Authors: Vikas Swarup
As Malini disappears back to the dance floor, I extend my hand
and this time Ritu grasps it. Her grip is soft and delicate. I sit down
next to her.
'You know my name. What is yours?' she asks in Hindi.
I realize instantly that Munna Mobile will cut no ice in this
upmarket club. I need a powerful new name and I need it fast. The
most powerful person I know is the Butcher of Mehrauli,
Inspector Vijay Singh Yadav, and before I know it, I have blurted
out that name. 'Vijay Singh, my name is Vijay Singh.'
She brightens up. 'Are you also a Thakur, like me?'
'Yes,' I nod. 'I am also a Thakur.'
'What do you do, Vijay?'
That's easy. I do what every tin-pot trader does in this city.
'Import-Export.'
'Where do you live?'
That's tougher. I dare not say Kholi Number One. 'Here and
there.' I wave my hands. Before she can cross-examine me any
further, I launch my own offensive. 'What about you? Where do
you live?'
'Oh, I am not from Delhi. I live in Lucknow. I am just visiting.'
That explains her dress and her language. 'What do you do?'
'I am a final-year BA student at Lucknow University. Doing
my honours in Home Science. When did you graduate?' she asks.
'A couple of years ago,' I reply.
'Where from?' she persists.
'Delhi University,' I say glibly, conveniently glossing over the
fact that it was a correspondence course and that I took four years
to pass – and only then with a third-class degree.
We manage to string together a conversation for the next
couple of hours, speaking of this and that. She asks me what books
I have read and I gently steer her on to the topic of films I have
seen. She tells me about Lucknow. I tell her about Delhi. It
emerges that we have much in common. We share a distrust of
politicians; we decry the arrogance of money and we are both fans
of Shabnam Saxena.
Around eleven o'clock, Ritu prepares to leave. 'It was good
talking to you, Vijay. I hope we meet again,' she says and passes
me a slip of paper. It has her mobile phone number.
I follow Ritu and her friend out of the club. The queue outside
the door has become even longer. A black chauffeur-driven BMW
draws up and a tall moustachioed black-cat commando carrying
an AK-47 opens the door for her. Ritu studiously avoids looking
at me as she gets into the back seat with Malini. The car drives
away, leaving me standing on the kerb. Throughout the evening
Ritu had tactfully evaded answering personal questions about
her family, but that uniformed gunman makes me wonder. Who
is this mysterious girl and why has she given me her mobile
number?
Before I can ponder the question any further I am accosted by
a smelly beggar with a bent arm who grips my leg like a leech, a
telling reminder that I have stepped back into India. 'I have not
eaten for three days. Please give me some money.
Kuch dede baba!
'
he implores. I search my pockets and come up with a couple of
one-rupee coins. I get rid of him, and then duck into a quiet alley
to change into my regular clothes. Vijay Singh has had his fun.
Now it is time for Munna Mobile to hit the sack.
I catch a bus back to the temple. Mother is asleep but Champi
is still awake. 'You smell different,' she says as soon as I enter,
making me freeze. This is the thing about Champi. She may be
blind, but she sees more than people with both eyes.
'Yes, I have put on some perfume.'
'Seems expensive. Looks like you have started blowing the
money.'
'Well, ten days have passed.'
'Did you meet a girl?'
'What?'
'You are also carrying her smell with you.'
I am left speechless by Champi's powers of intuition.
I wait for her to go to sleep before taking out the briefcase and
opening it, both to receive that special thrill again and to count
the remaining wads of notes. But once again, the enterprise proves
unsuccessful. Not because I cannot count, but because tonight my
concentration is broken by another ten-digit number buzzing in
my brain. Ritu's mobile.
There is no doubt that I am smitten by her beauty. That old
suppressed desire to seduce a rich memsahib rears up in my mind
like a coiled snake. I debate when to call her. If I call her tomorrow,
I might appear too eager and impatient and it could spoil
my chances. On the other hand, if I delay too much she might
consider me arrogant and uninterested.
Even as I am thinking what to do, it dawns on me that I don't
actually have a mobile phone. So the next morning I go to Delite
Phone Mart and purchase a basic Nokia 1110, so as not to rouse
any suspicion. It is the same cheap phone that the corner
tobacconist and the neighbourhood washerman use. It feels funny
paying for a mobile phone for the first time with my own money.
Well, it is my money now, isn't it?
*
Try as I might, I cannot resist calling Ritu. Within ten minutes of
inserting the SIM card, I am punching in her number. She seems
to be expecting my call, picking it up on the first ring.
'Hello, Ritu. Vijay Singh speaking,' I say somewhat lamely.
'Hello, Vijay,' she replies, somewhat coyly.
There is an awkward silence as I think of what to say. I have
never had occasion before to chat up a rich girl on the phone. I try
to think what girls like her like to do and the only thing that
comes to mind is shopping.
'Would you like to go shopping?' I ask.
There is another pause as Ritu ponders what to make of this
request. 'Yes. That would be nice. Where do you suggest we go?'
'Where are you staying?'
'Mehrauli,' she answers, surprising me.
'What a coincidence! I live in Mehrauli too! So how about
meeting up at the Ambawata Complex? It has all the designer
shops.'
'No,' she replies after another pause. 'I would prefer some
place which is far from Mehrauli. What do you think of
Connaught Place?'
'Yeah, I go there all the time.'
'Good. So should we meet up at three o'clock?'
'Where?'
'The only place I know is the Wimpy. Malini took me there
once.'
'Perfect. I know the Wimpy. I'll see you there at three o'clock.'
Even before the call is over, I have figured out Miss Ritu, scoped
out the tactics I need to seduce her. It is clear from our conversation
that she is a small-town girl looking for cheap thrills in the
big bad city, without her parents finding out. I am sure she would
be open to a little affair with a fellow Thakur! For a beautiful
chick like her, I wouldn't mind blowing even twenty grand. I will
take her on a shopping spree, impress her with my extravagance,
and then lure her to bed!
*
The first thing I do is buy a new flannel shirt and corduroy
trousers from the Metropolitan Shopping Mall. I don't want Ritu
to see me in the same clothes as last night. Then, on a whim, I
watch an English film in the multiplex. I barely catch any phrases,
but a delicious contentment spreads through me as I watch the
pale-skinned actors speak non-stop English for one and a half
hours. Somehow it makes me feel better equipped to date a
rich chick. I leave the cinema, put on my dark glasses and hail an
auto-rickshaw.
I reach Connaught Place at quarter to three and wait for Ritu in
front of the Wimpy. She arrives a little after three, in a different car
this time – a sleek grey Mercedes SLK 350, but there is the same tall
moustachioed guard sitting on the front seat with an AK-47.
She steps out of the car, says something to the guard and the
car drives away. Today she is wearing off-white
churidar
pyjamas
and a matching
kameez
. A red
chunni
is pulled down demurely
over her chest. In broad daylight she looks even more beautiful
and radiant. I admire the soft contours of her face and the delicate
arch of her neck, and marvel at my luck in bagging such a beauty.
She spots me almost immediately and a warm smile spreads on
her face. 'Hello, Vijay,' she greets me, as her eyes dart around
suspiciously, perhaps looking to see if any of her relatives are
snooping around.
I feel it is time I found out about her family. 'Yesterday you
came with a gunman too. How come?'
'My father insists that I take one. He is concerned about my
security.'
'Is he a big businessman?'
'Sort of,' she says and tries to change the subject. 'So what are
you going to buy in Connaught Place? I have never shopped here
before.'
'I don't need anything. This is going to be your shopping
spree,' I reply and lead her into an air-conditioned boutique selling
expensive designer clothes. Ritu browses through the racks,
then checks the price tags and rolls her eyes. 'These prices are
ridiculous. In Lucknow I can buy ten outfits for what they
are charging for one.'
'But this is Delhi. Here you have to pay Delhi rates. Don't
worry, today I am paying for your shopping,' I assure her with the
brash confidence of a man with a hundred thousand rupees in his
trouser pocket.
She looks at me in a funny kind of way. '
Arrey
, why would you
spend money on me? Are you my brother or what?'
The word 'brother' jars a bit. I peer into her eyes, which seem
transparent and sincere, and wonder if I have made a mistake in
reading this girl, a costly error of judgement.
'Let's try this shop.' I indicate the adjacent showroom, which
has 'Sale' emblazoned across its window.
Ritu shakes her head. 'These sales are all fake. I think we
should go to Palika Bazaar. I am told that the market has much
more reasonable rates.'
Why should I quarrel if my seduction budget is going to be
reduced by half? So I lead the way to the underground market
situated in the middle of the park, full of small shops selling
clothes, trinkets and electronic items. The bazaar is teeming with
shoppers, mostly middle-class
behenji
types and groups of college
students. I am immediately propositioned by shifty-eyed shopkeepers
sitting behind rows of computer CDs and DVDs. 'Want
blue films? . . . We have Triple X, Sir, very good print,' they
whisper as I walk past their cubicles. The stuffy atmosphere of the
place suffocates me, but Ritu is entranced by the brightly lit shops.
She conducts an impromptu market survey and declares that
though Palika Bazaar is marginally more expensive than
Aminabad Market in Lucknow, it has more variety. True to her
small-town roots, she shows no interest in the shops displaying
T-shirts and jeans and heads straight for the corridor vendors selling
ladies' suits on open hangers. For half an hour she haggles with
a middle-aged shopkeeper over a pair of
salwar
suits. She wants to
buy them for three hundred and the shopkeeper wants five
hundred. Eventually they settle on three hundred and seventyfive.
I offer her a five-hundred-rupee note but Ritu refuses it
resolutely. She takes out a worn ladies' wallet from her handbag
and pays for the purchase with her own money. Her scrupulousness
both impresses and troubles me.
Near gate number three, a gangly youth with a load of belts
draped on his back buttonholes me. 'These are imported designer
belts, Sahib, one thousand rupees in Connaught Place, only two
hundred rupees here,' he says and offers me one with a 'Lee'
buckle. I wave him away but he refuses to go. 'Have a look,' he
insists. Igniting a lighter, he tries to burn one end of the belt. 'You
see, Sahib, genuine leather!'
'Don't fool me,' I laugh. 'These are cheap Rexine belts.'
'No, Sir. It is real leather. And for you I will reduce the price to
a hundred rupees.'
'I am not interested,' I declare.
'Please, Sahib. Buy just one,' he pleads. 'I will reduce it further
to just fifty rupees.'
'Fifty rupees?' Ritu asks. 'That is quite reasonable.'
'See, Sahib? Even Memsahib wants you to have one. Buy one
and God will keep you pair together for ever,' he says with the
verve of a professional beggar.
Ritu blushes and the pink glow on her face is the surest sign
that she feels more than sisterly concern for me. I grin and take
out a fifty-rupee note. 'Here. Take this and keep the belt too. You
will also remember this encounter with a rich guy.'
The belt vendor accepts my tip with a surprised look on his
face. Ritu taps me on the arm. 'Do you distribute largesse like this
to every poor fellow you meet?'
'No,' I say jauntily. 'But I had to respect his appeal to God.'
She blushes again and I feel a shiver of lust run down my spine.
I feel I am on the right track now and the shopping expedition will
lead to something memorable. As Ritu ducks into another clothes
shop, I try to figure out the nearest hotel I can take her to.
I make my move the moment she emerges from the shop.
'How about having coffee?'
She tilts her head at me. 'Coffee? Here?'
'No, in a nearby hotel.'
She hesitates and looks at her watch. 'Oh my God, it is already
quarter to five. I promised Ram Singh I would be back by five.'
'Who is this Ram Singh?'
'My bodyguard. I need to return to the Wimpy. That is where
he will pick me up. I have to go now, Vijay.'
I realize that Ritu is perhaps not as naive as she pretends to be.
The way she has refused to take my bait makes me wonder if she
has seen through my dark glasses and glimpsed my true intentions.
I try to mask my disappointment behind a show of gallantry. 'No
problem at all. Come, I will take you back.'
She looks down at her feet. 'I would prefer it if you let me
walk alone.'
'OK,' I nod. 'So when will we meet again?'
'I will call you. I have your number on my mobile. Bye now,
Vijay.'
A week passes without any phone call from Ritu. And every time
I call her I get a recorded message that the subscriber is not available.
Perhaps she has left Delhi and gone back to Lucknow, but I
am dying with curiosity about this beautiful girl who travels like a
princess and shops like a pauper. So I begin scouring the area
around the temple, peeking into the mansions and farmhouses of
the rich to see if I can spot either of Ritu's two cars, but most
of the houses are screened off by high metal gates and the guards
outside rarely allow any loitering.