Chapter 6

MOTI Lal sent his personal Bentley car with his own driver to pick up the project team from their hotel to bring them to his mansion on the crest of Malabar Hills, the most exclusive residential street in Mumbai where billionaires rubbed shoulders with multi-billionaires in their pretentious over-gilded homes.
Takahama-san wanted to relax and decided not to attend the party at Lal Quilla, Haukur was game but his lack of suitable formal wear also precluded him attending; the party was reduced to the Texan Quartet of Jones, Gracie, Brad and Sam. The plush leather seats were soft and welcoming and the four of them leaned back relaxing after a tiring day.
"What about that one?" asked Gracie pointing to a large single storey mansion visible behind high security gates and large lush foliage.
"Roman with a touch of Tudor," replied Jones.
"Alright, and that one?" she asked as another house passed them by.
"Early California but more Zorro than Mexican," said Jones sliding back into the soft leather seat.
"It's amazing, I haven't seen native Indian or Mughul influence at all," said Sam.
"Looks like freaking Tarzana to me," said Brad, "that's what happens when the wrong people get the money. First them Ayrabs and their oil money; man they built some shiny shit, an Island shaped like a palm tree; fucking crazy and now these Injuns with their call centre money and a cowboy theme park. Shit, any fools who wear a sheet like them dhotis or ponchos need robbing."
"Brad, what the hell's the matter with you? You've been bitchin like a three dollar whore ever since you got here," said Jones sharply.
Brad shot Jones an evil look but fell silent; he knew Jones was a mean bastard when he was riled and this wasn't the time to needle him.
The exchange had killed the atmosphere in the car and the group travelled on in silence.
Sam exchanged a knowing look with Gracie; this wasn't a good sign, this level of discord on a difficult project this early was a poor start.
As always; it was Gracie who lightened the mood, the social glue of the group, she was fearless in confronting things head on, "Jesus wept, we're going to a party not a hanging, lighten up will you fellas."
Jones barely suppressed a giggle, Brad shrugged and Sam laughed out loud, "Good on you Gracie."
"That's the spirit," she began but before she could continue the car turned a corner and above them Lal Quilla hove into view, "Oh my, look at this, it's like Capitol Hill on the fourth of July."
Lal Quilla was the pride of Moti Lal, a pastiche of the Vatican and St. Paul's Cathedral, a huge Greco-style dome supported on massive columns, carelessly mixing Doric, Ionic and Corinthian styles; all heavily mixed with Roman and Greek architectural features and decorated with Gothic motifs. Gracie was shocked to see Tudor style window frames, Egyptian style balconies and Italian fountains, it was as if a child had ripped up a historical architecture book and created a horrendous collage, "Tch, poor paindho" she whispered.
But tonight the whole edifice had been hung with fairy lights, yards and yards of them outlining the whole building and merrily twinkling away, announcing to all this was a special occasion.
The car deposited the quartet on the steps of the Quilla and rapidly drove off.
"Well," said Sam craning his neck to take in the towering edifice, "this certainly makes a statement."
"Yep, sure does. It says 'I'm an asshole'," quipped Brad.
"Yes," added Gracie, "you certainly are."
The other two burst out laughing as they headed into the Quilla.
The over-decoration continued inside, expensive Italian marble covered floor and walls sitting uneasily with carved Indian motifs whilst giant French Rococco chandeliers swayed above their heads. Lush red velvet curtains and drapes hung majestically from sheer cliff-like walls, exotic Japanese prints adorned each wall, elegant English period furniture mingled discordantly with Chinese cabinets and vases.
"Jesus wept, I thought them Vegas casinos had bad taste," said Jones taking in the décor.
"Looks like an expensive whorehouse," added Brad.
Servants bearing trays with a variety of juices quickly approached and escorted them to the master Ballroom, "You mean there's a junior one too?" inquired Gracie and Brad moaned about the lack of beer.
The master Ballroom was an enormous cavernous banqueting room, decorated like the rest of the Quilla in a mixture of styles, but tonight a heavy dose of Western regalia had been added; cowboys on bucking horses, cattle roaming the prairies, rifles and pistols, ponchos, Stetson hats, and a multitude of banners and flags proclaiming the new theme park.
"Just what was missing," observed Sam wryly.
At the far end of the room a raised podium had been erected, with a long table heavily decorated with a large floral display, whilst before it the floor of the ballroom was covered with large circular tables and individual place settings with name plates. Along the right side of the room buffet tables had been laid covered with various tureens, large rectangular trays covered with domed lids, under which hot water bubbled gently keeping the contents warm. Behind each tureen white smocked chefs with large towering hats hustled and bustled to add last minute garnish and other finishing touches to the food; sprinkling garam masala, chopped coriander and other mysterious spices.
The room was filling up very fast as guests arrived and the quartet were shown to their table; it had been set for seven.
Gracie picked up Gunther's name card and said, "No need for this now."
"Nor these," added Sam picking up name cards for Takahama-san and Haukur.
"I don't believe it, not again," said Jones holding up his name card marked 'Dullass Jones' and the others laughed.
Further conversation was curtailed as a majestic trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of the extended Moti Lal family.
"Good grief," moaned Jones as he slumped into his seat.

Avinash carefully elbowed his way past the other men to the tin sink in the communal kitchen to drain the excess water from his boiled rice. Moving the lid aside for a fraction of an inch, he poured out the steaming starch-laden water taking care not to let any precious rice slip out too. He elbowed his way back to the gas burner and returned the sodden par cooked rice to the cooker. He dropped in a small knob of ghee [clarified butter], sealed the lid with a dishcloth to let the steam finish cooking the rice and turned to garnishing the dhal he had cooked.
He sat alone in his room eating his simple meal with a bottle of coke, which he'd secured from Jones's office fridge, and an apple, similarly snatched from the complimentary fruit basket, idly thinking of the party at Lal Quilla, 'I bet the food is fantastic,' he thought.
"I'm not eating this crap, I want a steak," moaned Brad standing before a large tureen of sizzling lamb korma whilst impatient guests glared at him from behind.
"Quit bellyaching and move on," said Jones behind him.
The quartet returned to their table with plates piled high with food, all except Brad who had opted for a few kebabs and some naan.
Gracie was tucking into her spicy chicken pilau rice when Anu tapped her on the shoulder and asked, "Can I join you?"
"Oh Anu, of course you can. I didn't know you were invited; we'd have sat together," replied Gracie.
Anu giggled, "I wasn't, I sneaked in."
"Why ever not?" asked Gracie eating a forkful of savoury rice.
"This isn't to be wasted on us locals, just the high class and the gora managers."
"Gora?" asked Gracie.
"That's us white folk," replied Jones.
"Very good. Excuse me, I'm just going to get some food," said Anu slipping away.
"I see they don't have to queue," said Brad pointing to the top table.
Moti Lal sat the centre of the top table with his family as various servants attended to his every need, bringing trays of food and drink; an old woman in a wheel chair sat immediately to his right whilst on his left was an empty chair.
"Who's the old woman," asked Sam to Anu who had returned and was busy eating some kebabs.
"Her? That's Moti's mother, they all call her Bibi," answered Anu.
"BB? Like Brigitte Bardot?" asked Sam.
"No, not like that, just Bibi; it means mother," explained Anu.
"Why the empty chair," asked Jones.
"Oh, that would be for his wife, they don't get along; it's common knowledge."
"Who are the two girls," asked Gracie pointing at the girls on the top table with her fork.
"Well, that's Moti Lal's daughters," began Anu, "the tall fair one is Sunita and other one is Usha."
"Hmm," said Gracie, "bit of a contrast."
Gracie couldn't have been more accurate, the contrast between Sunita, known to all as Slinky, and her younger sister Usha was immense. Slinky was tall, fair with large dark green eyes, full lips and had a lazy graceful manner which allowed her to easily hide her snobbery and selfishness. Usha unfortunately was the exact opposite; short, tiny-framed, burdened with excess facial hair, a monobrow and a shrewish spiteful manner.
"Definitely one from the top of the deck and the one from the bottom," observed Jones.
"And the others," asked Gracie.
"The man in the black suit is Moti's younger brother Heera, the woman next to him is his wife, I forget her name, and the boy is Preet I think, one of their three sons," replied Anu.
"And the fat woman in the green sari?" asked Gracie.
"That's Moti's sister Sona."
"And the thin one at the end?"
"That's his other sister Chandi, what silly names," dismissed Anu.
"What do you mean?"
"All of them are named after jewellery; Moti is pearl, Heera is diamond, Sona is gold and Chandi is…" said Anu.
"Silver?" interrupted Gracie.
"Yes, that's right. Like I said very silly."
"Oh, no. It just shows how precious they all are," quipped Gracie and both of the women began laughing.
"Shush, he's speaking," rebuked Sam.
Sam was right, Moti Lal was going to make a speech; he had fed and watered his guests, now he was going to collect his due.
"My family and I welcome you all to my lovely home, my Lal Quilla. It was a challenge creating this home…" began Moti Lal.
"And one you failed miserably," interjected Jones.
"…now we begin a new one; making the first Western Theme Park in India. A construction project is like an Indian wedding; the parties involved don't believe it will ever happen and then by a miracle it does and we live happily ever after," continued Moti to mild laughter.
"No, it's not like a freaking wedding; it's like a damn construction project," said Jones.
"No, he's right, we're the bride and ya'all know what happens to her," laughed Brad.
"Oh be quiet," snapped Gracie.
"We are honoured to have so many illustrious guests here tonight to help us celebrate this momentous occasion. I never thought, when I started sifting through those dustbins, that one day all that recycling would lead me to this…" lumbered on Moti Lal.
Jones was rapidly tiring of the old windbag and this was shaping up to be a speech not worth listening to sober. Making his excuses he went off in search of a beer. One of the servants pointed him to a small ante-chamber where alcohol was being served. He obtained a glass of beer and wandered off to enjoy it in peace. He found a quiet parlour and settled down in an old English-style armchair to enjoy his beer.
His solitude didn't last very long, just half a glass of beer, before he heard a noise behind him. Jones turned to see a woman walk through the double doors into the parlour. She was a tall elegant woman, dressed in a midnight blue sari studded with small rhinestones, her dark hair piled high cascaded down her long neck and the upward haughty tilt of her head indicated she didn't suffer fools gladly. She wore her forty-plus years lightly, her grace and posture marked her as an astute woman with an easy sophistication.
She scanned the room and spotted Jones reclining in the chair nursing half a glass of beer, his cowboy boots and unusual belt clearly marked him out as a foreigner. She approached Jones and took a small gamble, "You are the gora Jones?"
He stood up out of deference and nodded politely, "I am mam, and I would hazard a guess you must be Mrs Moti Lal, yes?"
"Please call me Lalita, none of that Mrs nonesense," she smiled easily, taking a sip of her cocktail.
"Lalita Lal?" asked Jones with a quizzical look.
"Oh no," she laughed, "I didn't take his name, I kept mine. Suman, Lalita Suman."
"Good for you; pleased to meet you Mrs Lalita Suman," and he bowed extravagantly.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr Jones," she replied with a little curtsey.
They both laughed at each other and the moment.
She approached him and asked curiously, "How did you know who I was?"
He smirked a little, "Your eldest daughter has your eyes."
"Ah yes, dear Slinky; such a sweet child but unfortunately spoiled rotten. So hard to deny them anything when one is so rich; please be seated," she said standing by the mantelpiece.
Jones resumed his previous position and took a sip of his beer.
"And how are you finding our little country Mr Jones?" she asked making small talk.
"Well, it's hard to dislike it; there's always so much going on. It's all extremes here; too much sun, too much chilli, too much dust and too much shouting."
She smiled at his comment, "We are generous in so many ways."
They drank in silence for a few minutes, both enjoying the simple pleasure of a quiet moment. It was Jones who broke the silence, and only because he saw her studying him closely, "So what's your story Lalita?"
She didn't answer straight away, savouring his words and forming her answer before replying, "I don't have a story Mr Jones, not even a little chapter; I'm just the beautiful appendage for a rich man." She waved her cocktail glass at the parlour but indicating the Quilla beyond.
"Any fool can see you're more than that."
She locked eyes with him trying to fathom his intent, "How kind of you."
The gora wasn't giving anything away but maintained a steady even stare, she cracked first and turned away and asked a little too casually, "Do you smoke?"
"I've been known to inhale."
"I am only allowed three cigarettes a day," she confessed.
"He's only looking after your health."
"Oh no," she laughed mockingly, "I don't need his permission to smoke; it's a self-imposed restriction; keeps me edgy. I find I need my edge."
She turned and saw once again he was staring at her intently and then he said, "I can see it'd be hard to get you to do anything you didn't want."
She smiled then, a soft smile, one that started at her lips and finished at her eyes, "We'll need to step out onto the balcony; this parlour is Bibi's and dear, dear Bibi has asthma and we wouldn't want her to have an attack, now would we?" she smiled wickedly and raised her eye brows.
Jones laughed at her mockery and rose from the armchair, "Lead on Macduff."
"Ah, a man of learning; well, at least enough to misquote Shakespeare."
They moved across the parlour, out through the double French doors, to the balcony outside. It was mostly dark except for the shafts of light coming out from the windows and the fairy lights twinkling above their heads. She took out a cigarette from her handbag, held it to her lips and commanded Jones, "Light me."
Jones reached into his back pocket, flicked on his lighter and lit the tip of her cigarette and then lit his own cigarillo. They remained standing quietly for a while, each enjoying their smoking, looking out across the immaculate faux-Versailles Palace lawns; in time their smoking achieved a harmony, each drawing and exhaling at the same time.
She turned slightly to him and flicked a glance in his direction; he took the opportunity, "How did you end up with him; you two don't look a regular pair."
She didn't answer immediately, "I agree we're not simpatico. It's the old story of farz."
He looked at her blankly.
"Duty," she explained.
"Duty to your family?" he asked.
"Don't be so old fashioned, duty to a good lifestyle. We were famous but poor and they were infamous but rich; so you see, a perfect combination," she explained taking a draw on her cigarette.
"Why do I get the feeling you're holding back," teased Jones.
"Only good manners to hold a little back," she replied moving towards him, "and you Mr Jones, what is this gora's story I wonder."
He smiled at her obvious attempt to change the subject, "Ain't got one; well not much of one anyways. Had my share of relationships but never found one I wanted to break and saddle."
She giggled softly at his words, "A wife as a horse; what a quaint metaphor; I'm surprised you found anyone with that whip of an attitude."
"You're just a trophy wife to him; you any better than a clotheshorse?" he retorted sharply.
"I assure you Mr Jones, I may have been ridden," she paused to blow a cloud of smoke in his direction, "but I was never broken."
He laughed out loud at her reply, nodded his head in acknowledgement and resumed smoking. She remained standing near him and he could smell her perfume through the tobacco haze between them; it was a subtle sweet smell, one he hadn't come across before.
"Let's move around here," she said indicating an alcove along the balcony hidden behind some potted plants. They passed behind some shrubbery and moved deep into the shadows of the alcove; only the glowing tips of their cigarette and cigarillo remaining visible.
There wasn't much room in the alcove and the two were forced to stand close together, he could hear her breathing in the darkness, mere inches from his face.
"Why the secrecy?" he whispered in soft tones, falling all too easily into a conspiratorial intimacy.
"We were being spied upon," she replied.
"Your husband?"
"Oh no, not him; little darling Usha. Not my greatest offering unto the world; but what can one do when the clay is so poor. I really thought I was carrying a boy; imagine my disappointment when that thing arrived."
Each breath of hers crossed the gap between them and sensuously brushed his face, he chuckled at her put down, "You have that British knack of insulting with a smile. You never thought of having more kids?"
"You're getting very personal Mr Jones. I don't think I'm ready to share that with you."
"Fair enough," he replied and resumed his smoking.
The silence lasted for a short while before Lalita spoke, "You're very astute about that British thing; I did study over there. I did my MBA in London. Loved it."
"Really? He must've have been a lucky fella," shot back Jones in the dark.
She moved closer then, so close he could see her eyes now from the glow of the cigarette, a knowing playful look flashed in her deep green eyes. She moved back and spoke from the darkness, "You take so much yet give so little."
It was his turn now, he moved forward and asked, "Did you love him?"
She didn't reply for a long time and he thought he'd overplayed his hand; he had been too bold.
Then a soft caress of a voice, laced with painful memories, reached across the void, "You always love the first one."
"Was he a gora?"
"Yes Mr Jones," she laughed, "he was a gora. Track athlete, beautiful lean body, gorgeous smooth white skin, no nasty little curly hairs. He loved to oil his body, all of it," she giggled knowingly, "and he made love so smoothly and regularly; just like a sewing machine."
Jones laughed out so loud it turned into a cough, "Excuse me," he spluttered, "and Moti Lal?"
"He's more like a rickshaw; you know putt, putt, putt putt, putt putt, putt-putt-putt-putt PUTTTT!!" she said with a girlish squeal and laughter.
"And does he get your there?" murmured Jones in the dark.
There was silence in the alcove whilst Lalita pondered his question, then she finally spoke, "Get me where?"
"You know."
"Say it Mr Jones," she taunted him but he remained silent. "That's sweet," she said and reached out to brush his cheek. He moved back a fraction then, out of her reach, the gesture more telling than he had intended. They remained thus for a few moments, her hand hanging in the air just an inch from his face. It was a Mexican stand off which Jones lost, he relented and surrendered to the moment; he moved his face onto her hand.
She brushed his cheek, a tender caress which traced the craggy lines along his face down to his chin, an intimate touch he found deeply sensual and one she compounded by moving closer to him.
Their bodies were touching now, he could feel her pressing into him, then she inclined forward and blew smoke into his mouth.
"You trying to kill me?" he sighed.
"No, just seduce you," she replied moving closer, "but the effect may be the same."
They held for a moment in that pose, lips a mere hair breadth apart, before he succumbed to her and kissed her fiercely; she returned the passion with interest.
Suddenly there was commotion and shouting, someone was calling her name, she froze and for a mere twinkling thought they had been caught kissing.
She peered through the darkness at his face, touched his chin momentarily and then moved back, "I have to go, they're calling me."
He didn't resist and let her slip out of his arms and back to the world of Moti Lal.
He waited a few minutes, wiped his lips, and then retraced his steps through the parlour back to the ballroom. There was huge commotion and all the guests were agitated and talking quickly, he couldn't make out what was being said and sought out his own group.
As he approached the table he saw Sam speaking on the phone, "What's going on?" he asked him.
"Where have you been? Haven't you heard?" asked Sam holding his hand over the phone.
He ignored the first question, "Heard what?"
"It's Moti Lal, he's been poisoned. I'm trying to get hold of CC Baxter, let him know we could be coming back."
"Is he dead?" asked Jones quickly.
"No one knows, they just rushed him to the hospital," replied Sam.
"Alright, kill that call. Let's make sure of our facts before we start waking up people back home."
What had just happened, wondered Jones. Had he been used by her? Did she flirt with him knowing her husband was being poisoned? Had he unwittingly become her alibi?

* * *