An infuriated Vicky glared at Steven Dick. His personal life, his dalliances, were none of Steven’s business. ‘Dare you go down that path, Steve. Stay out of my personal life.’ His voice shook with suppressed rage. ‘We supplied to Nordstrom quite a while back; eight months, to be precise. If they downsized, what do we do? We are trying everything feasible to recover our money.’
‘Well, good luck then,’ Steven quipped, turning to his own papers.
The mood in the room was sombre. The talk of a new Managing Director had built walls and polarized the team. They all knew that it would be impossible to do so unless Vicky Malhotra stepped down on his own. And step down he wouldn’t.
The Big Survivor title sponsorship, in a year when profitability had hit nadir, was also a sore point. But after the confrontation between Steve and Vicky, no one raised this.
That night, on prime-time television, Pallavi Soni was crowned the winner of Big Survivor Season 6. She was the first Indian to win.
5
March 2015
LONDON
‘The number of audience votes you got was mind-boggling. No one else even stood a chance!’ Vicky Malhotra said to Pallavi at dinner that night. ‘I guess the entire Indian community in the UK was rooting for you.’
Pallavi laughed. ‘I must thank Leslie James for that.’ Leslie, an American architect and also a participant in Big Survivor, had hurled racist abuses at Pallavi on the show. Pallavi had ignored her and calmly tried to manage the situation. While Leslie’s aggression didn’t go down well with the conservative TV audience in Britain, they fell in love with Pallavi’s calm and grace. Leslie James soon found herself out of the show, and the votes poured in for Pallavi. After that, there was no way she could have lost.
‘Possibly. But had you not fought your way through, you wouldn’t have been noticed. You wouldn’t have won,’ Vicky said as he refilled Pallavi’s wine glass.
‘Thank you.’ Pallavi beamed. She couldn’t help but notice how well-turned-out Vicky Malhotra was. He was smart, handsome, polished and, well, rich. He was someone who could take care of her and provide for her. Back home, her floundering career as a Bollywood heroine was almost history. She had started getting roles which expected her to play second fiddle to lead actresses – quite a come down from her heydays as one of India’s most popular stars.
But now, Vicky could give her something that Bollywood couldn’t – money and fame. Sure, he was much older than her, but then he had the money to make up for it.
When they had met, there had been just one problem – Vicky was married. But after Vicky had told her about how his married life was falling apart, even that didn’t matter any longer.
And Pallavi knew that there was chemistry between them. That moment when Vicky had presented her the Big Survivor winner’s trophy was when Pallavi realized that they could really get something going. Vicky had asked her out to dinner the very night of her big win, but they couldn’t go out till the Big Survivor season finale was telecast. So tonight, with the event telecast behind them, they could finally have that dinner.
By the time they were done, Pallavi was sloshed. She had no clue what she was saying or doing. Vicky Malhotra, to give him credit, was quite sober. He could hold his drink. He helped her to his car and then drove her back to her hotel.
‘Thank you,’ Pallavi mumbled after he had walked her to her room and tucked her in. Just as he was about to move away, she pulled him down and he tumbled onto the bed, right next to her. Suddenly, Pallavi was wide awake and slowly returning to her senses. Yes, she wanted this to happen. After coming so close to Vicky Malhotra, she couldn’t let him go. Leaning over, she looked into his eyes, drunkenly meeting his intense gaze. She slid towards him, closing the gap between them, and thus began a night of passion.
This passion rapidly consumed them and eventually led to Pallavi extending her stay in London. Vicky Malhotra booked her into a suite at the Metropolitan, so that he could also come and stay with her whenever he wanted to. It didn’t take the media much time to figure out the relationship between the two of them. Somewhere along the way, Vicky told her that he was getting a divorce from his wife of nine years. Pallavi rejoiced. Everything was falling into place.
She wanted him. She wanted him badly. In her previous relationships, Pallavi had always found of doors shutting on her face. In what was one of the darkest moments of her life, her closest friend had gotten pregnant with Pallavi’s boyfriend’s child, and then married him. That was the moment the penny had dropped for Pallavi. Something always seemed to lead her to a position of disadvantage, from where she would invariably lose. She was determined that with Vicky Malhotra, it would be different. She didn’t want to lose him.
He was her insurance.
6
March 2015
NEW YORK CITY
Aditya Kesavan returned home to four messages on his answering machine that night.
The first one was from his publisher: Over half a million copies sold, sixteen languages around seventy-three countries in the world. And yet you’re not interested in striking when the iron is hot. Please send manuscript back. We need to go to press soon. We have announced the book to the media. Everyone is waiting. Hello. You there?
Second was from his dad: Adi, Amma is not well, da. Admitted her to the hospital today. Call when you get this message.
Since he’d just spoken to his father on his way back home, he didn’t panic when he heard the second message. His mother was stricken with early onset dementia. She had reached a stage where she didn’t remember who her husband was. ‘Amma might not even remember you,’ his father had told him on the phone.
‘Do you want me to come?’ Aditya had asked him.
‘Not now, Adi. Come when she is back home. But don’t delay it or you might lose her forever.’ Aditya could hear the tears and pain in his father’s voice.
The third message on the machine was what sounded like a crank call: This is the Officer on Special Duty from the Prime Minister’s Office in New Delhi. Please call back when you get this message. My number is…
Aditya didn’t even wait for the message to end. He pressed the button and skipped to the fourth message. These spam calls had become very common. Wonder where they got his number from?
7
24 October 2016
SOMEWHERE ON THE INDIA–NEPAL BORDER
A white Ambassador car with four occupants, all middle aged, was speeding down National Highway No. 12. It was almost midnight. The car was headed towards the Nepal border, about 25 kilometres away.
The two men sitting in the back were passing a bottle of Antiquity whisky between them, drinking directly from the bottle.
‘Pass it on, Dipu,’ Imran said, turning from his passenger seat to look at Deepak, who was seated right behind the driver. Imran was possibly the leader of the group, for Deepak didn’t argue, quietly passing on the bottle.
Kishore Kumar songs were blasting from the cheap stereo system in the car. The men sang along, seemingly in a good mood. Imran took a swig and offered the bottle to the driver, who accepted it and gulped down the whisky.
‘Hey, save some for us,’ Imran said, laughing.
‘ Yes, don’t finish everything,’ Deepak protested. ‘It has to last till we reach the border.’
He reached out and tried to take the bottle from the driver’s hand. Not wanting to let go, the driver moved his hand away. A small melee ensued, during which the bottle slipped out of the driver’s hand and fell on his lap. Precious whisky spilled out.
‘Damn,’ yelled the driver and looked down to retrieve the bottle. The car was speeding at roughly 80 kmph and in less than three seconds, the bend in the road, 60 metres away when he looked down, was upon them.
By the time the driver looked up, it was already too late. The car had sped past the bend and down the cliff, falling 200 feet and landing on the rocks below. There were no survivors.
The police arrived on the spot in twenty minutes. By the t
ime the medical team arrived, the bodies had been pulled out of the mangled wreckage and laid out on the rocks. Once they had been taken away to the local government hospital, the police started looking around to see what could have caused the accident. The post mortem would confirm if this was a case of drunken driving, but the broken bottle of Antiquity with traces of whisky still in it told them that it possibly was.
Three suitcases and a leather bag was pulled out of the wreckage. The local sub-inspector walked up to the bag, kneeled in front of it and pulled opened the zip. There was a white towel on top. He took it off. The moment he did that, he was taken aback, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The bag was full of cash – bundles of 1,000- rupee notes. And when he opened the suitcases, the story there was no different.
A sum total of sixty lakh rupees was recovered from the luggage in the car. Leaving his team on-site to keep a watch till the forensic teams arrived from Kanpur, the SI rushed to the hospital. The dead men were not clean. There was something sinister about that recovered cash. He had to figure out what it was. And to do that, he had to examine the dead bodies properly.
8
March 2015
NEW YORK CITY
As Aditya Kesavan walked into the university campus the next morning and neared his block, he saw a car bearing an Indian flag parked in the faculty parking. He smiled. The tricolour always made him smile. For a moment, he thought about his father and how he was dealing with his mother’s illness. Was the old man still resolutely refusing to take the lift and climbing up the stairs to his office on the third floor?
Hardly had Aditya walked into his chamber when his phone rang. It was the Head of the Economics Department.
‘Morning, Phil,’ Aditya said as he picked up the call.
‘Morning. There is someone here to see you, Aditya. Would you come down to my chamber, please?’
In three minutes, Aditya was in Phil’s chamber.
‘Hey Aditya. Come on in,’ Phil exclaimed the moment he saw the professor. ‘These men are here to meet you.’ He pointed to two impeccably dressed men in black suits seated across his desk. As they stood up to shake Aditya’s hand and exchange hellos, he realized that they were Indian.
‘How may I help you?’ Aditya asked coolly, once they were done with the pleasantries.
‘We have been trying to reach you for a few days now, Mr Kesavan.’
Suddenly, Aditya remembered those messages on his answering machine that he had been dismissing as spam.
The man continued, ‘The Indian Prime Minister’s Office has been trying to get in touch with you.’
9
March 2015
The very next day, Aditya Kesavan was on a British Airways flight to Mumbai. The flight had a stopover at Heathrow, and since he hadn’t had time to shop for his parents in New York, he walked around the duty-free shops now, looking for something to pick up. Tempted by the Ladurée Macarons, he entered the store and picked up a dozen for his mother. She loved the coffee-flavoured ones. At least, she had loved them the last time he had bought them for her. He wasn’t sure if she would remember that now.
By the time he reached his flight, the last boarding call had been made. As he was entering, he could not help but notice that there was a fair bit of commotion on the right side of the aeroplane-gate – the section where the economy class passengers were standing. A flight attendant hurriedly ushered him into his business-class seat.
‘We have an Indian celebrity in first class,’ she told him as he settled in and asked her the reason for the fuss.
‘Who is it?’ he asked, curious. Celebrity life intrigued him. All his life, Aditya had pined for attention. His book had given him a fair bit of intellectual glamour, but he craved real, universal recognition, the kind that film stars enjoyed. Given the kind of books he wrote, it would be a bit unnatural for his readers, consisting largely of students, CEOs and business leaders, to fawn over him.
‘Some actress and her husband,’ the attendant replied in French accent . Aditya realized that Indian celebrities didn’t mean much to her. His assumption turned out to be right when she said blandly, ‘I will check who it is and get back to you.’
‘Sure, thank you,’ Aditya said and the conversation ended.
Once they were airborne and the seat-belt lights were turned off, he got up to go to the washroom. Unfortunately, both the washrooms were occupied, but the attendant offered to lead him to the one in the first-class section. Aditya happily accompanied her, admiring her almost perfectly built derriére on the way.
As he came out of the toilet, he ran into a tall, well-built man waiting for his turn outside. He sidestepped the man, wondering when people had started waiting for their turns outside the first-class toilets, and started walking back to his seat.
Hardly had he walked a couple of steps that he heard a voice call out, ‘Excuse me!’ He stopped and turned back to face the man who’d been waiting outside the washroom.
‘Yes?’ Aditya said, wondering whether he should have recognized the other man.
‘Aditya Kesavan, right?’ the man said, smiling widely and pointing a finger at Aditya.
Aditya’s eyes lit up. What were the chances of someone recognizing him on an international flight from an entirely different continent? Nodding his head, he acknowledged that the man was right.
‘Oh my god!’ The guy’s smile widened. ‘You are the Aditya Kesavan! I am a fan, professor,’ the stranger gusted. ‘A very big fan. What a wonderful book you’ve written. It blew me away. You were the only one who predicted the crash of the Chinese economy. When everyone was sold on that country, you were the only one who advised caution. And see what has happened. All those who did not listen to you are paupers now.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Vicky Malhotra. I was a businessman in London.’
‘Good to meet you, Mr Malhotra,’ Aditya responded, shaking Vicky’s hand. ‘Though I’m not sure that this is the best place to meet.’ He pointed to the toilet door. Both men laughed.
‘You said you were a businessman in London?’ Aditya asked, curious.
‘Yes. Was,’ Vicky replied. ‘I was the MD of a company that owned the Tiara brand of designer jewellery. I have just exited it and am on my way to Mumbai.’
Exited. Well, that’s what everyone who has been sacked says, thought Aditya. No one says that they were asked to leave. He considered this for a moment and moved on, changing the subject. ‘What takes you to Mumbai?’ he asked.
‘My wife is from Mumbai. You have probably heard of her. Pallavi. Pallavi Soni,’ Vicky said in a proud voice.
‘Pallavi Soni…’ Aditya looked a bit embarrassed when the name didn’t ring a bell. Given the pride with which Vicky had spoken of his wife, Aditya realized that he was supposed to have recognized the name immediately.
‘She won Big Survivor, the reality show on British television,’ Vicky explained.
‘Ah, yes,’ Aditya acknowledged, suddenly remembering. ‘She was all over the news. A few of my Indian students had mentioned her name too.’
‘Yes. She was fabulous on the show, wasn’t she?’ Vicky asked eagerly.
Aditya nodded. ‘Well, I didn’t really watch the show, but if she won it, I am sure she must have been fabulous.’ He gave Vicky a big smile. ‘So you knew her before Big Survivor. So all this was fixed, eh?’ he said jokingly.
Vicky’s response, though, was earnest. ‘Not at all. In fact, I didn’t know her prior to the event, and met her on the day she won it. My company was one of the sponsors of the show. We got married after a relatively short courtship. As luck would have it, my divorce too came through around the same time.’
‘How lovely. And once again, glad to meet you.’ Aditya nodded as both of them shook hands and walked back towards their seats.
₹
Mumbai was sweaty and hot when the flight landed in the middle of the night. Aditya was waiting for his luggage at the carousel when Vicky walked up to him with a tall, stunningly beautiful woman by his
side. He introduced her as his wife.
‘Congratulations,’ Aditya said to the woman. ‘Two times over. First for winning the show and second for getting married.’
Pallavi gave him a sweet smile in return. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Turning towards Vicky, she asked, ‘Have you invited him for the inauguration?’
Vicky Malhotra shook his head and looked apologetically at Aditya, saying, ‘Yes, of course. How foolish of me. Please, you must come for the inauguration.’
‘Inauguration?’ Aditya asked.
‘The Indian Premier League opening ceremony. The IPL is starting two weeks from now. If you are going to be in India, do come. Pallavi is performing at the opening.’ To Aditya, this information sounded alien. He was not interested in cricket and had not followed the progress of the game in India.
‘I wish I could,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately, I am here only for a week. Unless my trip gets extended, I might not be here at that time. However, I wish you great success.’ He turned to Pallavi, addressing the last line to her.
‘That’s too bad,’ Vicky said, and then pulled out a visiting card and handed it to Aditya. ‘If you change your mind, do give me a call. It’ll be a privilege to make the arrangements for your stay.’
10
March-April 2015
MUMBAI/DELHI
Harsha Ranjan was standing on the balcony of his first-floor bedroom, smoking a cigarette. The official RBI Governor’s residence, a two-storeyed heritage bungalow just off Mumbai’s Carmichael Road, had been his home for the last three years. Parked right under the balcony were the two cars that had been provided by the government for his use.
He sighed as he blew out smoke and glanced at his watch. He was in a pensive mood. The monetary policy announcement was scheduled for that morning, A few unpopular decisions were about to be announced; steps which had been mandated by the state of the economy. However, what worried him was the government’s reaction to what he was about to unveil. It was no secret that his relationship with the Finance Minister was a strained one. Most of it was a consequence of Harsha trying to chart his own course when the government would have liked him to be subservient. The never-ending battle between the Finance Ministry and the RBI had taken its toll on him.
Don't Tell the Governor Page 2