Six Suspects (18 page)

Just when I am about to give up hope of meeting her again,
Ritu calls me. 'Hello, Vijay,' she says in her sweet voice and I go
dizzy with delight.

'Where have you been all this time? I went mad trying to
contact you.'

'I went to Farrukhabad with my mother. I got back only today.'

'I missed you.'

'I missed you, too. Would you like to meet up for lunch today?'

'Lunch? Yes, certainly.'

'Where would you like to go?' she asks me.

Left to me, I would take her to some nice homely Indian joint
like Kake da Dhaba, but I know that pedigree chicks like her
prefer to go to fancy restaurants where they eat anything but
dhal
roti
. I rack my brains for some suitably exotic eating joint, but the
only non-Indian restaurant I know is the corner shop near the
temple which serves greasy vegetable chow mein. 'How about
Chinese?' I offer tentatively.

'Chinese? Do you like Chinese?'

'It is my all-time favourite.'

'Mine too!' she squeals.

'Then let's go to the best Chinese restaurant in Delhi. In some
five-star hotel.'

'Won't it cost a lot?'

'Don't worry about the cost. It will be my treat.'

'Good. Then let's meet at the House of Ming at one.'

'Sure,' I say. 'I'll see you there at one o'clock.'

It takes me half an hour just to figure out where this House of
Ming is. A helpful operator at Directory Enquiries finally points
me in the right direction. It turns out to be an expensive Chinese
restaurant located inside the Taj Hotel on Mansingh Road.

My taxi comes to a stop in the covered portico of the five-star
hotel at quarter to one. I alight, wearing a Van Heusen bush shirt
and Levi jeans. An impressive-looking guard dressed in a white
uniform with brass buttons and a colourful turban on his head
salutes me and opens a glass door. I step into a lavishly decorated
hall with a marble floor full of intricate designs. Elegantly dressed
men and women sit on sofas, talking in low voices. Soft music
plays from invisible instruments. A massive chandelier hangs from
the ceiling. The lobby even has a small artificial pool containing
lotus flowers.

For a few minutes I just stand in the hall, intimidated by the
opulence on display. A hostess directs me to the restaurant, which
is bustling with customers. Brass lanterns hang from the ceiling,
which is made of wood. Flame-spewing golden dragons adorn the
walls. The furniture is elegant, rectangular mica-topped tables
complemented by black, high-backed chairs.

The waitress, a chinky-eyed girl clad in a long, slinky blue dress
with dragon motifs and slits, welcomes me with the effusiveness
normally reserved for heavy tippers. She leads me to a quiet
corner table and presents me with a thick, leather-bound menu. I
take a look at the prices and almost choke.

Ritu arrives promptly at one, trailed by the same gun-toting commando,
who sees her to the door of the restaurant before leaving
discreetly. She is dressed in a sky-blue
salwar kameez
with delicate
embroidery. Lots of eyes turn in her direction and I get envious
glances from some office executives sitting at a nearby table.

She sits down opposite me and places her handbag on the side.

The waitress arrives again to take our order. 'What would you
like?' Ritu asks.

'Whatever you like.'

'Have you eaten here before?'

'Yes. A couple of times.'

'And which is your favourite dish here?'
For a moment I am stumped, but retrieve the situation with
the name of the only Chinese dish I know. 'Maggi noodles!'

'That's so funny!' she laughs and proceeds to order a couple of
soups and some strange-sounding dishes.

When the waitress has gone, she turns to me. 'So tell me, Vijay,
what is your line of work?'

'I told you, import-export.'

'Yes, but what kind of goods exactly?'

'Boxes.'

'Boxes?'

'Yes. I own a box factory on MG Road.'

'Nice. And where do you live in Mehrauli?'

I am prepared for this question. 'I have a four-bedroom flat on
Ramoji Road.'

'And who is there in your family?'

'Just my mother and sister.'

'Is your sister married?'

'No. Not yet. But that is enough about my family. I want to
know about yours.'

'What do you want to know?'

'Everything.'

She gazes at me with a half-despairing, half-appealing look.
'Can't we do this some other time?'

'Why not now?'

'Because I don't feel like it. But I promise you, Vijay, once I
know you better I will tell you everything.'

'OK,' I shrug. 'If that's what you want.'

Ritu takes my hand and squeezes it. 'Thanks for understanding.'

The waitress arrives with bowls containing a watery concoction
with some slimy pouches floating in it. 'Won ton soup,'
she announces.

'So tell me, which is your favourite Shabnam Saxena film?'
Ritu asks, beginning on her soup.

We have a relaxed meal, talking of many things, joking and
laughing, with an undercurrent of flirtatiousness to our banter.
The perfectly good afternoon is spoiled by the bill, a full nine
thousand rupees, including tip. The costliest lunch of my life. I
strip off nine notes from a fresh wad of thousand-rupee notes as
Ritu watches appreciatively. I hope she will be worth all this
money in bed. But Ritu thwarts me yet again. As soon as I pay the
bill, she prepares to leave. 'I have to go now, Vijay, or my family
will start getting suspicious.'

'But you haven't told me anything about your family. Friends
don't keep secrets from each other,' I remonstrate.

She takes my hand again. 'I promise to tell you everything,
Vijay. Soon.'

She does not kiss me, does not even shake my hand, but her
departing look is full of longing and promise. My disappointment
dissipates. I know it is only a question of time before I succeed in
going all the way with her.
Bole toh
, the girl is hooked!

I marvel at how easy it has proved to charm Ritu. These hick
country girls are the most gullible. They are just venturing out of
their houses, trying to test the limits of parental freedom. These
girls view life through rose-tinted glasses. They go to see the
matinée of
Love in Canada
and then want to begin their own
romance in Mehrauli. And any street Romeo on a Hero Honda, in
dark glasses and a leather jacket, can deflower them.

I intend to do just that. At our next meeting.

Today is 16 February and I am in the Sanjay Gandhi slum, where
Barkha Das has arrived to do a 'roadshow' for ITN. I have not seen
so much excitement since India won the Twenty20 Cricket World
Cup. The temple is agog with news of Vicky Rai's acquittal. My
friends in the slum are going around with such long faces you'd
think the murdered girl Ruby Gill was their adopted sister. The
media is also going crazy over the whole affair; every channel is
having a panel discussion on the verdict and there are ten TV vans
parked outside Vicky Rai's farmhouse. Since yesterday the road to
Number Six has been jammed with cars in a victory procession,
horns blaring, workers of the People's Welfare Party waving the
red-and-green flags of their party and screaming 'Long live
Jagannath Rai', 'Long live Vicky Rai.' A giant arch has been put up
at the entrance to the farmhouse, bearing posters of Jagannath Rai
giving election smiles.

Frankly, I can't understand all this hoopla over Vicky Rai's
acquittal. The country is behaving as if he is the first rich guy to
get away with murder. But even I cannot resist seeing Barkha Das
in person. A crowd of about five hundred is gathered all round her,
gawking at the face we see every day on TV. Even Mother has
come, drawn by the scent of celebrity. She admires Barkha's flawless
complexion and her trademark photographer's vest, worn
over black trousers and a white shirt.

Barkha has a fluffy pink mike in her hand. 'So tell me, what do
you think of the verdict in the Ruby Gill murder case?' she asks
no one in particular and scans the crowd. A swarthy young man
with a big bump on his forehead is the first to respond. 'It is very
bad. The judgment will send the signal that there is no justice for
the poor,' he says in the serious, formal manner people adopt
when they appear on TV.

Also in the crowd is a crackpot friend of mine called Shaka,
who boasts of being some kind of functionary in the Communist
Party. He has long hair and always wears a red bandanna on his
forehead. Before Barkha can go to anyone else, he snatches the
mike from her hand. 'This country has gone to the dogs. The rich
imperialists are breaking the law with impunity. I say shoot them
all. Only a revolution can save this country. Only a revolution.
Inquilab Zindabad!
' he declares and pumps his fists in the air.

Barkha Das snatches the mike back from Shaka and glares at
him briefly. 'Do you think we need a revolution,
maaji
?' she turns
to Mother suddenly.

Mother shrinks back, but Barkha corners her. 'You have to
answer,
maaji
.'

'Revolution will not solve our problems,
beti
,' Mother speaks
into the mike in her gravelly voice. 'We have to work hard, do
good deeds in this life so that our misdeeds in the previous life can
be forgiven by God. Only then will we be born rich in the next
life.'

I shake my head at Mother. This has always been a sore point
between us. She believes in good
karma
and rebirth. I believe only
in the accident of birth and the currency of the present. And that
idiot Shaka is also wrong. There will be no revolution. The rich can
sleep easy. Our revolutions last only until we miss our next meal.

Actually I shouldn't be saying all this. After all, I myself have
joined the ranks of the rich imperialists. Thanks to a certain briefcase!

Ritu calls me the next morning, sounding a little upset. 'Vijay, can
we meet today? Some place quiet. And far from here.'

'I know just the place. Let's meet in Lodhi Garden. It's on the
other side of the city.'

'Yes. I know Lodhi Garden. I'll meet you there at two o'clock.'

I have a gut feeling that today I will finally score with this rich
chick. In the salubrious environs of Delhi's most famous park.

I take a taxi to Lodhi Garden and wait for her near the
entrance. She arrives fifteen minutes late in an auto-rickshaw,
wearing a pink
salwar kameez
. I like her choice of colour. But what
I like even more is the fact that she has ditched the family car and
the personal guard. Definitely a good omen.

Lodhi Garden is a wide open green space full of tombs and
trees. It is famous for two things: jogging and snogging. In the
mornings the park is full of fitness enthusiasts who can be seen
running around in soaked T-shirts, and in the afternoons the lovers
take over, making out in recessed alcoves of crumbling monuments,
kissing behind bushes, groping on strategically situated
park benches.

At two o'clock, the park resembles a zoo for lovelorn couples.
I can see that Ritu is a bit uncomfortable at the public displays of
affection going on all over the park. In small-town Lucknow the
necking couples would probably be in jail by now.

'Should we go to another park?' she asks me, glancing around
with trepidation.

'You will see the same thing in every other park in Delhi,' I
answer and gently guide her to a corner bench which has just been
vacated by a couple.

We sit down side by side. Ritu is still jumpy, as though expecting
her father to pop up behind the next bush. I try to put her at
ease. 'Don't worry. You won't see any of your family members
here. At this time of the day the park is reserved only for lovers.'

She blushes and I gently take her hand in mine. She neither
resists nor encourages me. I doubt whether she will allow me to
kiss her in a public place, but this is the time to find out. I lean
over and give her a gentle peck on the cheek, not so much a kiss
as a probing gambit. She immediately covers her face with her
hands, but I prise them open and discover that she is smiling shyly.
I look her in the eye, wink and kiss her again, this time on the lips.
She kisses me back. I taste the lipstick on her lips, inhale the
perfume of her skin and discover that the rich even kiss differently.
The warm, measured kiss from Ritu is quite unlike the
slobbering mouth-lock I used to get from the
mohalla
girls.
And the delicious tingling sensation it leaves in my mouth spreads
all the way to my brain, dissolving all doubt and leaving me only
with the heady feeling of success.

'I love you, Ritu,' I say with the earnest expression of a
romantic hero.

'I love you too, Vijay,' she whispers, and then and there I feel
like standing up and taking a bow. Not because this is the first
time in my life that a girl has said these words to me. I've heard
plenty of terms of endearment, but they were uttered by the dark,
coarse girls from the Sanjay Gandhi slum, who smelt of cheap
talcum powder and Boroline. To hear these words from the lips of
a fair, svelte beauty who drives in a Mercedes and is protected by
a commando is a different experience altogether. I decide to go for
broke.

'Come, let us go somewhere more private.' I get up from the
bench.

'Where to?' she asks.

'I know a good place.'

She does not demur as I lead her out of Lodhi Garden to a taxi
stand. I can easily afford to take her to one of the deluxe five-star
hotels, but they ask too many questions which might scare her off.
Better to go to one of those cheap, nondescript hotels where the
manager is not fussy and rooms are charged by the hour. 'Take us
to Paharganj,' I tell the driver.

Decent Hotel is located in one of the narrow alleys of Paharganj,
within walking distance of the railway station. A grey, threestoreyed
building with fading plaster and a cracked sign-board, I
realize soon enough that the only thing which inspires confidence
about it is the name. The reception has mildewed walls and an
atmosphere of fake cheer. The bellboys appraise Ritu and me from
head to toe and go into a huddle. They begin conversing in low
whispers, as though hatching some conspiracy against us. The
manager leers at me in a knowing way when I ask for a room. 'One
hour or one day?' he asks.