The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(38)

Bilal enjoyed these spells in the study, neatening up once the TV shows bored him, but he felt ants crawling over his skin today. He’d developed a finely tuned sense for the boy’s episodes. Another was on its way. He deftly replaced the device hidden behind the table, placed new pens and notebooks at the boy’s desk, sorted the stationery. He watered down the whiskey the boy kept in a back cabinet, because the boy’s liver was hammered up with years of abuse. Opening a tiny drawer, Bilal checked the quality and amount of the white powder. The boy must not overdose by accident. His friends asked him what it was like to work for the boy. If only they knew.

He spent the rest of the time flicking the remote, and playing games on his phone. The boy liked games. After his father died, he’d introduced them to Bilal. In some ways, Bilal was his father. Telling him what to stay away from. Protecting him. Where was he now? Was he walking the roads, rubbing shoulders with those he held in contempt? Was he headed to the railway station? Was he arranging another delivery? Had Uhnna relented?

On Choti Diwali evening many years ago, the day before the festival of Diwali, Bilal had found them both, their clothes askew—the woman triumphant, the then fifteen-year-old boy shamed and trembling on the hotel grounds not far from the railway tracks. She had sauntered off, with a smile on her face that alarmed Bilal.

The boy often said, I’m fair, Bilal. I don’t tie up those women. They aren’t alone. They have a choice. I never had one.

The boy was upset with Bilal for botching the last cleanup. The master, the boy’s dad, said often: if you don’t change something, you choose it. That’s not true, sahab, Bilal wanted to inform the ghost of that man. You did the choosing, and now it is too late for me to make a change. Looks like it’s also too late for your son.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


TARA

The DJ announced Tara and her attributes in a loud, accented, drawn-out warble, and as she stepped on the stage he spat out lyrics in a rap, following one phrase with another in a cascade. Tara had practiced her entrance several times, and yet the spotlight managed to blind her.

She let her body take control, but that momentary blindness took her to the terror and regret of that first night-work assignment when she’d sat blindfolded for who knew how long, wearing a burka, in the rear of a car, flanked by two men.

A tinny Malayali song. The reek of stale tobacco and booze. The window sliding down. The click of a lighter. Cigarette smoke and damp outside air. A splash of water as a vehicle passed by. The growl of the car. The rosewater smell of Zoya’s burka she’d stolen. The bristle of the sequined saree at her waist. The lure of ?60,000 for a night.

You’re here.

The first time she’d heard the jackal growl from the shadowy gloom.

The frenetic dance in the dark before an invisible, silent, menace-filled audience of one.

Once again, she was under the light, being watched from the dark. Only this time she was not alone. Poised to step out, her girls stood in the wings. She followed the advice she’d given them—letting her limbs ride the music, taking in her surroundings through half-closed eyes. Tara didn’t see joy in dance—that was for those who could afford it—but this came close. She lost track of time as her solo progressed, but right on cue, her new students joined her onstage in ones and twos, their movements a counterpoint to hers.

She skipped from the stage onto the ramp leading toward the bar and let the barman help her up. There, with a swish of her cream skirts, she twirled between clients who were supposed to throw currency at her. Instead, notes blanketed the counter and flew off as she dipped and swung in tight circles. From the audience on the barstools touched by her billowing skirts came yells, piercing whistles.

Amid the charged air, an eerie stillness descended on her. She felt eyes on her skin, a knowing gaze within the whirl of motion and noise. Could the jackal be here?

Walk to the bed.

Where are you, saab?

His disembodied voice from the past echoed, splitting her in two—the body thrusting and swaying to the music, the mind lost in remembered dread.

Sweat trickled at her armpits and beaded above her lips. She gulped when she heard polished Hindi. I was told you will do as I say. Don’t call me saab.

Ji, saab. Hungry gaze on her face, her throat. Lower. The prickle of alarm at her neck.

Already with the saab?

No. I mean, yes. I mean, Ji.

Zoya’s words from earlier. You’re still a child. Just seventeen. You have no idea.

Dark room, shadows, invisible man. Sixty thousand rupees.

Take off your burka and sit on the bed.

The rustle of the burka to the ground. The cold of the air-conditioning on her exposed waist.

Sit.

Silken, slippery bedsheet. Cold like the horror pooling in her gut.

The scratch of the blue-shimmering saree.

Goose bumps on her bare arms.

Cologne, one she’d never smelled before, like pricey alcohol on old wood and cinnamon.

Charas, the air heavy with its drugged stupor.

You dance well, I’m told.

The strains of Tu shayar hai.

Dance, then.

The mockery and malice of the jackal of her nightmares, with the snarl of a creature far more lethal.

What’s wrong? Expressionless, but furious. Oh, you can’t dance unless you’re being showered with notes.

Dead insect wings on her eyelids. Petals, dried rose petals.