“I see,” Mr. Kohli exclaimed, “you know each other.”
“Ms. Kapur is a famous journalist,” Sunny said.
“And Mr. Wadia is an outrageous”—he turned to face her—“flirt.”
“I could think of some other words.”
Mr. Kohli took his cue and buried himself in his books.
“You’re looking well,” he said.
She wasn’t, unless he liked the tomboy office look, and who knows, maybe he did, so she ran with it.
“Thank you. You’re dapper as ever. I never imagined seeing you in the day like this.”
“I’m flattered you imagined me at all. I have to apologize,” he said, quickly, “for not being in touch.”
Her eyes roved over the boxes of toys and gadgets. “You’ve clearly been busy with very important stuff.”
He laughed. “I like to get whatever’s new, see what’s out there. I usually give it away very soon.”
“You go visit orphanages, do you?”
“Mostly I just let whoever comes to my apartment take things. I’m good like that. I don’t get attached.”
“I see. Remind me to visit your apartment.”
“I look forward to it.”
She laughed. “One day maybe.”
“Why not now?”
“Because I am working. You know, that thing most of us have to do.” She corrected herself. “Not that you don’t work . . .” She was embarrassed, flustered. He was looking at her, watching her, intimidating her with his ease. “We’re not all our own bosses. Some of us have people to answer to.”
He just smiled.
Waited.
Smiled.
“What?!” she said.
“Nothing. You’re cute, that’s all.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she rolled her eyes. “That’s the last thing I want to be.”
“I’m serious though, why don’t you come over? This is a serendipitous meeting. I have a free afternoon. We never really got to talk much the other night. It was mostly”—he reflected on the memory, and she braced herself—“shouting.”
“Shouting?”
“Yeah, shouting. Lots and lots of shouting. Laughing too. Things getting knocked over.” He scanned her blank face. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”
She winced. “I remember the next morning.”
Mr. Kohli had prepared the bill, he caught Sunny’s attention, and Sunny took out an obscenely thick roll of cash and started counting it. “Excuse me,” he said, “I’ll just handle this.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
Outside she weighed up the pros and cons of going back with him to his apartment. The only con was that she was supposed to be working. The pros were manifold. Mostly to satisfy her curiosity, to get a private audience with this mysterious young god of Delhi. She watched his back as he paid. So at ease, but so constructed too. But was she just projecting? Was she transposing the outlines of his father, his uncle, onto his body? Again the question entered her mind: Who is Sunny Wadia? She couldn’t say. He stepped outside, followed by four boys, each carrying several boxes. Two TVs, several gaming consoles, a rice cooker, a fancy blender. He waved at her, pointed in the direction of the parking lot. “At least walk with me.”
“Sure.”
Immediately she became aware of eyes on them. Or rather, him. It wasn’t as if everyone knew him, though some certainly recognized his face. It was more how he carried himself, a combination of stature and style, the way, she thought, movie stars carried themselves. Then there was the not insignificant train of boys carrying expensive objects behind, confirming his wealth. No one saw her, she was merely in his orbit; she felt, for a second, as if she were his secretary, his assistant. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but still, she felt she should assert herself somehow, get back to work at least . . .
“What are you thinking?”
She realized he’d been watching her.
“That I should get back to work.”
“What are you working on?”
To say a voxpop seemed pretty lame.
“Well . . .” She cleared her throat. “I’m assessing the socioeconomic impact of the shifting commercial landscape through the oral testimony of consumers.”
He made a show of concentration, mouthing the words back to himself.
“You mean you’re conducting a voxpop?”
“Vox populi, to be precise.”
He laughed.
“I’ll give you some juicy quotes. We’ll make some up together. Then you’ll have no excuse not to come back with me.”