“Quite a spread,” one seasoned journalist crooned into Neda’s ear. He smelled of talcum powder and Old Spice. Fifty or so chairs were arranged in eight rows, facing a raised platform with three chairs and a lectern to its side. A projector and screen had been set up, attached to a laptop. She took a glass of white wine and found a seat to the side in the second-to-last row. There was no sign of Sunny.
* * *
—
Dinesh Singh appeared on time and began with a presentation. He stood at the lectern, the image of a serious, engaged, civic-minded young man. He had a slightly brittle, insistent charm. He looked awkward on the stage, but not shy. He started well enough: he acknowledged UP had a long way to go, that there were all manner of problems in the state, issues that took precedence over tourism. Namely education, health care, security, jobs. But tourism was one industry that could be promoted alongside these, tied up with education, to stimulate progress and growth. Then he started to lose her. He began to drone on. Her heart sank. The room was hot despite the AC. The wine went to her head. She zoned out as he went through a slideshow of the various architectural wonders of the state. He shifted, after what seemed an age, to the ecological diversity. It was dark in the room. The bar had unexpectedly closed. She slumped in her seat and thought about texting Dean. She composed: “This is dumb.” But just as she was about to press SEND, the lights went on. Polite coughs, the rustle of papers. The floor would be open to questions. She kept telling herself, leave after the next question, just get up and walk to the door and walk out. But she stayed. The questions asked seemed preapproved. What was the timeline for success? What was his favorite food? She was getting irritated. She put her hand up. He saw her and smiled and pointed. “Yes, the young lady right there.” She took the mic from the assistant. “Neda Kapur, Delhi Post.”
“Please, go on.”
“Before you invite the world to visit, will you be reviewing the number of hotels in the state involved in criminal activities such as prostitution and human trafficking?”
Dinesh didn’t flinch or miss a beat.
“That’s a very good question, and an important issue.”
She felt a surge. “Especially since many of these are reportedly owned by associates of your father.”
There was an audible intake of breath, voices chattering, but Dinesh kept his cool.
“There will be a comprehensive review of hotels, and those deemed worthy of international tourists will receive special certification. Thank you.”
And he was done.
* * *
—
She watched him swamped by a group of lackeys, swept from the stage. Sunny was nowhere to be seen. She was buzzing with adrenaline. She felt the eyes of other journalists on her. She’d been too bold, reckless. Old Spice journalist leaned into her. “That was a sticky wicket!”
She gathered her things and hurried away. She felt sick suddenly. She was almost out of the hall when a voice called from behind.
“Ms. Kapur?”
She turned to see none other than Dinesh Singh.
“I’m running to another meeting, but I was wondering if we could talk?”
“Sure.”
She found herself walking with him into the hotel lobby.
Expecting to be chastised, threatened even.
But no.
“I admire you,” he said. “It takes nerve to ask a question like that. And you’re right to ask it. Off the record, there’s a lot we can do to clean up the state, and a lot of what’s happening is happening on our watch. But you understand the nature of politics in UP. You can’t win power without money and muscle, and that comes with compromises. You understand this is off the record?”
“Yes.”
“The truth of the matter is, I want to clean all this up, but I can’t do it alone. We need help, and you’re exactly the kind of young person we’re looking for.” They entered the lobby. “Government should be transparent. It should be honest, vigilant, valiant.”
His assistants and minders were herding them on.
He fished out his business card.
“I’d like to invite you to Lucknow as my guest. We’re to have a youth summit soon. We need journalists to communicate our message.”
“And if your message and practice don’t match?”
“Judge me on my record.” He wrote a phone number on the back of the card. “And get in touch anytime. This is my personal number.”
She took the card. “What would your father say about this?”
“The defining question of my life . . .”