Today is Sunny’s wedding day.
* * *
—
In the prison cell Ajay looks down on the brand-new safari suit laid upon his mattress. The skin of another life. He is told to dress in it. An escort will be here in half an hour. They will drive him to the Wadia mansion, then bring him back to jail before the night is out.
A compassionate day release.
He has no say in the matter.
His presence has been requested.
He does not know why.
What he’ll do when he’s there, he doesn’t know either.
Will he be made to serve drinks?
Stand by Sunny’s side?
Or just linger in the back, head down, out of sight?
The absurd reward for four silent loyal years as an undertrial.
“Have fun!” Sikandar roars.
He’d just as happily kill them all.
In the brothel photo of his sister, the man who once shared the frame is torn from view. Now the words on the back only say . . . WHAT YOU’RE TOLD. He places her image in his inside pocket. He picks up the bottleneck with the fresh foil, pierces holes with a toothpick, spreads out the tobacco, sprinkles the crushed Mandrax, lights it, inhales.
* * *
—
Sunny comes back into the bedroom and the girls are still there. He can’t bear the sight of them. He looks at the clock on his wall. Eight fifty-two a.m. The wedding ceremony is scheduled for the Gurdwara at noon. And here he is, soaked in tequila, smoking a cigarette, watching Maria with her back to him.
The other one is lying on the far edge, curled up alone, hugging herself.
“I know you’re awake,” he says.
He gets up and retrieves the ornamental Kashmiri box he keeps on his bookshelf, brings it to the bed, removes a small mirror from his bedside drawer, an old Amex card, a crisp yen note. Only when he opens the box does he discover his emergency coke is already gone.
* * *
—
It’s 3:22 a.m. in London and Neda is sitting at the long wooden table in the living area of the Old Street loft conversion that’s now called home.
Saturday night, Sunday morning.
Waiting. Not waiting.
She couldn’t sleep. University students were chanting and drinking and knocking over rubbish bins outside. She put the radio on low, smoked a cigarette, grated ginger and haldi into a pan, boiled the water, let it steep.
Now she sits at the table with the mug between her hands, looking at the exposed brick walls, the faded Persian rugs on the wooden floor, the elegant lighting, the tropical plants, figuring out just how she got here.
Her partner, Alex, is design director at the small Soho ad agency where she now works as a copywriter. He’s thirty-five years old. Scottish. A tidy but playful mind. Likes the outdoors. Likes to snowboard. He noticed her from Day One. He was kind to her, covered her mistakes, looked at her like he was trying to see her. It just happened. She let it. She doesn’t love him. Or maybe she does. It doesn’t matter.
She works hard. Keeps her thoughts to herself. Watches words like a hawk. Tries to be tidy too.
He says, “Sometimes I think you’re asleep at the wheel.”
“Very poetic.”
“Drifting into the headlights of a car.”
“Are you the car?” she asks, stroking his hair.
“I think I’m more likely the car behind.”
“Then that makes you a voyeur.”
She has not touched the Wadia money in a long time. She cut up their credit cards, their debit cards. She stopped meeting Chandra and Chandra stopped calling. She even stopped Googling Sunny’s name. She waited for the hammer to fall. But they just stopped pursuing her. They let her be. It was as if her life before had never existed.
Then she heard the news. Sunny was getting married. Fucking Facebook. All those old Delhi people who’d added her in the last years, this had been her weakness, the link she maintained. Now she saw the photos posted. The mehndi, the sangeet. The farmhouse villa and its pool. It triggered everything. And now she’s awake. Waiting for the day itself. Waiting for something. Living on India time again.
She hears the key in the front door.
Alex coming home after a poker night with the boys.
“Christ,” he says upon seeing her. “Second night in a row.”
He’s pleasantly drunk. Smells of cologne and whisky and cigar smoke.
She turns gently. “I wasn’t waiting up, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He comes to greet her, gathers her hair up in his hands, kisses the back of her neck. “Still can’t sleep?”
She shrugs, ignores the question. “What’s the gossip your end?”