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In bed the couple moved to their own urgent rhythm. Naked, Devika was on top, skin bathed in a thin film of sweat. Beneath her Nalin arched upwards each time that she ground herself into him. He reached to cup her breasts as he felt his climax approaching. Some moments later they had switched positions and he rode her with double the passion.
Spent and tired, the couple remained intertwined under the bed sheets, breathing heavily. She switched positions again, clambering on top of him in order to gaze upon his handsome features, pushing a hand through his hair.
“You’ve had it cut,” she said.
“The other day. Do you like it?”
“It makes you look younger. Where did you go?”
“The Shiva Spa Lounge. I’m told that Mumbai’s trendy young things are flocking there. Talking of which, was that a newspaper reporter I saw you with earlier?”
“An irritating woman from the Afternoon Mirror.”
“What did she want?”
Sensing a change in him, Devika moved off him and lay with her head propped on her hand, tracing his chest hairs with her fingertips. “She wants to speak to me.”
Tickled and irritated, he brushed her hand away. “Why does she want to speak to you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teased.
But he had lost patience. “I’ve got to go,” he said, shoving her to one side.
She pulled him back toward her and kissed him deeply, twining her tongue around his. “Sure you don’t want to go again?” she asked playfully.
“I need to be back in New Delhi to prepare for a case tomorrow,” he said, pulling away. “I’ll give you a call sometime.”
“That’s crap and you know it,” sneered Devika. “You will be too busy with your wife. The one who wants you to fuck her but can’t inspire you to get it up.”
“That’s not true,” said Nalin impatiently. “Her inability to produce a child has absolutely nothing to do with any failure on my part. You should know that by now.”
“There are many stories about your other women,” said Devika. “It’s a bloody exhaustive list. How long before you tire of me—and what will happen to me when you do?”
The Attorney General smiled at her. She had one of the best bodies he had ever had the pleasure of pleasuring. Besides being beautiful, Devika was a seductress. There was an erotic charge to virtually everything she said or did. He still found it difficult to believe that she had once been in prison. What an amazing transformation.
He grasped the edge of the sheet and whipped it back, leaving Devika lying on the bed, resplendent in her nakedness. He felt the tumescence between his legs once more.
She laughed. “Don’t you need to be back in the office?” she asked.
“Fuck the office,” he snarled as he got back on top of her.
“I thought the fucking was reserved solely for me.”
Chapter 8
SANTOSH STEPPED OUT into a scorching October morning for his walk to work. He never drove. Driving meant revisiting the screeching tires and the burned-rubber smell of his nightmares.
Mumbai—once known as Bombay—was a throbbing metropolis with the attitude of New York City, the chaos of Kathmandu, the vibe of Miami, and the infrastructure of Timbuktu. It was the fifth most populous city in the world, its population nudging a little over thirteen million.
It could be charming yet repulsive. Old British monuments jostled for space with corporate glass towers and filthy slums. At traffic signals, handcart pullers slowly made their way to warehouses, their bodies bathed in sweat, while chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benzes transported their millionaire owners to luncheon meetings. Long queues of people waited patiently outside temples to catch a glimpse of their favorite deity while an equally long line of people waited to get inside the stadium for a celebration of India’s alternative religion—cricket. Mumbai was a study in contrasts and people tended either to love it or to hate it. Santosh loved it when he was drunk—which was often—and hated it when he was sober.
It was a long walk but he made brisk progress on the way from Crawford Market to the Regal Cinema. Crossing the streets, he was greeted by beggars, bums, and vagabonds, as though he were a celebrity to them. A young boy wearing patched clothes smartly saluted him. Santosh nodded in reply.
“Tell your boss that I need to meet him. Chowpatty, usual day and time,” he instructed.
At the Regal Santosh turned toward Colaba Causeway, a street notorious for its pubs, pimps, and pushers, not to mention hundreds of pavement stalls selling porn DVDs, vibrators, and electronic goods smuggled in from China, Taiwan, and Dubai.
He walked a couple of blocks down the main road until he reached an old and decrepit building. The ground floor was occupied by a well-known watering hole that sold the cheapest beer in town. Tables covered in pink checkered tablecloths were occupied by an odd mix of locals and hippies, while high above them ancient ceiling fans groaned and squeaked in an unsuccessful effort to keep cool air circulating in the stifling October mugginess. Above the heads of the patrons floated a thick haze of weed smoke.
