On the fifth morning Sunny and Jigs disappear off in the Gypsy, bouncing down the road.
The village is suddenly silent. The whirlwind is over. Back in Purple Haze, back to his daily life, in the bad graces of the Nepali boys for shirking his duties there, Ajay is bereft.
But two days later Sunny returns, wandering into the village from the woods above, alone, barefoot, his clothes dirty and torn. He looks as if he had been to war, he seems not to recognize himself. He stutters here and there until Ajay catches sight of him and brings him into the café, guides him to a cushioned seat out of the way, and fetches a mug of green tea, rolls a joint for him. Sunny smokes the joint and sits like that for an hour, while Ajay serves other customers, then he calls him over and demands a beer, but before Ajay can hurry away to fetch it, Sunny says, “Ajay. Look at me.”
Sunny’s eyes are wide open, darker than usual. His breath is shallow. He is clinging to the edge of something no one else can see. It’s the first time he’s used Ajay’s name.
“Where are you from?” Sunny says.
“From here.”
“No,” Sunny says in exasperation. “No.” He taps his fist on the table. “No. You’re not from here. You’re not from here, you’re not mountain blood.” He peers into Ajay with his dark eyes. “So where are you from? Tell me.”
“Uttar Pradesh,” Ajay says in a whisper.
“Yes!” Sunny says. “Yes, you’re from UP.”
Sunny fills his chest with air and sits up.
“Where in UP?” Sunny says.
“I don’t know,” Ajay says.
Sunny stares hard into the boy. “It doesn’t matter,” he declares. “You and me, we’re from the same soil. We’re brothers.” He closes his eyes and keeps them closed, sitting upright, forces a disarming smile. “Now go get my fucking beer.”
“You take care of me,” he says, when Ajay returns.
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t want anything in return.”
It is not framed as a question. Ajay doesn’t know what to say.
“Where’s your family?” Sunny goes on, trying to be more businesslike, taking hold of the beer.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“My father died,” Ajay says.
“And you ran away from home?”
Ajay shakes his head. “My mother sent me away.”
“And?”
“I worked in a house here, but the man died.”
Something about this image calms Sunny down. He leans back and closes his eyes for a moment, but then opens them as if the dark were too much for him.
“Do you like it here?” he asks. “Don’t you want something more?”
“Something more,” Ajay hears himself saying.
“How would you like to do something with your life? Something important?”
“Yes.”
Sunny struggles with his wallet. He tries to look inside but has trouble focusing, so he hands it to Ajay instead.
“You’ve been good to me,” he says. “You never tried to get anything from me.”
Ajay holds the wallet, unsure what he’s supposed to do. There’s no money in there anyway.
“Take out,” Sunny says, “one of the white cards.”
Ajay fishes out a business card.
“Take it,” Sunny says. “It’s yours.”
He hands back the wallet and examines the card. On the front, embossed in dark gray lettering, it says two words: SUNNY WADIA.
Ajay mouths the name.
“Give it here,” Sunny says. “Go fetch me a pen.”
Ajay hands it back and runs to fetch a pen.
“I’m leaving now,” Sunny says when Ajay returns. “If you want to work”—he takes great effort scribbling something down on the back of the card—“come to Delhi to this address. Tell the guards you want to see Tinu. Hand them this card and say Sunny Wadia sent for you.”
8.
Normal life resumes in Purple Haze, but for Ajay there’s a big, Sunny Wadia–shaped hole in his heart. Everything that was once stable is subtly changed. He has not told anyone what Sunny offered. He only has the business card as proof. He keeps the card in his worn brown wallet, gifted to him by a German guest, folding too easily like old cardboard. He takes the card out often to turn in his fingers, to smell it sometimes, that faint smell of cologne, wealth, and happiness, always fading, the card beginning to fray if he touches it too long. He knows he should keep it put away, but he can’t help looking, cherishing. It’s the last thing he looks at before he falls asleep. But can he make this kind of leap? Six weeks pass, the mountain season draws to a close. Nothing changes, no one new comes to him, no new excitement pours into his life, everything is deaf and drained of color after Sunny Wadia. He begins to think about it seriously. He daydreams about what might happen if he turns up. Working in Delhi, working for Sunny Wadia. In a shop, maybe? Selling clothes? Or in an office somewhere? Wearing smart clothes himself, a shirt and tie, being modern like Sunny. But the dream gutters there. He can’t imagine anything beyond it, how his life might really be. He puts the card back in the wallet and closes it away.