Bunty lights a fresh cigarette. “That’s why you didn’t grow.”
“Oh, I grew, brother. I grew away. That’s the tragedy.” Vicky draws a long deep breath, making a show of peering into the past. “I often think about those old days. Memory’s a funny thing, don’t you think? Who’s to say what really happened. Not the history books. Not the mouths of the dead. Of course, there must be records somewhere. Of the things we did.”
These words cause Bunty to withdraw. “Enough of the games,” he says. “I have work to do. Go enjoy the evening.”
Vicky heads to the door. “It’s an auspicious day. The heavenly bodies are aligned.”
“Just try not to cause any trouble.”
Vicky grins and shrugs. “I have nothing planned.”
* * *
—
At the quiet side of the mansion, away from the lights and workers and buzzing stalls, a Bolero sits parked. Ajay and Tinu appear from a side door. Ajay has been given new clothes. Black jeans, a plain black T-shirt. He’s been given a mobile phone. A hand-drawn map with a sketch of the target on the back. A small wad of rupee notes.
“I don’t like this,” Tinu says. “I don’t know why he sent you. But it’s done.” He looks into Ajay’s bloodshot eyes. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine.”
“You have everything you need.” He opens the rear door. “Take the first shot you get. The driver has your gun.”
Ajay climbs in.
“He’ll take you to Kashmiri Gate, then you’ll go on foot.”
He shuts the door on Ajay.
He turns away.
“The world’s gone mad.”
NIGHT
1.
Darkness falls like a curtain, guests spill in, spread like ice floes through the grounds, escorted by Siberian hostesses, tall, blond, sympathetic, displaying just enough skin. Powerful men form confidential rings. Drinks and canapés are passed around. The road outside is crammed with gleaming metal, an impatience of horns. Inside, everything strewn with flowers, light. The reception is a festival, a mela.
In Sunny’s realm: men and women; drunk, hungover, high, drunk again. His friends, those men he has tempted and courted and ruined, those who are yet to be ruined but waiting, who are curious and foolhardy, the ones who have demeaned themselves long enough to be barnacles on a hull, those insignificant enough to be more or less ignored, or those who have just enough power not to care. They have colonized the distant villa and pool. Their comedowns have been massaged all day. They have begun to ride intoxication’s next wave.
They march out from the mansion, skirting the large bright lawn in the dark, heading for the woodland behind, where, in a hidden hollow, the parallel party is due to begin. DJs from Tokyo and Berlin play psytrance and deep tech and tech house. Bartenders from the speakeasy Death&Taxis craft bespoke cocktails of exotic ingredients. Farah’s cousin Randy has managed the drugs. One hundred grams of cocaine, fifty grams of MDMA. Cream has been carried down from Malana. Grass up from Kerala. Eye drops of white fluff LSD have been shipped from Amsterdam. Some of the drugs have been stashed inside ornamental wooden eggs, waiting to be found. Others are handed out in goody bags, along with watches, perfume, and in one lucky bag, the key to a Maserati Quattroporte.
* * *
—
The main lawn is a more sedate affair. Sixty tables, each seating twelve. Each table with four bottles of Johnnie Walker, six bottles of Pol Roger on ice, boxes of Montecristo No. 4, all to be replenished at the blink of an eye.
There are thirteen separate stalls, with street foods of the world.
And a long, long bar with almost every drink under the sun.
There are ice sculptures, five thousand paper lanterns arranged in the trees, strung across invisible wires. Beyond the sea of tables and lights, two stages dominate the lawns. A company from Tel Aviv is in charge of lighting, sound, and set design. One stage for the classical musicians, the other for Bollywood stars. Right now, the old musicians play a gentle evening raag.
* * *
—
The guest list is a who’s who of modern India. There are senior bureaucrats, police chiefs, ministers from across the political board, aviation ministry, environment, health, transport, mining, to name a few; there are God-men, retired bureaucrats, four media barons, editors and columnists of all stripes, a fierce and muckraking journalist known to hunt down the corrupt; there are film producers, directors, actors and actresses, legends and starlets and upcoming heroes; there are representatives from multinationals and major NGOs; there are captains of industry, mining barons, steel billionaires, property developers and shipping tycoons, three different jailed ministers, ostensibly on medical leave. There are royals, of course. There are poultry kings and Formula 1 drivers. There are cricketers and hockey stars, wrestlers and shooters, there are the TV anchors, noted surgeons, and cardiac specialists enjoying their fat cigars.