Before I can settle back into the creeping darkness of the room, my phone’s green light flashes back on and it starts buzzing.

  “Hey, Rakhi? Did you just call me?” Alex’s voice sounds clear, uncurdled by sleep.

  “Y-yes. Gauri Ma’am saying…” I pull at the stray thread from my bed sheet until it is as long as my arm.

  “Yes?” He sounds like he’s smiling.

  I swallow and close my eyes. “She saying…Please you are coming at office nine o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t that our usual start time?”

  He’s right. “Yes. Do not be late.”

  “So…Anything else?” He draws his words out, and they hover there until I speak up again.

  “And you have to dress in nice shirt and pant.”

  His laughter explodes over the line. “What? Do I really dress that badly?”

  “No, just…Ma’am saying—” I sit up and flick on the lamp for clarity. I stare at my bare feet, curl my toes inward, and gather my English words, stringing them into a slow sentence. “Ma’am say everybody wearing nice clothes. For guest tomorrow.”

  “Guest? It’s not Rubina, is it?”

  So he does know. For a second I don’t say anything, stunned that there’s someone at Justice For All who knows something before even Vivek.

  “You knowing about Rubina Mansoor?”

  “I don’t know why she’s coming, just that she is. She and Gauri have been talking about some kind of joint venture.”

  I don’t say anything. A lone mosquito hums by my ear and I slap it against my cheek. I wipe the blood from my palm on my knee.

  “Is there anything else?” Alex says.

  “No, nothing.”

  “All right, I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh, by the way, I never thanked you for having lunch with me the other day. That was really kind of you.”

  What do I say? You are welcome? “You are paying.”

  He chuckles. “That’s not the point. Good night, Rakhi.”

  “Good night.”

  The line goes dead and I sit there for a few minutes, pursing my lips to keep from smiling.

  8

  The roads are still empty when I leave for work the next morning, and most of the autowalas are curled up asleep in the back seat of their rickshaws, their cracked heels sticking out into the soft light. Gauri Ma’am is already at the office when I arrive, furiously punching at her keyboard. She usually only types like this when she has a court date looming.

  I cross my dupatta over my chest and around my waist, and get ready to scrub the place down. The ceiling fan blades are caked with dark grey dust and gilded with cobwebs. When was the last time Gauri Ma’am told me to clean them? Must be at least two years back. I wipe them with a cloth and the webs drift to the floor like feathers. When the blades are cream-coloured again, I drag my dirty rag and bucket of water to the kitchen, pausing at Ma’am’s door. She is draped in the starched black-and-white cotton sari she keeps for Bombay High Court appearances only. Her eyes dart from her computer to her notebook, over the mess of papers, books, and pens.

  “Ma’am? Can I ask one thing?”

  She glances up at me, lacing her fingers together and cracking her knuckles. “One thing. And make it quick.”

  “How come Rubina Mansoor is coming today?”

  “To meet all of you,” she says, as if it were completely obvious. “To see the office.”

  “Yes, but what for?”

  Gauri Ma’am sits back in her chair. Rubbing a thick, white whisker sprouting from her chin, she sighs. “Rubina wants to help ‘uplift India.’ Her words, not mine.”

  “She is finished with acting, now?”

  “I’m not sure, but my guess is she wants to reinvent herself.” Ma’am pauses, as if waiting for me to say something, then stands up and starts to shuffle papers on her desk. “Have you heard of Annie Lennox?” Before I can say no, she continues. “She’s a British pop star from the seventies and eighties. Well before your time. Annie Lennox once said there are two kinds of artists: those who endorse Pepsi, and those who simply won’t.”

  “Pepsi, Ma’am?” I could use a cold drink.

  She gives me a hard smile, as if she’s disappointed that after all these years she still can’t have a real conversation with me.

  “Times are tough.” She adjusts the folds of her sari, smiling to herself. “And Rubina Mansoor just might be our Pepsi.”

  * * *

  —

  Everyone arrives by nine, even the interns. Vivek’s shirt is buttoned up to his neck, and a dark blue tie rests over his chest and round belly. Some of the younger female lawyers have lined their worn-out eyes with kohl. The room is humming with noise as everyone admires one another’s clothing, clearly puzzled as to what is going on.

  Alex’s hair is combed back and there is a sharp crease running down the middle of his khaki pant legs. Tazim must have pressed them this morning. The thought of her fingers folding the fabric, running a hot iron down each pant leg, and then handing them to Alex, makes me shudder.

  “Well?” Alex approaches me, his brown leather shoes clacking, while Vivek unloads a stack of library books into my arms. “How do I look?”

  “Tip-top,” Vivek says, eyeing his outfit. “In India, we say ‘jhakaas.’ ”

  “Ekdam jhakaaaaas, Vivek,” Alex drawls, holding his palm up in the air.

  Vivek high-fives him, grinning. “You speak Hindi, do you, Alex?”

  “Thoda thoda,” he says, sheepishly, holding his index finger and thumb to signal a small amount.

  Is that his answer every time someone asks if he speaks Hindi? Why can’t he just say no?

  Gauri Ma’am emerges from her office and marches toward us. “Gather round, everyone. Now, I have told you all we have a special guest today. Our guest is someone you may all be familiar with—a public figure by the name of Rubina Mansoor.”

  Around the room, eyebrows jump.

  “The actor?” Kamini gasps.

  “That hot girl from ‘Drip Drip’?” Utkarsh says, his wide-set eyes growing bigger.

  The office chatter builds and Ma’am speaks again. “Yes, that Rubina Mansoor. She is coming today to see our office and to meet all of you. I don’t have to tell you twice to behave professionally.” Here she shoots Utkarsh a look of warning.

  Vivek’s face twists in confusion. “Gauri Ma’am, when did this—”

  “Later, Vivek.” She spins around to face me. “You—go downstairs and wait outside. Rubina should be here soon. And untie your dupatta. You look like a kaamwali.” Then she walks to the window and flicks on the seldom-used air conditioning unit, which grunts and hums as if a parade of lorries were charging through the office.

  Hurrying carefully down the dingy stairwell, I undo the knots in my dupatta, smiling to myself at this bizarre situation. If only Babloo could see me now, waiting on the street to receive the Drip Drip–wali herself, Ruby M.

  After fifteen minutes, a white car with dark windows rolls up outside our building. A driver in a red dress shirt rushes out to open the rear door, and then a pair of slim ankles wrapped in strappy gold sandals peek out from under the door, hovering near the ground.

  Rubina Mansoor emerges. And it’s as if I’ve forgotten how to blink. She must be forty-five, fifty even, but her hair trails down her back like plumes of thick black smoke. Her white embroidered cotton kameez and navy churidar look clean and expensive, in spite of their plainness. She adjusts a pair of wide black sunglasses on her nose, her long, pink fingernails gleaming in the pale morning sunlight.

  “This is the Justice For All office?” Her voice is deeper in person than it is on screen.

  I nod vigorously and glance up at our windows. Faint outlines of faces crowding behind the glass. “Come, Madam, please,” I say in slow English. I lead her up the two flights of stairs, mumbling something about the lift being out of service. There’s a pinching feeling inside my nose as I try not to sneeze from her heavy, flowery perfume.

  As soon as I push open the door to the office, Gauri Ma’am and her black-and-white sari fill the doorframe. “Rubinaji, come in, come in. I am so pleased to welcome you to our humble quarters,” Ma’am sings in a high, almost nervous voice I have never heard in all the years that I’ve known her.

  “No, no, Gauriji, the pleasure is mine,” Rubina replies.

  Ma’am ushers her inside, guiding her to the lawyers’ workspace. Everyone is sitting silently in their chairs, faces glued to their computers as if they are immune to the glow of an aging film star floating through our shabby little office. Kamini tries to suppress a sneeze, fails, and shrinks into herself as she wipes saliva off the corners of her mouth, clearly mortified.

  “This is my formidable, hard-working staff,” Gauri Ma’am says, introducing everyone by name. One by one, they turn around in their seats, press their palms together, and dip their heads.

  Ma’am moves to the interns’ workstation, and Rubina cups Alex’s chin in her hand. “Our future Ivy League scholar, how are you?”

  “Not bad, Ruby Aunty,” Alex says with a smile. “Glad to see you here.”

  Kamini eyes Jayshree, who nudges Sudeepthi, who elbows Bhavana, whose mouth gapes at the familiarity between Rubina and Alex.

  “Aunty?” Utkarsh mouths to Vivek, who doesn’t respond.

  “I hope these lawyers aren’t working you too hard,” Rubina says.

  “Well, this is only my second week, so let’s see,” Alex chuckles. “And there are a couple of other interns here as well,” he says, pointing to Saskia and Merel beside him, their hair pulled back into neat, matching ponytails. Instead of their usual attire of rumpled kurtis, they’re both wearing collared shirts tucked into trousers. I guess they got my SMS.

  “With all the brilliant work you do, Gauriji,” Rubina proclaims, “it’s a shame you don’t have more international talent here.” She then approaches the Dutch girls. “Are you also Canadian?”

  “No, we’re from Amsterdam, actually,” Merel says, tilting her head so her ponytail swings. Saskia nods, beaming.

  “Beautiful. Amsterdam is one of my favourite cities in the world. You must go someday, Gauriji. Canals, tulips, bicycles—it’s worlds away from Mumbai.”

  “I’m sure,” Gauri Ma’am says.

  “But there’s no place better than India, isn’t that right?” Rubina declares triumphantly to no one and everyone.

  Sudeepthi, stone-faced, pokes Bhavana’s arm with her pen. Ma’am glares at them, but gives Rubina Mansoor a tight-lipped smile and begins to steer her toward her office.

  “Alex, darling, why don’t you join us,” Rubina suggests.

  Ma’am waves her hand. “That won’t be necessary. Alex has plenty of work to—”

  “Arre, Gauriji. He’s come all the way to India to learn something, so let’s teach him a thing or two, na?”

  Ma’am hesitates, then waves Alex over, her lips pressed together. “Come in, then,” she says, avoiding eye contact with the lawyers.

  I rush to the kitchen to fill a tray with glasses and a Bisleri that’s been chilling for the past few hours. When I shuffle into Gauri Ma’am’s office, Alex pipes up.

  “Ruby Aunty,” he says, motioning to me, “have you met Rakhi?”

  Rubina twists her head a few inches behind her shoulder and smiles. “Namaste.”

  “Will you take tea, Rubinaji?” Ma’am asks. “Our Rakhi makes excellent chai.”

  Rubina says she isn’t consuming dairy these days, so she’ll take it black. She repeats herself to me in Hindi, slowly. “Not a drop of milk in mine, just boil the tea with water. And absolutely no sugar. You understand me, right?”

  She clearly has no idea how many firanghis pass through this office with their strange diets.

  “You have to be direct when you’re giving them instructions,” Rubina says to Alex and Gauri Ma’am, throwing her hair behind her back. “Food waste is such a problem these days.”

  As the office door shuts, I hear Alex mutter, “She understands English.”

  In the kitchen, I’ve started boiling enough water for two separate batches of tea when Vivek inches up to me. “Well, then?” he whispers loudly. “What’s going on?”

  I pull a spoon from the drawer. “I don’t know.”

  Vivek leans against the counter, stroking his tie, as I measure tea leaves into both pots. “Rubina Mansoor, of all people, here in our office? I haven’t heard much of her since that ‘Drip Drip’ video back in the nineties. She practically had to go into hiding after it came out, no? They were burning effigies of her in the streets.”

  Back then, Rubina Mansoor was a ripe, young actress who went by the name Ruby M, though she failed to snag any lead roles (the wholesome heroine parts went to her rivals) and never amounted to more than an item girl, dancing suggestively to catchy, upbeat numbers in Hindi films. For a whole year, you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing “Drip Drip” blaring from a taxi, a shopfront, or the radio. The song was a hit, but really it was the video that made it take off. Those five minutes of her writhing around a jungle, with her tiny black chaddis peeking through her wet sari, catapulted her from anonymity to sudden infamy. Newspapers referred to her as the “Thong Girl,” and she even became the face of a swimsuit line for a brief period.

  “Sir, she is married to a builder now. I saw in Mumbai Mirror.”

  “Which builder is this?”

  “Jeetendra Arora, Sir.”

  “That guy whose billboards are all over the city? He’s got a luxury flat in every western suburb. Arora Eternity Heights, Arora Eternity Grande, Arora Eternity Luxe…” Vivek’s shoulders slump. “Arora is trying to get into the Fort area, isn’t he? Does he want to buy our office building? They’re going to kick us out, I know it. Hai Bhagwan, we’ll never be able to afford anything else in this area.”

  Before I can reply, Kamini rushes into the kitchen with Utkarsh trailing behind her. “Rakhi, quick. Tell us. What is happening?”

  “I don’t know, didi. I was only told to make tea.”

  “What bakvaas,” Kamini says, eyeing me from over the tops of her glasses. “You spend enough time around Gauri Ma’am to know what’s going on.”

  Vivek frowns. “If Rakhi says she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know.”

  Utkarsh studies Vivek suspiciously. “Sir, how is it possible that even you don’t know?”

  Vivek pulls at his tie and nobody says anything.

  After a moment, Utkarsh perks up. “You think they are filming something in our office?”

  I pour the tea into cups while they argue over what kind of director might shoot a film in an old building like ours. Lifting up the tray carefully, I move to the doorway, but Kamini blocks me. “Just one more thing. How does the new intern know Rubina Mansoor?”

  I swallow. “She is friends with his aunt, I think.”

  Kamini smirks. “He told you this?”

  “Didi, chai-pani time. Gauri Ma’am is waiting.”

  Kamini sighs and steps out of my way.

  “…and it’s people like me who have a duty to help the rest of India rise up,” Rubina Mansoor is saying as I prop open the door to Gauri Ma’am’s office with my hip.

  From the corner of her eye, Gauri Ma’am catches Alex giving me a sly half-wink but continues to nod along to Rubina’s words.

  “I want to use my name…” Rubina is saying as I set her no-sugar, no-milk, garbage-water-looking tea in front of her. She glances down at her teacup, wiping the rim with her thumb and forefinger. “My fame, my spotlight, my resources, all of it, in pursuit of the greater good. But I don’t have the tools to do it alone, of course.” She laughs and pushes the tea away without taking a sip. “And that’s where Justice For All comes in. I would be there to drive your cause forward. To drum up support.”

  Gauri Ma’am is still nodding.

  “You know, all these big companies have brand ambassadors. Shah Rukh did all those Pepsi ads. And just see how popular Pepsi became in India.”

  As I slip out of the office, I hear Ma’am cough and sputter so hard on her tea that, for a second, it seems as though she’s about to choke.

  After almost an hour behind closed doors, Gauri Ma’am, Alex, and Rubina Mansoor emerge. From the kitchen I can see Rubina flashing the lawyers a warm smile, revealing a large set of sparkling, straight teeth. It’s even harder to believe that the item girl who once danced across the screen in a wet sari wants to work with Gauri Ma’am.

  “I look forward to seeing you all very soon,” she says, pressing her palms together and bowing as though she’s in a temple.

  Utkarsh springs up from his chair, returning the gesture, bowing lower than his waistband allows, while I try not to catch a glimpse of his underpants as his shirt rises up. The others are fixed in their seats, grinning like idiots. Even Bhavana.

  “Bye, darling, I’ll drop in on your aunt soon,” Rubina calls out to Alex, who stands with his hands in his pockets.

  As soon as the door shuts behind Rubina, Ma’am switches off the struggling air conditioner. “Is everyone here?” she asks.

  “Ji, Gauri Ma’am,” I say, even though Saskia and Merel seem to have disappeared again.

  Sitting at the edge of the lawyers’ shared worktable, Ma’am leans forward. Her face is warm and friendly, and she meets the eager eyes of her staff.

  “Gauri Ma’am,” Bhavana says, finally. “We’re dying to know what’s going on.”

  As the other lawyers plead with her, too, Ma’am finally puts her hands up, as though she’s satisfied that she’s created enough of a buildup for what she’s about to unleash.