Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

'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 pretends 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.