by Samit Basu
She stretches, and rolls out of bed, and as always he's amazed by how beautiful she is, and how astonishing it is that she's there with him, and tries not to stare. This is the plan: she's going to the bathroom, and he's going to make them some breakfast, then they're going to figure out whether round two happens in the bedroom, or in the shower. Afterwards, he’s going to laze around and try not to stare at her, and she's going to be on the phone with her agent, yelling at him for not fixing up secret appointments with rival Flowcos now that her week is free — the Finnish chastity-belt smartatt sponsors have pulled out of the Indi-Tara relationship, fortunately, Indi must have been getting several infidelity notifications of late.
A loud thumping on the glass-window wall distracts them: Rudra quickly connects to the public streetcam view of their building, but there's nothing there. He calls out asking what it is, but there's no answer, just urgent hammering on the glass. They draw up the digiscreen with its two-colour display of the Manhattan skyline, blinking as the harshness of the morning outside floods the room.
There's a monkey trapped on the narrow ledge outside the glass, banging in a frenzy at the invisible wall separating him from them. There's something wrong with his collar, it's zapping him even though he's outside, probably a network glitch. Sparks cascade from the collar to the glass. Tara wants to open the glass pane and let him in, she really has no fear, but he stops her. The monkey's in great pain, eyes bulging, rolling wildly, mouth foam-flecked, limbs askew.
Rudra searches on his phone for a number to call, but by the time he's found it the monkey's passed out, eyes locked with Rudra's in baffled rage as he slides down the glass on to the ledge. Tara's sobbing, but then two drones fly up, and she squeals and makes a run for it. Rudra wonders why, and then remembers they're both still naked. The glass is supposed to be photo-proof, but it's best for Tara not to take chances. He doesn't have a leering audience of thousands, though, so he just stands there, staring back at the drones, until their operators lose interest and fly away. Outside the glass, the monkey's collar pings: he leaps up, and takes off, apparently recovered.
Rudra's left alone, staring out at the grid of ICB market rooftops, each one a perfect square covered with smartiles. He'd heard a lot about the ICB night games, when the market rooftop transforms into a gigantic board, on which celebrities play board games. The plan was for it to be visible from space, but they hadn't factored in the Delhi haze when they built it, so they just fly powerful drone cams through the smoky skies to capture the games as best as they can. Rudra and Tara spent their first night together with the screen up, listening to the strange mix of music drifting up into the sky out of the clubs below, watching the glow of the market's signs filtered through the dust, and the rooftops lighting up one by one.
'Honeymoon's over,' Tara says behind him.
'What do you mean?' She's looking at her phone, scratching her stomach, and he realises he'd completely forgotten about breakfast.
'Phone was silent,' she says. 'The new girl's moving in today.'
'Zaria? When?'
The doorbell rings.
Rudra's obviously disappointed to have his morning plans destroyed, but he's also very excited to meet Zaria, and he suspects Tara is too. They've watched the hell out of her videos on the premium net, and haven't managed to see them all because Zaria's been breaking big stories since her mid-teens: there are even videos of her shouting pro-democracy slogans in Shaheen Bagh as a child. Rudra's seen some of her global-viral reports through his gaming friends who follow her from around the world: he had no idea who Indi was until quite recently, but Zaria he's known of for years. Tara, on the other hand, has been tracking Indi's career since his first Flow, but has had no access to Zaria's videos, which face mass downratings, complaints and lawsuits within seconds of release in India, often get blocked by the big telecom companies and disappear entirely off the Indian internet, or lose traction because of troll-blasts about special surveillance of Zaria's followers. She's been chased out of cities by murderous mobs, shot at by riot police, gone entirely underground for months, been doxxed multiple times and assaulted quite a few. She's faced death threats from a sea of internet trolls, members of Parliament, religious leaders and major CEOs. She's survived actual assassination attempts. She shot to national fame after Hindu extremists put a price on her head, after a series of stories about cow corpses blocking highways because nobody dared to touch them. She had to leave India after a video series where she travelled along the border of actual Indian control, measuring its distance from the official border, taking selfies with Chinese soldiers deep inside officially Indian turf. No one even knows what she did in Kashmir to get her whole family thrown into jail. She got deported from Mozambique after infiltrating a child-trafficking ring in Mumbai and following it to an international slave auction. She's completely blocked on the Chinese internet after a story on the brain-modification joy-camps of Xinjing. Rudra is a fan.
'Why would she want to work with you?' he'd asked Joey as soon as he heard Zaria Salam was actually going to move in.
'First of all, thanks,' Joey'd said. 'What do you mean, why? You were there for the meeting.'
'I didn't mean to be disrespectful. And no, I wasn't listening to the meeting after the first few minutes.'
'Well, I don't blame you.'
'I just meant, wouldn't someone like her see what we do as a step... as a very different line of work?'
'How would I know? Maybe she's tired of putting her life on the line? Maybe her family, or the government, or any of her many enemies has figured out a way to stop her doing what she's done all these years, and this is her only remaining option?'
'I've heard that all the news organisations have been given instructions to not work with her,' Rudra says.
'Well, there you have it. Maybe she needs a new point on her CV before she moves to another country. Maybe she wants to be a politician like her dad. If she tells me during a pillow-fight, I'll text you.'
'I wasn't suggesting any of this was easy,' he'd said, widening his eyes and putting a finger on his lips and pointing at the walls theatrically. She'd laughed.
'If anyone's listening, do you think they haven't thought of all this? It's all over the Flowverse, every kind of theory about why Badass Zaria fucking Salam should descend to the level of us shallow trend-chasers. What could have gone wrong? All I know is I'm tired, Rudra. I'm trying to quit and they won't let me. Everyone's cleverer than me anyway, everyone's always two steps ahead.’
‘Why did you come back, Joey? I was so happy you'd gotten out. I mean, not happy-‘
She’d silenced him with a gesture.
‘Did they threaten you?’ Rudra had asked.
She'd turned towards the walls, and addressed them directly.
'Whoever's secretly listening to this, I'd love to work for you,' she'd said. ‘Just get me out of here.'
He'd just stood there, not knowing what to say to her, and she'd given him a sympathetic grin after a few seconds.
'I'm sorry,' she'd said. 'If you really want to know what I think, she wants to infiltrate the Flowco, hack into all our systems, find out something about Nikhil, or Chopra, or whoever our real boss is. And they probably know this, but have signed her up for whatever fucking above-our-pay-grade reason anyway. So as soon as any of these people get whatever it is they want, she'll leave, or disappear. Whoever wins, it won't be us. And she'll probably be an asshole to us. Most Flowstars are. So don't get too attached to her. '
And then they'd gone to the kitchen to drink kiwi-dragon smoothies and watch the new Desibryde video, which featured her sitting in a cage reading the preamble to the constitution out loud, while all around the cage, men in god masks had angry sex with one another.
Rudra opens the door and lets Zaria in, hating himself with a passion for not being able to summon up one second's worth of suavity. In Tara's enthusiastic greetings he can sense a simmering hostility, but that makes complete sense: Zaria's strolling not just into
their love-nest, but into a slot that Tara had hoped, unrealistically, to occupy, and Tara's been working really hard to climb up to it. Joey's there as well, with Zaria's two hulking black-kurta-clad bodyguards, Faiz and Husain.
'Did you put on clothes just for me?' Zaria asks Rudra by way of greeting, and he realises his T-shirt's inside out. He mumbles something about not being fashionable, but Zaria's already moved past him. She saunters around the house, Husain and Faiz always a step behind, scanning devices out and surveying every possible direction. The kitchen appears to win her approval, Indi's room elicits a raised eyebrow and a smirk, Tara's room a few deep, significant sniffs, a slow stare at the unmade bed, and then a quick look at Tara and Rudra. Rudra's room, unused for a week, is where she spends the most time, tapping the wooden surfaces, touching the start control panel and somewhat theatrically drawing a finger over the dust on the computer screen.
'I'm taking this room,' she says.
'The star gets the big bedroom,' Joey says.
'I always sleep where the monitors are, not the cameras,' says Zaria. 'How long will it take to clear this space out?'
'Not long,' says Rudra. 'But I need this equipment to work.'
'And we can't fit the double bed in here,' Joey says.
'Don't need a double,' says Zaria. 'Where's K-pop, by the way?'
They break the news to her that Jin-Young is gone, and she expresses deep sadness. 'I wanted him to teach me everything about Flowing.'
'Rudra's here for that,' Joey says. 'He'll be your editor.'
'Nikhil should have told you, I'm bringing people I trust,' Zaria says. 'People are actually trying to kill me, so if this is my HQ I'm going to need to run it. I've checked you out, Joey, so that's all good, I said I wanted the best in the business and here you are. But I need to look you two up before I let you be on my team.'
'I'm not on your team,' Tara says. 'I'm another Flowstar? And he's with me.’
‘So you’re moving out?’
Everyone stares balefully at Joey, who keeps her face impressively still.
‘You'll figure that out, I’m sure,’ Zaria says. 'Now I need you to log in to all the computers in that surveillance centre, and give my boys a couple of hours to bug-sweep the house. Stay away as long as you can, actually. I have a presentation to work on.'
'We had the house checked,' Joey says.
'Yeah, I saw how well that worked with Indi. We can measure our dicks if you like about this, Joey, but it saves us all time if you go and get some coffee — try City of Cats, it's great.'
Rudra watches open-mouthed as Joey considers this, and accepts. She'd told him Zaria would try to get into their systems, but like him, she probably hadn't anticipated it would be within her first few minutes in her new base. And it's definitely her base now. He can see in Tara's eyes the same uncertainty he feels: do they even live here anymore?
'I woke up thinking today was going to be a good day,' says Tara later, glowering into her phone. Her agent isn't taking her calls. Joey and Rudra aren't at their best either. Two mugs each of diabolically strong Costa Rican coffee, drained far too quickly, and their heads and smartatts are throbbing. Tara's smiles for stranger selfies have all been bordering on grimaces.
'You'll find something,' Joey says. 'I've met a lot of actresses and Flowstars, so believe me when I tell you that you're going to make it. It just takes more time than any of us want to accept, that's all.'
'Easy for you to say,' Tara says. 'You have a salary. I have another round of bloody auditions to set up, and all they'll want to talk about is Indi.'
'I won't have a salary once they finally accept my resignation.'
'You're not going anywhere,' Tara says. 'You're here because you choose to be, and you love your job. You're the best in the whole industry, didn't you hear? Bitch pretended she didn't know who I was, like she hasn't been watching my Flow since it started. She'll want you, though, and you'll stay. Might as well face facts.'
Joey shrugs. 'I might surprise you one day.'
'Oh, fuck, no,' says Rudra.
They turn to him, and find him staring aghast at a man sitting across the cafe, several empty mugs with fruit-juice smears on the table in front of him, face covered by a tablet. A powerful-looking man, bulging out of a business shirt. He sets the tablet down, rises and approaches their table.
'If you ladies can give us a minute,' Rohit says, 'I need to speak with my brother.'
The Peach Blossom Spring pan-Asian lounge is just a few doors down and a few flights up from their coffee shop. All Rudra knows about it is that it's rumoured to be a child-trafficking hub, but he doesn't know what signs to look for, and it's not even lunchtime. The guards at the door seem to know his brother. A sharply dressed manager walks them through an extremely trendy and empty Sinofuturist-design restaurant, through a sliding door in a metal facade, and up a dark and narrow flight of stairs with dragons dancing on the walls beside them. Rudra's heart thumps harder as they ascend into darkness: where the hell are they going? Why is there a walk-in Hong Kong 1960s gangster movie experience available ten minutes away from his bed?
Another door, a giant bouncer, and they're in a bizarre reconstruction of somebody's imaginary old-school Chinese restaurant, dim, smoky, noisy, large red lanterns, stained carpets, embroidered wooden partitions, stunning red-robed waitresses, an explosion of delicious food-smells, elderly red-faced men around a gambling table, every Orientalist cliché he's ever seen. He looks around for opium addicts and rival Kung Fu schools, but maybe they're late lunchers. They sit in a booth, red velvet sofas, large menus in Mandarin. His brother doesn't need them: he chats with a suit-clad waiter for a while, and lights a cigarette.
'I didn't know you spoke Mandarin,' Rudra says.
Rohit shrugs. 'Baba had to learn Hindi. His dad had to learn English. We do what we have to.'
The waiter appears, replaces their wooden kuàizi with titanium ones, and sets cold appetisers down.
'You've put on some weight,' Rohit says. 'Living with girls and all, it happens. You look good, overall. Are you finally getting some sex?'
'How did you know I was going to be at Cats?' Rudra asks.
'I always know where you are,' Rohit says. 'I've always known, ever since you left. We're family. But I should have done better. I assumed you would come to me when you were ready. You've never claimed your blood was thicker than it is. The fault is mine.'
'Okay, this is just deeply weird,' Rudra says. 'Why are we here? What the fuck is this place? Who are you?'
'Calm down. This place is... just a space where men can speak freely. A discreet place, a space of power and comfort.
‘That's just a ridiculous rumour. Give this a colonial facelift, and it could be the bloody Gymkhana Club. It used to be an American diner until five years ago, jukebox and milkshakes and all that nonsense. But the world moves forward.’
‘Why are we here?’
‘You know, I really thought baba's death would bring you back, show you where you belong. Then that idiot Bijoyini had to stick her neck out, and, of course, you had to jump — when have you ever said no to a chance to make a fool of yourself?'
‘Rohit. Why are we here?’
‘To talk, you fool. I could have had you pulled into a van and brought home, but you're too old for that now. We have to speak like adults.'
'You sent that van to my old place, I hear.'
'No. I went myself, to bring you home, but you'd run away already. I've always tried to let you have your freedom.'
'What did you mean, you always know where I am? Do you have a tracker on me?'
'No.'
‘I don’t believe you.’
'I was waiting for you in that cafe because I thought you might visit it. And I wanted to sit down across a table from you. That's how things still get done, you know. All your virtual meetings and remote work... nothing moves until two men meet face to face and sort things out.'
'What do you want to sort out?'
'You. Ma
's a wreck. I can't handle it all on my own any more. You have duties, you know. It's time to step up and be a man.'
Rudra gives Rohit his most withering glare, but the effect is wholly ruined by the arrival of a waitress with a tray on which a magnificent crispy duck, pancakes and hoisin sauce lie in state. The brothers stare at each other through a cloud of gentle smoke.
'I thought you were vegetarian,' Rudra says.
'I am,' Rohit says, digging in.
In between skilfully rolled pancakes and a predictable hogging of the sauce, Rohit explains what he wants. Things had gone downhill since Rudra turned down Chopra’s incredibly generous offer. You didn't insult Chopra the way Rudra had and not suffer consequences — Chopra had not only taken over Rudra's Flowco, but handed it to Nikhil, a direct rival of Rohit's. But even this punishment could be an opportunity — now they had, for the first time, a chance to find out more about Nikhil's plans.
'You need to keep Chopra and Nikhil thinking that there is a rift between us.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Nick's going to make his move soon, and promote you to a spot where he can try and turn you against me, and find out more about our clinics. You're going to say yes. And together we're going to trap that private-jet bastard, and drive him completely out of Chopra's circle. Stop looking at the wall every time I say their names — we're safe here. If the Peach Blossom's secrets come out, all of Delhi burns.'
Rudra waits until the next pancake goes into Rohit's mouth. 'I don't care at all about any of this soap opera bullshit.’
'You remind me so much of myself,' Rohit says. 'If you think about it, you’ll realise you don’t even really hate ma and me the way you think you do. Your problem was with baba. But we don’t have time for tantrums now.’
'Can you not just hire someone else to be your corporate spy?'
'I already own three people in his teams. As he does in mine, no doubt, but this is not about him. I need my brother. I need you to wake up and start using that brain of yours. To see what the world we live in is really like. Nikhil is just another rival — we'll meet his type at every stage. And the truth is we're friends. Allies. Magicians, because advanced politics is magic. And the country is being rebuilt by our magic.'