*
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 pretend
s 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.
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 Jaga
nnath 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.