“Your market research?”
“Yes.”
“You’re building malls. Aren’t you?”
“Of course,” he said.
“You’re twenty-three years old.”
“Twenty-four.”
“Wow.” She glanced at the Dictaphone to see if it was still running. “And there I was thinking you were a patron of the arts.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said.
“Well, no,” she fumbled.
“Who do you think funded art, historically speaking? The Medicis were bankers.”
“Yeah, I mean, of course.”
“Besides, I have bigger plans than malls in mind. I want to turn Delhi into a truly global city.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“Well, that’s kind of insane.”
“Are you happy living here?”
“Excuse me?”
“I hear you’re not. I hear you want to leave.”
She was taken aback. Hari must have told him.
“And I don’t blame you,” he went on. “Trust me, I didn’t grow up with the West beamed into my living room like you, but I’ve traveled, I’ve seen how people live in other parts of the world, I’ve seen what’s available, what’s open, what’s possible. We lag so far behind here. We have all the potential, the human capital, we just have to harness it.”
Did he do this with everyone? Could he simply not help himself?
“Let me ask you something,” he continued. “What do London, Paris, and Singapore have in common?”
“I don’t know. Tell me.”
“No, I’m asking you, what do they have in common?”
She shrugged. “Capital cities?”
“They have rivers.”
“OK. And?”
“And what do we have here in Delhi?”
She was rapidly tiring of his rhetorical grandstanding.
“A river.”
“Now listen,” he said, launching into a monologue. “Throughout history, rivers and cities have been entwined. A river is a city’s lifeline, its artery.” And she knew as he spoke that he’d practiced this, that it was a speech he’d prepared. “At first trade, then industry, then leisure. And all the best cities in the world have something in common. They face their rivers. Their rivers become their centerpiece.” Maybe it was even an essay he’d written once. “Now what do we do? Right here in Delhi? To the Yamuna?”
She shook her head, because she knew she was expected only to listen.
“We turn our back to it. Think about it,” he said, slipping out of the prepared and into the evangelical. “Imagine the city from above, picture it, can you see it? Can you see the Yamuna running through? Now think about all the colonies, the things everyone does every day. Does anyone look at the river? Does anyone have anything to do with the river? No, we shun it, we ignore it. It should be sacred, but it becomes profane, fucked up with sewage, banked by slums. And we just accept this. Right?”
“Right.”
“Now imagine the Yamuna sparkling clean. Imagine swimming in it. Imagine boating in it. Imagine marinas and promenades.” He grew more animated as he spoke. “Imagine nature reserves, wetlands, opera houses! Imagine a business district, skyscrapers, trams, parks, coffee shops.” He painted a vista with his hands. “Imagine finishing work and going down to the river for a cocktail, a Michelin Star meal, then the theater, then a stroll along its banks.” She watched him, pleased with the vision he conjured in his mind’s eye. “You can do it in London,” he said. “Why not here?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can,” he said. “Because I’m going to build it.”
And with that, he was done.
“Well,” she said, “that’s . . .”
“Ambitious.”
“That’s one word. Another is crazy.”
“You don’t think I can do it.”
“It’s not that,” she said, “it’s just, you know, that’s London, this is Delhi. I mean, how do you expect to . . . ?”
“That’s for me to worry about.”
Something about the way he spoke antagonized her.
She knew instinctively that he was wrong, that there was more to it than that, but she didn’t have the ammunition to fight back his broad-stroked bravado. Still, he had started to irritate her. She thought, What does he want from me?
“What are you thinking?” he asked.