But he is obliterating himself.
Turning himself inside out.
Turning himself away.
* * *
—
He despises Sunny Wadia.
But he was with him last night.
Wasn’t he?
So what is he doing here?
* * *
—
He tries to see into the fog, the black hole of his mind’s eye.
Deep inside there’s nothing.
No, wait, a flash of white.
A face rising up.
Oh God, a girl dressed in rags.
Imploring.
Her eyes wide.
Widening.
Hand reaching out.
How vulgar, that can’t be right.
He shudders, recoils.
She’s engulfed in blinding light.
Silence in the room.
It’s all so majestically serene.
The scent of luxury.
I’m OK.
I’m OK.
* * *
—
He was with Sunny last night.
Bleeding him dry, ho hum.
And then?
Think, brain.
It was more than that. Sunny had something grand to say.
He recalls arriving at the club.
Swaggering inside.
Behind the velvet curtain.
It was literally velvet. He entered the VIP room with his perpetual smirk on his face. And then?
Gautam’s eyes fall on the naked laterite walls, the antique Rajasthani screen. The stillness in this place. It’s so bright outside.
He loses his train of thought.
Where are you now, again?
Why are you here?
Do you know this room?
Men like him usually do.
He finds he does.
It’s the Jasmine Villa of the Mahuagarh Fort Palace Hotel.
Yes, that’s right.
Old Adiraj’s place.
Two hundred kilometers from Delhi in the desert of Rajasthan.
What the hell are you doing here?
Technically, you’re banned from the property. After that incident with the zip line and the Emirati’s Pomeranian.
The room gives nothing away. Nothing says “blackout bender” like a room with no object out of place. No sign of another guest. No clothing strewn over the backs of chairs. No cigarette burns, no overflowing ashtrays, no broken glass, no empty bottles on the floor. No blood. It must all have happened somewhere else.
All he remembers is that he was with Sunny.
It must have been one hell of a night!
He checks to see if he’s soiled himself; it’s a coin toss on mornings like this.
But no! Clean as a pig’s whistle.
God, and small mercies, eh.
Yet he is wearing someone else’s pajamas: red pin-striped, a little too small.
And in the back of his throat, the leaky faucet of postcocaine drip.
But that’s par for the course.
He scans the room for his wallet and keys.
For anything.
Nothing.
The plot thickens.
Ho hum.
He peels back the sheets, swings his legs to the terra-cotta floor.
God, the pain!
It’s like he’s fallen off, then been kicked by a horse.
He stumbles into the bathroom in a fit of coughs, doubles over, clears his throat, spits rust in the porcelain.
And rises to the mirror.
Dear God.
He daren’t move.
A wild animal stares back at him.
A dictator, pulled from the rubble, ready for the gallows.
Two hideous black eyes, an equine nose fully taped.
He raises his hand to it.
Must have been one hell of a night.
* * *
—
“Wine,” he croaks down the phone, cradles the receiver, straps the toweling robe across his chest, haughtily clears his throat.
“Yes, sir?”
“It’s an emergency.”
“Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I need wine.”
“Wine, sir?”
“Do you wish me to repeat myself indefinitely?”
A pause.
“What kind of wine?”
“The kind that is wet.”
A female voice, more polished, takes the phone.
“Sir, I’m afraid we cannot send alcohol to your room at this time.”
Outrageous.
“Whyever not? I see no good reason.”
“It’s too early, sir.”
“Nonsense. The sun is positively perpendicular. By any civilized metric it is reasonable to expect wine.”
“Sir, I’m very sorry but it’s . . .”
“What? A dry day? Gandhi-ji’s hallowed birthday? Abstinence! What a way to celebrate! No doubt you’ve read what he did with his nieces. Are we all meant to suffer for that man’s dreary austerities, for his dreadful lack of self-control!”
“Sir?”
“Send up a Bloody Mary then! An honest breakfast drink. Whisky in my porridge if need be.”