by Rahul Raina
Rudi looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. Angry, hurt, and humiliated. But there was no time to lose, for I had just realized we had to make a run for it.
“When you called the sub-inspector, that was actually Pratap, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Damn right. Fuck you,” said Oberoi.
I hit him again and he was quiet.
Then I joined some more dots and figured out that Shashank Oberoi was double-crossing everyone.
“You kept the ransom for yourself, didn’t you?” I said. “Priya said you’d paid it, and here I was thinking Aggarwal had pocketed the money.”
“You’ve been talking to Priya?” said Rudi. “When? I thought we were doing no communication.”
“Boss, is this really the time for questions?” I said. “We do not want to be here when Pratap arrives. He might kill us on sight. We might tell him the truth and he might kill this double-dealing prick. Who knows? I do not want to take chances. We take Oberoi now, and we try to survive, okay?”
He could see I was right. He gave up. “Fine,” he said, sounding unfine.
“I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“Okay, we go,” snapped Rudi. Oberoi moaned again. “But you’re coming with us.” Oberoi began to say something, but Rudi slapped him. “You’re going to be our new hostage. We kidnapped Abhi Aggarwal, did you hear about that? But we lost him, and you’re his replacement. Only we’re not ransoming you. We’re going to expose you.”
Oberoi gasped like a teenager. He started to twitch his arms and grabbed at things on his desk. Pencils went flying, photo frames of the dead-eyed wife. He could see, clearer than he could see us, his fate: prison, or worse, entombed in concrete in some shopping mall in Noida by a vengeful Himanshu Aggarwal.
Rudi grabbed his wig off the floor. I took one of my knives from my backpack. Oberoi followed its point out of his chair, out of the office, and down the corridor.
In the canteen, we smelled garlic and onions dissolving into oil. Just a few more corridors and we’d be out, and then we could figure out what to do next. We tried to look as inconspicuous as we could. Just skip past a few tables of people eating lunch. What could be easier?
Oberoi was desperate to scream, but the knife pressed into his back made him think again.
We were meters from the door exiting the canteen, meters from freedom, when it opened, and the one person I didn’t want to see stood right in front of us.
Pratap had arrived.
Eyes bloodshot, teeth sharp and yellow. Skin a little greasier. Anger problems still evident.
He opened his jacket to reveal a gun.
“You’re going to come with me,” he said quietly.
“Kill them now,” hissed Oberoi. “Now. Do it!”
One or two people pulled their faces out of their lunch and saw Shashank Oberoi shouting at someone. Nothing out of the ordinary. They resumed eating.
Oberoi’s face was split with a manic grin. He’d seen his chance. Two bullets and he could run.
“The show paid the ransom,” said Rudi quickly. He held out his arm, shielding me. “Oberoi took it. He’s double-crossing you.”
Pratap gave us a cold, long look. “Where’s my boss’s son?” he said.
“Ah,” said Rudi.
“See, they’re lying,” said Oberoi, trying to grab my shirt and push me toward a wholly unwanted martyrdom. “Kill them,” he hissed.
Pratap raised his gun. I saw his eyes locked on mine. He believed Oberoi.
He began to laugh.
My fingers cramped in pain. He had already cut one off, and his face was not that of a man who had been happy to stop there. I took ahold of Oberoi’s shoulder and tried to push him the other way. I did the same with Rudi, hauling him in front of me. That’s loyalty.
Unfortunately my grip on Oberoi wasn’t as strong as it should have been.
He wriggled free, pushed me to the floor, gave me a victorious smile, and ran as fast as he could.
He ran much more quickly than someone fat and rich should be able to. I gave him credit for that. He was gone before I could do anything, and I was left staring down the barrel of a gun.
Pratap looked dazed.
“See, we weren’t lying—” started Rudi.
“Not the time, boss!”
Pratap raised his gun again.
It was time to go. “Gun!” I screamed, and everyone turned their heads. I could be loud when I wanted to.
I hunched down, pulled Rudi down too, and we ran, without looking, between tables of people eating lunch. I heard Rudi swearing next to me.
I heard a gunshot.
I didn’t know where it went. Not in me. Not in Rudi. That was enough.
Men began to scream. Plates of sambar and idlis clattered to the floor. I stumbled. Rudi ran past me, trailing sequins and pink.
We fled to the far corridor. It was packed with people, the guards at the front, always the first to run. Their jobs had been passed to them by their fathers, and in time would go to their sons. Death would complicate that inheritance.
We ran as a herd down the corridor.
I heard two, three more shots. One flew above my head and blew up a tube light.
Elbows dug into my sides, nails clawed at me, I heard shrieks of various octaves.
We broke through the doors. Rudi and I used the crowd for cover. They ran in every direction. I moved toward the packs of runners heading to the back of the studio. I jumped across carefully tended lawns and manicured hedges and elderly porters.
I could do nothing but run, so I did.
Men and women clambered over each other, over metal railings and flesh, everyone for himself. I ran around a corner until I reached the car, where Rudi stood, looking white-faced at the chaos around us.
A man sprinted past me to the passenger door and started hammering at the window. I threw him out of the way. “Sorry about that,” I said, like a Westerner.
“Where’s Oberoi?” Rudi said. He was breathing hard. He looked exhausted and miserable.
“Gone,” I said.
“Jesus Christ, Ramesh. He knows everything.” But he was too tired to be angry. “I’m fucked. You’re fucked. We’re fucked. India’s fucked. The socio-econom—”
“Let’s go, huh, boss?” I said. He grunted. Down he crept into the footwell. I started the car, and we set off as if rocket-powered. The guards at the gate were long gone, no turbaned salutes and stiff-jawed officiousness today. The police wouldn’t come for hours.
This kidnapping business was going very well.
Fourteen
We stopped outside Golden Jubilee Park again. The radio had mentioned an incident at Delhi International Studios, but nothing about us or Oberoi.
Rudi looked angry with me, yet also very fetching in his polyester sari, with its fine brocading and little pieces of reflective mirror. His hair and makeup were a mess; he had streaks in his foundation and lipstick smeared everywhere. We would soon fix that, never worry.
“What do we do now, huh, genius?” he asked, spitting out the window.
“Only one thing left,” I said.
I would have done anything to keep her away from it all.
I was putting her in danger. I was destroying her career. I was using her.
And I didn’t want to think about the worst part. Oberoi knew the truth about me and Rudi. She could find out. She would think I was just as bad as everyone else.
“What?” Rudi said. “Ramesh! What?”
“Priya.”
“Priya?” Rudi asked.
“Our assistant producer,” I said slowly. “Medium height. About twenty-five. Is largely responsible for the success of your television career.”
Rudi’s anger turned to a vicious little smile.
“I know who she is, Ramesh,” he said slowly, as if I was stupid. “But she’s Oberoi’s underling. Why would we go to her? She’ll betray us, won’t she?”
“I know her, she’ll help us,” I said.
He
began to chuckle. “You know her? That’s not good enough for me. Is she close to you? Did you have some special relationship? Did you secretly go shopping and drink coffee with her and not tell anyone about it? Were you off having dates, Ramesh? Is there some reason we should trust her?” The little prick was loving it. He had known all along. He wanted me to tell him what she meant to me. He had me right where he wanted me.
He wanted me to say it.
So I said it.
“I like her.”
“You like her?” He began to smirk with amusement. “You like her? But that’s not enough. There are plenty of people I like who would betray me in an instant. I want more than like, Ramesh. Why should we trust her? She’s Oberoi’s assistant, after all.”
So that was the way it was going to be. He was going to get his revenge. He was going to make me say it. Fuck him. I was going to say it. It was true. I’d never said it about anyone before.
“Because I love her,” I said.
“Oh, love!” said Rudi. “Now I understand. Ramesh weds Priya? I truly did not know. How wonderful! My felicitations to the happy couple.” He reached over to give me a hug, but I pushed him away.
“You prick,” I said.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and rang her.
“Ramesh? Is that you? My God, you’re back! I cannot tell you how happy I am. And Rudraksh too?”
“Yes, him too.” The little shit.
“There was a shooting today, at the studio. They’ve sent us all home. Was that anything to do with you? Oberoi’s disappeared. Production’s been suspended indefinitely.”
Her voice leaked into the car. Rudi started to make kissing noises.
“Oberoi did it. He arranged the kidnapping. He stole the ransom.”
“My God,” she said. “My God. Ramesh . . .” Then she went silent.
“Priya,” I said. I would have to do it, I would have to drag her into this. I had no other choice. The whole world was after me. I wasn’t being manipulative, I convinced myself. I wasn’t Papa. It was the truth.
“Priya, can we come to your place? We have nowhere else to go.”
“Of course,” she said. Not a moment’s hesitation.
She told me her address. “Be safe, get here soon,” she added.
“You’re too good,” I said, because she was. Look how she put me before herself, and so quickly. The man who married her would be a lucky one. Not me, then.
Rudi and I set off. We pretended we were on a day trip again. I pointed out grimy office buildings, pretended they were all UNESCO World Heritage Sites and called him “darling” in my Khan Market voice.
We didn’t want to think about Oberoi. We didn’t want to think about exposure. We didn’t want to think about prison.
I didn’t want to think about telling Priya the truth.
We reached her flat another three-mile, ninety-minute Delhi trip later.
She had phoned ahead to the security guards, and we went straight through the gate, then past three apartment blocks, the balconies all laundry-strewn, until we reached hers. I parked the car in a free space and hoped nobody would impound it. Rudi and I hurried into the lobby, into the lift, first floor, second, third.
There she stood, holding her door open, worry etched across her face.
Priya.
Her mouth gaped open when she saw the way we were dressed.
She beckoned us in. I moved forward. I hugged her.
She smiled at me. I smiled back.
I could be destroying her life. We would have to get Abhi back and Oberoi imprisoned and then keep the truth from coming out. But the kidnapping, the danger, the betrayal, that was not what I was worried about. She would find out. She would definitely find out somehow. Then what would happen? Selfish as usual, Ramesh.
She moved around her flat unsteadily, as if not quite sure what to do. Otherwise she did not betray a hint of nerves.
Indians are great appraisers of property. It is the clearest way of seeing where someone is in the world. What is caste compared to square footage? The best valuers are prospective mothers-in-law, of course, but every one of us has the gene.
There were two bedrooms, one turned into an office, then a small kitchen, a dining room, good neighborhood, Mayur Vihar, very posh, very nice. She was on the up, a junior production executive—and look what I’d done.
And here I am talking about the floor plan.
She looked beautiful. She had joined the very short list of people I was glad to see.
Rudi sat down on the sofa. He clicked on the television. I heard him sigh with relief.
Priya nodded slightly as she watched him, dressed so beautifully in that pink sari, ripping off his wig and throwing it to the floor. “He looks good,” she said.
“I picked it myself,” I said. I removed my own wig. Finally my forehead was clear of fringe.
She shook her head. She crossed over to me and removed the sunglasses from my face. “There you are.”
We stood and looked at each other.
“You’d better close the door if you don’t want someone to see,” she said.
I went over to shut it. That had been careless of me.
“Ramesh!” she said, pointing at my hand. She came over to me and took me by the shoulder. She was right up close. “What happened?”
“My finger,” I sighed. “They cut it off. For the ransom.”
Priya held my hand tight in hers and pulled me to her. My face was covered in her hair. I shut my eyes and felt it tickle my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, again and again.
“No, I am,” I said without meaning to. She would see. She’d see how rotten I was inside, and then I’d be saying sorry to her for the rest of my life.
“I’ll fix you up,” she said, and kissed me on my cheek. I wanted to kiss her properly, but she let go of me and went into her bathroom.
Rudi turned from the couch and gave me a wink.
“Fuck you,” I said, quietly enough that Priya wouldn’t hear.
When she returned, she had disinfectant, bandages, soap, and a basin of hot water. She snipped away the discolored bandage and gasped at what she saw.
I didn’t look, of course.
My eyes were closed. All I could feel were her fingers on mine, quick and deft and soft, the pads of her thumbs, the palms of her hands, the little calluses on her fingertips.
When I opened my eyes, my hand was swaddled in white. Priya led me to the sofa. Rudi tried hard to look engrossed in the program.
“I forgot. Food!” said Priya. “You’ve not eaten, have you?”
Rudi and I shook our heads like little schoolboys.
“Food!” she said again. “Eat first, then we plan later. Kitchen, come.”
“Two bedrooms in this apartment?” I asked as we stood in her kitchen. “Very nice.” I had to make conversation. Always ask an Indian about their property, I’d heard, in these sorts of social situations.
“I may get abuse, but I get paid,” she said. “I’m Oberoi’s perfect idiot. I work hard. I don’t undermine him. He thinks women are easier to control. I’m . . . I was good at what I did. I was irreplaceable.” She looked at Rudi and me. “I don’t think I have a job anymore, do I? Neither do you two.”
Rudi and I shook our heads again. Men of the world, knowers of wine and whisky, supposedly, reduced to silence.
There were dozens of photos of her on a thumbtack board on her kitchen wall, Goan beach student trips, young people living carefree lives. What the hell was that like?
She moved to her freezer, and took out some little boxes. “My mother’s care packages. At least you’ll eat them,” she said. “Not eating your ma’s home cooking. Isn’t that the worst sin any daughter could commit?” She laughed.
I could think of worse. Fucking up the love of your life’s future, and just before Diwali too. That was definitely worse than being rude to your mother, no matter what Indian society said.
We explained everything to
her while she microwaved the food and delivered it to us, yelping as her hands were burned by volcanically hot plastic.
Well, not everything. Not the exam fraud. I could see Rudi trying to skirt around the edges of it. He could see me trying too. It was our little secret, one we kept together.
“So Abhi Aggarwal has been taken by your friend?” she asked when we’d finished devouring the food. It was hot and it was tasty. “And Oberoi did all this for money?”
“Pretty fucking much,” said Rudi. “Said his wife and kids had bled him dry.”
“Ha, he would say that. Rudraksh . . . Ramesh,” she said. “What have you got yourselves into?”
“We’re fucked,” Rudi said.
“Rudi, you’re a crorepati ten times over,” I said. “If that’s fucked, then what are the rest of us?”
“Oh, stop complaining. You have her,” he said, and pointed at Priya.
“Stop it, Rudi,” I said.
“Your life is so simple, Ramesh. All you do is take my money and spend it. You fucking call her, and don’t tell me,” he said, his voice growing loud and high with self-pity. Clearly his moral evolution was slowing down. “I don’t have any friends. Do you understand that? I have no one. Everyone wants me for my money. I only have hangers-on. You. My friends. Even my parents. My own fucking parents, Ramesh, only give a shit about me for my fucking money.”
“Can I remind you that MY FINGER HAS BEEN CUT OFF,” I shouted. The neighbors and their little Stanford-attending beta could go to hell. I would do lots of incense-lighting and money-donating to whoever the god of neighborly silences was. “Prick. It’s like you haven’t grown up at all since we met,” I continued. He bubbled with anger. Good.
“Boys! We only have one thing we can do,” Priya said. I looked at her. You could tell she’d been planning something. I’d just been thinking about food and my finger, and she’d somehow come up with a plan.
