* * *

  —

  The next morning, Gauri Ma’am tells everyone to assemble in the lawyers’ work area. “I want you all to know I’ll be filming a segment for Good Morning Mumbai with Rubina Mansoor today,” she announces. “It will air later this week.”

  “But Gauri Ma’am, you never do television interviews,” Bhavana says.

  It’s true. She says TV makes obedient sheep of us all.

  “Correct, Bhavana.” Ma’am smiles and pulls her shoulders back. “But times are changing and we must change with them.”

  Kamini puts her hand up. “Ma’am, what will you be talking about?”

  “Chembur, first and foremost. The slum demolition, the High Court’s judgment, its decision to deny us leave to appeal. But also the work that we, that you, all do. The exposure will raise our public profile, which will in turn generate more support.”

  After the meeting, I stay behind in the lawyers’ workspace to try a bunch of keys on a drawer Utkarsh has locked. “You lost the key I gave you?” I ask him.

  “I misplaced it,” he says, side-eyeing me. “Anyways, it’s your job to carry the spare keys. And don’t tell Gauri Ma’am, understand?”

  From her desk beside him, Kamini taps Utkarsh on the arm. She’s got the Good Morning Mumbai webpage open on her computer.

  He leans over as she scrolls down the page. “My ma loves this show.”

  Kamini frowns and reads out the titles of the featured videos. “Slim Down in Twelve Days with Three Simple Exercises…Menstruating Women Banned Entry into Religious Sites: Discretion or Discrimination? Uff, is this really the way to go? So tacky, na?”

  Utkarsh scratches the pockmarks on his forehead. “How should we know? We’re only two years out of law college.”

  “We’re not idiots, Utkarsh. We’re allowed to have opinions.”

  * * *

  —

  Once the Good Morning Mumbai interview is posted, the office breaks out into a frenzy I can hear from the supply closet at the back of the office, where I am stacking yellow writing pads and half-opened boxes of ballpoint pens.

  “Come, Rakhi,” I hear Gauri Ma’am say from behind me. “Even you should be seeing this.”

  As all the lawyers scramble to Vivek’s desk, I stand on my toes behind Utkarsh, craning my neck to see about half the screen. Vivek has cued up a clip called “Bollywood Actress Teams Up with Lawyer in Fight for Slumdwellers.” The video starts with Gauri Ma’am and Rubina sitting on chairs set next to each other on a shiny black stage, facing a thick-haired man in a white shirt, black vest, and glasses. He introduces himself as Ashutosh Gupta.

  Alex moves back to stand beside me, then taps Utkarsh on the shoulder. “Hey man, Rakhi can’t see.”

  Utkarsh glances back at Alex and then me. “So?”

  “So move.”

  “Chill, bro, it’s in English, she won’t even understand,” Utkarsh says.

  “She speaks really good English, actually. And who are you to decide who gets to see the clip?”

  “It’s okay,” I croak, stepping farther back.

  “She’s an officewali. She doesn’t actually need to know any of this,” Utkarsh replies.

  Chutiya. I hope he’s the first to go when Ma’am has to start making cuts.

  “Are you serious?” Alex says, staring Utkarsh in the face. “Step aside.”

  “Chup, both of you,” Bhavana hisses in our direction as the clip starts. “Utkarsh, make space for Rakhi.”

  He stiffens but moves a few inches to the left, eyeing Alex angrily.

  On screen, Ashutosh introduces Rubina, then tilts his head toward Ma’am. “Gauri Verma is a human rights lawyer who newspapers have taken to calling the ‘Champion of the Exploited.’ Gauriji, tell us what that means.”

  “Well,” Ma’am starts, “I don’t give myself these names, but at Justice For All—”

  “That’s the name of your organization, right?”

  “Correct. At Justice For All we engage mostly in public interest litigation, but we also believe that social and political movements, combined with public education, are crucial tools in the fight to advance human rights. In light of the Bombay High Court’s decision on Chembur—”

  “And for our viewers, this is a case in which you took on the government for bulldozing a slum, and lost.”

  “Yes. In light of this decision, which we plan to appeal to the Supreme Court of India, we are embarking on a public interest campaign alongside the litigation.”

  “Tell me why.” Ashutosh pushes his glasses up.

  Gauri Ma’am unfolds her hands. “Well, greater awareness of issues makes the process of social change more participatory—”

  “Let’s face it, Ashutosh,” Rubina interrupts, while Ma’am’s eyes harden. “How many of your friends know what happened in Chembur? Sure, they’ve seen the headlines, but do they truly know? And if they did, wouldn’t they demand better? India is fast asleep. But who’s going to wake them up? Politicians? Name me one politician who isn’t stained with corruption. Religious leaders? You’ll never find a guruji who speaks for Muslims, Christians, Sikhs, Buddhists, and Hindus alike. So who do the people trust? The answer, you could say, is staring you in the face.” She beams and Gauri Ma’am shifts in her seat, her chin dipping down.

  Ashutosh leans forward. “And what is the answer, Rubina?”

  “Celebrities.” Her eyes gleam, as though she’s just divulged some secret knowledge. “Tell me, who else can convince a billion people to drink one brand of cola over another one, when both sodas taste exactly the same?”

  Ashutosh cuts in, waving his pen in the air. “If you’re talking about Coca-Cola and Pepsi, I think some might argue that they taste somewhat—”

  “But not just any celebrity, you see! For the right price, anybody can sip from a bottle on camera. But with a charity, there’s no money being dangled in our faces. These causes must be headed by a star who is true in her commitment and dedication. Not all celebrities have the passion and grit to do television appearances one minute, then march in the streets the next.”

  “And Gauriji, has Justice For All found its celebrity ambassador in Rubina Mansoor?”

  There is a brief pause, as though Gauri Ma’am is swallowing an uncomfortably large pill. “Just listening to her, Ashutosh, I think you’ll agree we have.”

  Staring into the camera, Rubina Mansoor bats her eyelashes the same way she did in the “Drip Drip” video, and I half expect her to break into a dance routine.

  The segment continues with Ma’am trying to talk about the impact of forced evictions on families, and Rubina cutting her off to talk about how her husband’s green buildings will save the city from environmental catastrophe. When the video ends, we all turn around to face Ma’am, who is standing behind us, her arms crossed.

  Bhavana takes a deep breath. “We support whichever direction you choose to go in, Ma’am, but Rubina Mansoor? Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes, I am sure,” Ma’am replies without hesitation, as if she was expecting this question.

  Vivek stops shifting his weight from side to side. “What if she says something that doesn’t align with—”

  Ma’am raises her hand. “Just stop. Rubina Mansoor isn’t going anywhere. In fact, she is very much our last hope. Not just for Chembur, but for all of you. Because with her squawking on TV like this, the media will pay attention to us. Which means the people will pay attention to us. And when people pay attention to us, we can raise more funds. And with more funds, you’ll all keep getting paid and won’t have to worry about our office shutting down by the new year.”

  I hadn’t realized things were that bad.

  “And while I have you all here, you should know that I have taken permission from the police for us to march from the Oval Maidan to the Bombay High Court in mid-August.”

  Vivek looks perplexed. “For what purpose, Gauri?”

  “It will be a protest against the High Court’s decision to deny us leave to appeal the Chembur case,” she announces, beaming.

  Everyone goes completely silent. The room is still.

  “For once, you all have nothing to say?”

  “It sounds pretty cool,” Alex says. “Are we planning on getting a lot of people to march with us?”

  “Thank you, Alex,” Gauri Ma’am says, probing each of the lawyers with her eyes. “And yes, by drumming up media attention on Chembur over the next three weeks, we’ll get more people to join us. As we work out the logistics, you will all have additional work to do, on top of your files.”

  “I can reach out to different organizations,” Alex volunteers. “If anyone wants to help me.”

  “Ma’am, I’ll do it. He doesn’t know the NGO world,” Sudeepthi says, sneering at Alex.

  Kamini raises her hand. “Gauri Ma’am, what if we disrupt traffic? The public has such low tolerance for being inconvenienced, especially when they don’t even empathize with the issue. Are you concerned—”

  “That’s the entire point of protest,” Alex interrupts, cocking his head to the side. “To disrupt business as usual. To call attention to an issue.”

  Kamini’s mouth twists as she tries to form words but nothing comes out.

  “Is Rubina a part of this protest?” asks Bhavana, rubbing at a mosquito bite on her wrist.

  “Of course she is. Is that a problem?”

  Bhavana clenches her jaw. “Perhaps she and her designer handbag should go visit what’s left of the Chembur slum so she can more accurately understand the human rights violations she’s so passionate about.”

  Gauri Ma’am just glares at her, as if daring her to continue.

  Bhavana knows better than that, though. She lets out a long, shaky breath and casts her eyes back down to the red welt on her wrist. The rest of the lawyers, shuffling back to their seats, say nothing.

  13

  “Does anyone here celebrate RAMADAN?” Alex asks in the lawyers’ workspace as I’m handing out tea.

  “No,” Bhavana replies, not looking up from her computer. “And you mean observe, not celebrate.”

  “Too bad. I went to this great place to eat the other day that’s supposed to be a big deal during Ramadan.”

  “Accha?” Kamini says, turning around from her computer. “Where did you go?”

  “Bohri Mohalla,” Alex says, glancing at me. I avert my eyes. He’s not going to tell people I brought him there, is he?

  “Who took you there?” Kamini asks. “That’s pakka local.”

  “I saw it on a travel show,” he says, smiling politely. “I went by myself.”

  “You live close to there or what?” Sudeepthi asks.

  “Not really. I’m staying in Pali Hill with my aunt and uncle.”

  Around the lawyers’ workspace, eyebrows lift and lips press together.

  “Bandra? Must be nice,” Sudeepthi mumbles.

  “What do your aunt and uncle do?” Vivek asks.

  “He exports leather goods. She doesn’t really work, but she keeps herself busy socializing. You know how it is.”

  “No, we don’t,” Utkarsh says, smirking.

  “Where in Pali Hill?” Vivek asks, taking a sip of water.

  “Oh, it’s this building off St. Andrews Road. Blossoming Heights.”

  Vivek chokes on his water, then makes eye contact with me and points to my workstation. “Now,” he mouths, his brow knotting.

  Shit.

  “Blossoming Heights is the building where that lady lived, isn’t it? Motiani or some such?” Vivek whispers as we shuffle into the library. “And the husband, he worked in import-export, didn’t he? Is this boy related to them?”

  “Vivek Sir, you won’t say anything, will you? Alex doesn’t know about all that.”

  He drags over a chair and sits down. “Let me piece this together. The family that came to me after you stole from them—the family I lied to, saying you had disappeared—this exact same family has now sent their nephew to work at Justice For All?”

  “Ji, Sir. But they didn’t know you worked at Justice For All, remember? They only thought you were one lawyer working alone. So they won’t find out if nobody says anything.”

  He says nothing, staring at my pile of mouldy books on the floor.

  “Please, Sir, you can’t tell anyone. Especially not Gauri Ma’am.”

  He looks me in the eye. “All this lying, this deception. This is why Gauri Ma’am has been sending you to Dr. Pereira.”

  “Yes, but Vivek Sir, I didn’t hire Alex, did I? I haven’t done anything this time.” This is mostly true, as long as he doesn’t find out I’m showing Alex around Bombay for money.

  Vivek goes quiet again.

  “Sir, if any of them find out—Mrs. Motiani, Gauri Ma’am, whoever—you’ll help me again, na?”

  He chews on his lip for a moment, then speaks. “I lied for you once. I went against my own principles to do that. I want nothing but success for you, Rakhi, but I cannot cover for you again, understand?”

  “Sir, but what if someone finds out—”

  He rises to his feet, sighing heavily. “Then it will be yours to fix, teek hain?”

  * * *

  ♦

  Since I said yes to Alex’s offer, I’ve taken him to all the safe tourist spots that firanghis rave about: The Dadar phool gully, where he took hundreds of photos of flower vendors and their chaos of blooms and garlands but didn’t actually buy anything. The Sassoon Docks on Sunday morning, where we wandered among the piles of pomfret and crabs but didn’t stay long because he caught a whiff of drying bombil and almost vomited. Haji Ali, where the tide was too high to cross the causeway into the dargah, so we spent most of the evening ordering fruit creams from the juice centre outside. Each time I returned home late, happily telling Tazim that work was busy—which was true, I guess.

  A couple of days after Ma’am announced her rally plans, Alex and I wander to Marine Drive on Friday evening, strolling up the wide seaside promenade studded with six-storey blocks of flats, coconut palms lined up in front of them like tall, swaying security guards.

  “This would be a nice place to hold a protest,” he says, as we wait for a vendor to hack the tops off big green coconuts with a curved black knife.

  “Road is too big, na?” Marine Drive could easily fit ten lanes if drivers gave one another space. “Here, protest is looking empty. Gauri Ma’am will not like.”

  “Forget Gauri, Rubina will hate it more,” Alex says, and I laugh.

  Alex hands the coconutwala some cash and then turns to me. “How come everyone at the office hates Rubina so much?”

  “She is…different,” I say, reluctant to explain. How to get across to Alex all of Justice For All’s troubles, made worse by the sudden entry of Rubina Mansoor as Gauri Ma’am’s filmi new fix?

  We find an empty spot on the big concrete ledge between the boulevard and the Arabian Sea. There are at least a hundred other people sitting on the ledge, gazing out at the sea as it reflects blazing orange sunlight. The tide is low now, exposing the stacks of large four-legged concrete structures (tetrapods, Vivek said they were called) that protect the city from flooding when the waves come in. A boy in dirty khakis hops between the star-shaped structures, stretching his arm to extract discarded Bisleri bottles, which he tosses into a nearly full gunny sack.

  “You’re right, she is different from the people at the office. She’s rich, she’s glamorous. She’s also way less educated.”

  “Too much she is talking,” I add.

  Alex takes a sip of his brimming coconut through a pink straw. “She’s a handful, but she doesn’t hide who she is. I think that’s her strength. She acknowledges her wealth, the world she comes from. She doesn’t pretend to be virtuous and humble, like some people who work in this field.”

  At first I think he’s talking about Gauri Ma’am, but then he goes on about his friends back home whose parents are surgeons and CEOs, who went to private schools and go on ski trips and safaris with their families every year, but still pretend to be poor because they live with roommates in the city. I tell him poor must mean something very different in Canada, and we laugh, slurping down the last bits of our coconut water.

  My phone buzzes. It’s Dr. Pereira’s office. She’s been calling me ever since I first skipped therapy last Wednesday. I ignore the call as usual, then whistle at the coconutwala to come here and carve a spoon out of the coconut shell so we can scoop out the creamy insides.

  “You know, your English is really improving,” Alex says. “You’re pausing less, and your grammar is better. And you’re talking more freely, too.”

  I take a bite of the glistening white coconut flesh to hide my embarrassed smile.

  “You’ve got to kick that Indian English, though. Try to sound more…neutral.”

  “Neutral means what?”

  “You know how Indian call centres phone up people in the West to sell them things? Well, they do much better if they speak American English. Or British English. I know, it’s like, racist on some level, but that’s the world we live in.”

  “Arre, I am Indian only.”

  “See, you just did it. ‘I am Indian only.’ You don’t need the only.”

  I flinch, staring down at my empty coconut. How many kinds of bhenchodh English do I have to learn now?

  “Hey, what about your college applications? I should come over to your place sometime so we can work on them.”

  “I told you, na? You cannot come.”

  “You’re overthinking this.”

  “People will talk.”

  “About me? What do I care what the people in your slum think?”

  “About you. And me. All bakvaas things.” I try to avoid his gaze and peer down at our feet hanging side by side, over the sea. His feet are big and white and his toes are hairy. My toes are dark and dry, marked with flecks of the purple nail polish Mrs. Motiani donated to Tazim last year.