this stroganoff. They order dishes from one café to be delivered while they sit in the next. They sit in Purple Haze and order dishes from MoonBeam.
“You have no respect,” a voice says. It’s a Spanish woman, rake thin and wrinkle tanned, in her forties, smoking a cigarette, sitting across the café, picking a fight with them. “You cannot just do like this,” she goes on. She is waving her arms at them, worked up. “Doing like this is not right.” She points to the owner. “He make his food.” She points to her own dish. “And you bring in like that. You have no shame.”
They watch, bemused, and begin to joke in Hindi. “Listen to this chutiya . . . Bitch is crazy.”
“Don’t you laugh at me,” she yells. “Don’t you talk about me.”
“Ma’am,” one of the group chimes in, speaking languid, London-tinged English. “With all due respect, if you learned the language of this country, you’d know we weren’t talking about you.”
“Don’t give me your bullshit,” she says, jabbing her cigarette his way. “I’ve seen you walking around here.”
“Ma’am, there’s no need for foul language,” Sunny says with a faux earnest expression that makes his friends burst into giggles. In Hindi comes the muttered aside: “She’s a psycho,” and they laugh even more.
“Fuck you,” she says. “You come here with your money and your big cars and think you can do anything you like, that you can order everyone around. You have your money, but you lost your culture.”
The group explodes with laughter.
But the young man’s mood darkens.
“Madam,” he replies. “Don’t tell us about our culture. We’re not zoo animals for your pleasure, not the smiling native to accessorize your enlightenment. The simplicity and honesty you think you know is simply your eyes deceiving your brain. You see and hear nothing. And this guy,” he says, pointing to the owner, “doesn’t give a fuck if we bring food from outside. We paid him for that privilege. If you could speak our language, you’d know this. If you knew our culture, you’d know respect is one currency, but at the end of the day, money talks. Finally, understand this one thing. India is our country, not yours. You are guests here. We are great hosts, but don’t disrespect us in our own home.”
* * *
—
This young man is Sunny Wadia. Tall, imposing, charismatically handsome. Almond eyes, a pleasingly aquiline nose, a short beard of dense black. His hair is cropped, his chest is broad, his forearms strong. He wears a faded vintage T-shirt, aviator shades. He sits halfway between holy and profane.
* * *
—
After a few days, Sunny’s group settles on Purple Haze. They like the feel, the service, the vibe. They charm the Nepalis; they are superior and fraternal at once, joking with the boys, asking favors, commandeering the sound system to play their music. Knowing the tips that come their way, the chefs have no problem making off-menu food.