“Who are you?”
“Ajay, sir.”
Mr. Dutta pauses and inspects him closer, putting out his cigarette.
“You’re the boy Sunny sent for?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lucky you,” he says.
Then comes a long list of questions.
“Do you drink liquor?”
“No, sir.”
“Smoke?”
“No.”
“Take drugs?”
“No, sir.”
“Sell drugs?”
“No.”
“But you know what drugs are, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because you’re a shack boy.”
“I worked in a café, sir.”
“Can you drive?”
“Yes.”
“Two-wheeler, four-wheeler?”
“Everything, sir.”
“Trucks and buses?”
“No, sir.”
“So not everything.”
“No, sir. I can drive a tractor, sir.”
“You grew up in the mountains.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“I worked on a farm. I made ghee.”
“You made ghee? Very good.”
“Then a café.”
“You were in Goa also?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you didn’t sell drugs?”
“No, sir.”
“You must have seen all kinds of wrong things?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Crazy people.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know all the different things people do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re discreet.”
“Sir?”
“Careful. Quiet.”
“Yes.”
“You can keep secrets?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re loyal?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who Sunny Wadia is?”
“Sir, he’s a big man.”
“He’s the son of a big man. Everything you see here is because of his father, Bunty Wadia. We all owe our happiness to him. He’s a great man. You may answer to Sunny now, but we all answer to Bunty-ji. Bunty-ji is God. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you been to school?”
“I left when I was eight.”
“But you’re smart?”
“I can read and write. I can understand English. Also some Hebrew, German, Japanese, sir.”
“Married?”
“No, sir.”
“No children?”
He shakes his head shyly.
“How old are you?”
“Sir, I don’t know. Eighteen? Nineteen?”
“OK then, let’s give you a birthday. Let’s say . . . January first, 1982?”
“Sir, OK.”
“You like girls?”
Ajay doesn’t know what to say.
“One day soon you’ll be working alongside girls. If you touch them, we won’t spare you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you want girls, go to GB Road.”
Ajay doesn’t know where that is.
“If you fuck with the women here, we cut off your balls.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you’re caught stealing, we cut off your hand.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Dutta lights a cigarette.
“Good. Where’s your native place?”
“UP.”
“Your family is there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I left when I was small.”
“You don’t go back?”
“No. My father died.”
“So no holidays for Diwali. You’re not going to take three days’ leave and come back three weeks later?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Do you have a PAN card? A bank account?”
“No, sir.”
“Money?”
“Everything was stolen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Yesterday, when I arrived in Delhi.”
“That’s what happened to your face?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much did you lose?”
Ajay lowers his head.
“Thirty-two thousand, sir.”
Mr. Dutta whistles and shakes his head, makes a note, closes his book, and stares at the cover a moment. “Chalo. Go to Elite Saloon in the market for a haircut and shave. You won’t have to pay. Then we’ll have a doctor look at your face. We’ll open a bank account and start you on five thousand a month. You’ll get a phone. Keep it with you at all times, keep it charged. And here”—he opens a drawer and counts out five one-hundred rupee notes—“this is your advance.”