“So are you seeing anyone?”
She shook her head.
“You?”
“On and off,” he said. “Chicks from parties mostly.”
“Oh-ho!” she laughed. “Listen to you. Chicks from parties!”
“But no one special.”
“OK, lover boy, what does special look like?”
“I don’t know.” He became shy. “Someone to come home to. Eat Chinese with, in front of the TV.”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“No, I’m serious.”
“Man, I wish I wanted what you wanted.”
“What do you want?”
“I have no idea.”
“You’re always looking somewhere else, that’s your problem.”
“Maybe that’s why I feel so old.”
He laughed. “You’re being such a drama queen. You’re twenty-two years old. You know what you should do? Move out. Get an apartment, live on your own.”
“Yeah, maybe. But then it’s like I’m committing to Delhi.”
“And? What’s wrong with that? You really don’t get it, do you? Big things are happening. Delhi’s the place.”
* * *
—
Hari began to describe this art project he’d been pulled into, some “happening” inside a warehouse on the edge of Delhi. It was meant to be this big, crazy, free party, like the stuff they were doing in New York. Not just music . . . “all kinds of crazy shit, everything free, food, drink, games, beds, food by real chefs, cocktail bars, hammocks, bunk beds, graffiti walls, laser tag, bumper cars, all really nuts shit, and secret. So this guy came to see me in my studio, shook my hand and started talking about this set I played last year, the one in this farmhouse near Jaipur. Then get this, he handed me a lakh of rupees in cash right there. Just handed it over. Something about good faith. He wanted me to play so bad.”
“Sounds great.”
He watched her closely. “Now guess the guy’s name.”
She thought about it a moment. “I have no idea.”
“Think about it. It begins with an S.”
“Ahhh,” she said. “The mysterious Sunny Wadia?”
“The same.”
“So you knew him all along?”
“I told you those guys don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Ha. How is he?”
“He’s really cool.”
“But what’s his story? Does he come from the States?”
“Nope.”
“He’s not an internet millionaire?”
“Nah.”
“Rich kid politician’s son?”
“Uh-uh.”
“So?”
“He’s just . . . Sunny.”
“But he’s loaded, right?”
“His father’s some businessman, yeah. But he’s not a rich kid. He’s, like, different.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Somewhere in UP. You’d never know it. He’s so cool.”
“So what does his father do?”
“I don’t know, farming. Fertilizer and poultry and shit.”
“That’s a lot of shit.” She lit another cigarette. “I was hoping for something more romantic.”
“You’re such a snob.”
She shrugged.
“So what happened with this party?”
“The cops shut it down before it even began.”
“After all that?”
“Yeah. They came and busted us on the first night. They wanted to arrest us.”
“But?”
“Sunny made a call and it went away.”
“Bribed them with fertilizer?”
“Man, I don’t even know. They didn’t search us or anything. He just made a call and we all walked free. Which is good because . . . we had a load of stuff on us. Anyway, we went to his place afterward—damn, his place is cool. So there were about ten of us, ten, twenty maybe, you know, the hard core, we’d been organizing it. We had this survivors’ high, we partied for three days straight anyway. I played in his apartment. It was crazy. Full power. I lost track of the days. After something like that, you make a bond. He started a record label. He said he’d do it, like wasted talk, like people say. But a week later the label was up and running. He’s going to put out my records.”
“Are you gonna eat Chinese in front of the TV with him too?”
“Shut up. You’re just jealous.”