* * *
—
Everyone knows this is a rare sight; they may never see this again. Bunty Wadia and anyone who ever leaned on him, or has been leaned upon, all in one place. For this moment in time, they can try to guess how far his web has been spun.
2.
Ajay holds on to his precious minutes in the back of the car, knowing how soon they’ll end. He has freed himself of all masters in his heart. And yet here he is once more, picked, chosen, delivered toward death. Why is he doing this? Ah yes. He looks at the photo of his sister again. The only thing in the world tying him to control. But even when he’s rescued her, will he be rid of them? Cut adrift? No, they’ll always have something over him. They can take her away any time they want. His mother and younger sister too. He can only pretend he doesn’t care so much. The city swims in his head, the sulfury light. He hasn’t seen the city at night since the night it all changed. He sees it now through the Mandrax, the whisky, through murderous eyes. He watches the world pass by, counts the money Tinu gave.
Two thousand rupees.
Would that be enough to . . . ?
He looks to the driver. “Show me the gun.”
The driver looks back in the rear mirror. “When we arrive.”
* * *
—
Sunny and Farah Wadia sit upon the throne, upon the dais, on the main lawn, side by side, receiving the blessings of guests. Their gifts are placed by several bearers on tables to the side, which groan under the weight. “You could at least smile,” Farah grins through her teeth. “Why can’t you be happy? You’ve got everything you could ever want or need.”
Sunny says nothing in response, mutely accepts each guest’s blessing and gift, presses his palms together in thanks each time.
“You’re the most miserable sonofabitch in the world.”
He’s scanning the crowd behind his shades.
Looking for Dinesh.
Looking for Eli.
Trying to stave off a panic attack.
It’s happening now. There’s no turning back.
Gautam Rathore gets up from his table to join the queue. A passing waiter offers him a glass of champagne, which he politely declines. He’s four years sober; bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He has assumed gray hairs and a certain gravitas, ever since his father died in that helicopter crash. He’s a property magnate now: his political contacts buy up and flip agricultural land, the kind of land where cities love to spread. Very soon he’ll have the wealth and connections to become a major power broker in his state. When the proper kinds of leaders come in, who knows where the mining rights could land?
He stands before Sunny, hands over a simple envelope, lingers just a moment, perhaps hoping to hear a word. But no, Sunny only nods, presses his hands together in thanks. Looking at him for the first time in years, Gautam has a sudden Pavlovian urge to say something cutting and unkind.
Then he remembers his Twelve Steps.
Steps One through Twelve: Bunty Wadia.
He compliments Farah with sincerity and is gone.
“I need a bump,” Farah says, when there’s a lull. “I’d seriously consider one too.” He doesn’t move. “Trust me,” she slaps his thigh, “I have everything you need.” With that she gets up, waves at everyone, gives him one last look. She says, “I’ll be by the lake, between here and the woods,” and is gone too.
Alone.
Now Sunny is left alone.
On that throne, looking out at the guests, he has never felt so alone.
And it hits him, the panic attack he has been fighting all day, all week, all month. The panic of years. The loneliness of a lifetime. The rage. The knowledge that tonight, it is happening. It is most definitely happening. And he doesn’t even know what it is. He’s left all of it in Dinesh Singh’s hands. All he knows is that their fathers will soon be pushed aside, embroiled in some business that will wear them down, allow Sunny and Dinesh to take the crown.
The crown.
Oh God!
The throne and the crown.
He can’t even sit on this throne let alone that.
He looks out and comprehends the vastness of his father’s world.
The intricacy of the ledger Bunty keeps in his head.
And he . . .
He can’t even think two moves ahead in chess.
Why is he doing this?
Why?
Dinesh, he knows why. For power. And maybe even for the good of the state. For a belief in democracy, the rule of law, whatever that means. But he, Sunny Wadia, why? For revenge. For hatred. For a broken heart? For no reason at all. For a wish to erode everything associated with everything he’s done wrong. Yes, once again he’s detonating his life. Setting fire to the oceans, the atmosphere, turning his world into a dying star.