The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(26)

Zoya had asked her to call Arnav, tell him about Pia and ask for help—but what would she say? I didn’t tell you, but you have a teenage daughter? I missed you more than I imagined I would? Where would she be today had she run to Arnav instead? No point in giving in to fantasies. Arnav must have married by now, fathered other children. An illegitimate daughter could not be on his wish list.

Tara opened her eyes when the car stopped, stuck in traffic. A pao bhaji stall sat on the opposite side of the road, and Tara recalled the spicy curry that used to set her tongue on fire. She slid open a window for a better look, but closed it soon after. Mumbai’s fumes had grown stronger. Traffic smoke hazed her windows. In the rear seat of an old Maruti van ahead of her car, she spotted a huge white goat, its face as big as the window, its body barely fitting the width of the car, its eyes wide in terror. Tara turned away and made herself breathe till the car moved again.

An hour later, the driver turned into a swanky apartment complex. “We’re here, madam.”

She’d never seen where Shetty lived, but with his old scooter he rode to work, it couldn’t have been in this gated condominium. The driver waved to the guard, who opened the high gates for the car. Fountains, a lush garden, small pathways—the walls had hidden away the secret garden, one untouched by the slums across the road. No open drains in this Mumbai, no squalling, half-naked children, no cows or goats, no stray dogs. The same city, but two countries, poles apart. Shetty seemed to have done well with all the other restaurants he used to boast about. Why was he even opening a dance bar again? The car pulled up in front of a glass-walled lobby, and Tara straightened her shirt before stepping out. Time to face her old boss.

Shetty’s man led her to a lift and punched in the fifty-ninth floor.

Moments later, the lift dinged open into a living room, making Tara sway as it came to a stop. Tara recognized it as Shetty’s apartment because of the gold-trimmed carpet, the chairs and tables on gold legs, and the gold-framed deities that covered the walls. The air was dense with incense and camphor burned over years.

It reminded her of Shetty’s previous office, a small, windowless room tucked upstairs at the rear of the bar—fragrant with incense, sandalwood, and flowers from an altar brimming with gods attired in white and gold.

In those days, he never wore anything other than a white short-sleeve shirt and a white mundu. White ash marked his forehead in a vertical streak.

Tara took a step back when her boss, giving her the same old fatherly smile, parted heavy brocade curtains and emerged like a ghost from yesteryear. He had grayed at the temples and sideburns and walked with a slouch, but was otherwise much the same. The smear of ash at his forehead remained, and he still favored the same white outfit. The only change was the assortment of studded gold rings, gold bracelets, and chains that weighed him down.

He gestured her to a chair. That was new. She’d never sat in his presence.

Tara took in the expanse of sky visible from the balcony behind Shetty. The highest she had ever been, if she did not count the recent flight she’d taken.

With a faint clink of his bracelets, Shetty lowered himself into a chair, ornate enough to have been picked off the set of a historical movie. “You must be tired after your flight.”

This was new, as well. Tired, what tired, Shetty said often, with his smile in place, his eyes stern. Drink a glass of water and get back onstage.

Zoya, who had trained her when she first came to the bar at thirteen, would warn her: You dance well, but save it for the right clients who come in late at night, or you’ll be too tired by then. The older men toss more money. Tara had laughed. She didn’t believe dancers were showered with money till she saw it for herself, peeking from behind the door that served as the makeup room for the fifteen girls who worked at the Blue Bar.

This was not the Blue Bar, but it didn’t seem all that unfamiliar as Shetty inspected her like the grocer back in Lucknow watched the weighing scales. Assessing, measuring. “You are all grown up, but Zoya was right, you don’t show your age.”

Tara perched on the edge of a chair opposite him, the cushion unyielding under her butt. No reply was expected. Tara made none.

“You will open the show, followed by the other girls—Zoya tells me you’ve worked as a choreographer?”

How much had Zoya told this man? Tara wanted the money, but she also wished to keep Pia and her life back in Lucknow sealed away from the week she would spend here.

“Tara?”

“Yes.”

“Teach the girls. Some of them are new. These days the audience expects more than they did in your time. Make sure they look good together.”

In your time. Tara was in her thirties now. New girls, new world. She wasn’t a bar girl all over again, but the teacher. Someone who told them what to do.

“Any questions?”

Years ago, Tara would have shaken her head. She stood up instead. “My advance?”

“Taken care of.” Shetty motioned to his man who stood quietly by the door. He stepped forward and handed her a packet. “That’s for the first two nights,” Shetty said. “Do well, and you won’t leave unhappy.”

Tara slipped the packet in her purse, knowing she would count it as soon as she was alone.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


BILAL

In his small one-room place, Bilal sank into a soft, much-used leather chair. This hideaway was not close to the boy’s Andheri apartment, but not so far that he couldn’t rush back if summoned. The boy had given him the third degree, and he’d stomached it: kept quiet through the verbal lashing and even a shove. Rasool Bhai was his contact. His role was to make sure that things meant to vanish didn’t reappear. Now Mumbai Police had found three of the old burials, and this last one. Bilal put his face in his hands. He should have run when he had a chance.