Vikas Swarup - Six Suspects

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 Jagannath 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.

Actually I shouldn't be saying all this. After all, I myself have joined the ranks of the rich imperialists. Thanks to a certain briefcase!

Ritu calls me the next morning, sounding a little upset. 'Vijay, can we meet today? Some place quiet. And far from here.'

'I know just the place. Let's meet in Lodhi Garden. It's on the other side of the city.'

'Yes. I know Lodhi Garden. I'll meet you there at two o'clock.'

I have a gut feeling that today I will finally score with this rich chick. In the salubrious environs of Delhi's most famous park.

I take a taxi to Lodhi Garden and wait for her near the entrance. She arrives fifteen minutes late in an auto-rickshaw, wearing a pink salwar kameez. I like her choice of colour. But what I like even more is the fact that she has ditched the family car and the personal guard. Definitely a good omen.

Lodhi Garden is a wide open green space full of tombs and trees. It is famous for two things: jogging and snogging. In the mornings the park is full of fitness enthusiasts who can be seen running around in soaked T-shirts, and in the afternoons the lovers take over, making out in recessed alcoves of crumbling monuments, kissing behind bushes, groping on strategically situated park benches.

At two o'clock, the park resembles a zoo for lovelorn couples. I can see that Ritu is a bit uncomfortable at the public displays of affection going on all over the park. In small-town Lucknow the necking couples would probably be in jail by now.

'Should we go to another park?' she asks me, glancing around with trepidation.