Gauri Ma’am clears her throat and faces Manali Singh. “The government, the police, and the Bombay High Court all called them encroachers. But why was the city supplying them with utilities like water and electricity if their houses were illegal?”

  “Where do you stay now?” Rubina asks Tulsi.

  “With an old classmate nearby. My parents are staying with relatives in Navi Mumbai. My brother is with his friend in Thane. We are spread out in all corners of the city. We can’t find anyone to take all of us. To stay together we’d have to spend our nights outdoors, under bamboo poles and a tarp, like lots of other people who used to live here. My parents and I are trying to earn the money for a rental deposit on a flat nearby.”

  “How much is the deposit?”

  “Too much. Lowest we can find is fifteen thousand.”

  Rubina takes Tulsi’s hand. “My dear, I want to give you a small gift. I want to give you the money for your deposit.” She smiles gently, like a benevolent goddess bringing rain to a farming village plagued by drought.

  What a performance. Even the camera guy grins like he knows he’s filming good television.

  Tulsi gasps. “I…I…Rubina Madam, are you serious?”

  Rubina puts her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Yes, my dear. The courts may never acknowledge the depth of your struggle, but I do.”

  “Thank you,” Tulsi whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. “This is the first good news we’ve heard since the demolition.”

  Gauri Ma’am glances away. I know she wants to say something but can’t, since the cameraman is still filming.

  In spite of the fact that there is no shade in this field of rubble and the midday sun is beating down hard, I rub the goosebumps that have sprouted on my arms.

  * * *

  —

  Soon after Rubina announces her donation, Manali Singh decides she has all the footage she needs. After Rubina, Alex, and the others disperse in their cars, Gauri Ma’am walks with me to the train station in silence.

  “Gauri Ma’am,” I start, “now that Rubina is giving Tulsi all that money—”

  Ma’am stops in her tracks and holds up her BlackBerry. “I got an email from Dr. Pereira’s office this morning. She says you’ve skipped the last two therapy sessions.”

  I draw in my breath.

  “So it’s true?”

  I nod, my shoulders drooping.

  “She also billed me for the sessions you missed. I’ll be docking that money from your wages.”

  I didn’t ask for any of this, I want to shout.

  “From today on, I treat you like the rest of my staff. No special allowances, no overlooking your missteps. You live up to the same standards the others have to. Understand?”

  “Ji, Gauri Ma’am,” I mumble.

  How to tell her that I never asked to be treated differently from the others?

  15

  Nobody says a word about the DeshTV clip the next morning. When Gauri Ma’am leaves the office at midday, the lawyers let out a collective exhale and crowd around the table in their workspace, ready to break for lunch.

  “Rakhi,” Vivek calls out to me, “bring a plate from the kitchen. I’ve got your favourite today.” Whenever Vivek’s wife makes baingan bhartha, she makes double for me.

  “Uff,” Jayshree says, as Vivek spoons it out onto my plate. “Such a nice smoky smell.”

  “She makes tiny cuts in the aubergine, then sticks cloves of garlic and green chilies in them, then roasts it over the gas flame,” Vivek says, proudly.

  “So lucky you are, Rakhi, isn’t it?” Jayshree eyes me as Vivek removes two rotis from one of his metal dabbas and folds them on my plate. His wife’s rotis are always dripping with ghee.

  As I dig into the bhartha, Kamini cracks open the plastic lid on her bowl of cut-up papaya. “Fine, I’ll start,” she blurts out. “All this celebrity endorsement funda seemed harmless until Rubina threw cash in Tulsi’s face.”

  Everyone glances up from their lunch.

  “Well, it’s been apparent to some of us from the beginning,” Bhavana says to Vivek, who shrinks slightly as his shoulders hunch over his tiffin. “The legal system is our bread and butter, na? And yet, we are hitching our wagon to some celebrity who feels comfortable saying out loud—”

  “On television,” Sudeepthi interrupts.

  “Yes, on television, that a lawyer can’t do much for a client.”

  Kamini stabs at a chunk of papaya with her fork. “I just can’t believe Tulsi. ‘This is the first good news I’ve heard since the demolition’? Does she know she has the best bloody lawyer in India working for her?”

  “Pro bono,” I mutter, licking the charred bits of aubergine from my fingertips. How come Tulsi doesn’t have to pay for the legal services she doesn’t want, whereas I now have to pay for the missed therapy sessions I didn’t want?

  “Arre,” Sudeepthi says, amused. “Where did you learn that word, Rakhi?”

  Suddenly self-conscious, I shrug. “From Gauri Ma’am.”

  “See?” Kamini says, pointing her fork at me. “Even the officewali agrees.”

  The door swings open and Alex strolls in with a parcel from Sai Krishna. “Thought I’d try out the tomato onion uthappam today,” he says, dragging a chair up to the table. “What are you all talking about?”

  Kamini’s back stiffens. “We’re discussing the DeshTV clip from yesterday.”

  “Oh, right,” Alex says, unwrapping his uthappam. “Kind of amazing that Rubina came through for Tulsi like that.”

  “Of course you’d say that, you’re her nephew.”

  Alex sets down the little plastic bag of coconut chutney he was about to tear open and sits back in his chair. “I’m not Rubina’s nephew. Why does everyone keep saying that? And so what if she donates a little cash to a good cause?”

  “If you read between the lines,” Bhavana says, “Rubina was saying that public interest litigation is not to Tulsi’s benefit. She’s saying that she, a wealthy actress, has more to offer than Gauri Ma’am, or us.”

  Alex pokes at the chutney packet. “Isn’t that for Tulsi to decide?”

  “Decide what? She’s already retained Ma’am to argue her case.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “It sounds like you’re essentializing Tulsi because she’s poor. Like she herself doesn’t know what’s best for her, but you guys do because you’re educated, you’re lawyers, and you have money.”

  Judging by the looks on everyone’s faces, I wish he hadn’t said that.

  “Money, Alex?” Bhavana sputters. “You think we have money? We may be lawyers, but our peers who went off into corporate law are making at least five times our salaries. Not to mention we live in the most expensive city in India, so our salaries don’t stretch very far. Meanwhile, you’re nicely staying in Pali Hill, your Canadian dollars buy you anything you want, and your only point of reference for human rights law, let alone India, is Rubina bloody Mansoor.” She bangs the table with her fist, rattling Vivek’s steel dabbas and Kamini’s plastic bowl.

  “Bhavana,” Vivek says, gently.

  Alex packs up his uthappam and chutney and rises to his feet. “Okay, people, I’m just here to learn. I have no skin in whatever game this is. I’ll leave you all to discuss this among yourselves.”

  * * *

  —

  Over the next couple of days, it becomes clear that the DeshTV clip is generating more attention than anyone could have predicted. Sudeepthi announces that five organizations have already confirmed they will march in the rally with us because they saw Rubina’s DeshTV clip.

  “Our name must be all over this,” Gauri Ma’am reminds Sudeepthi when she reports that she got one of the better-known housing rights organizations to join us. “Our name, not theirs. Make sure they know that.”

  Bhavana suggests Tulsi be invited to participate in the rally, since her case is at the centre of this movement. Gauri Ma’am agrees, noting that an aspiring doctor like Tulsi is the kind of slum-dweller the public sympathizes with. Rubina has promised that her celebrity friends will march with us. When Utkarsh and Kamini hear this, they ask Ma’am who exactly might be joining. Soap stars? Models? A-list film stars? B-list? Utkarsh points out Rubina’s celebrity friends might all be old, since Rubina herself is old. Ma’am pulls down her glasses and, gazing over the rims, says flatly, “Did you get your law degrees to serve yourselves, or others?”

  A little later, I’m in the middle of calling up different electronics shops across the city, asking about the price of megaphones, when Alex stops by my desk. “Can I ask you something?”

  I peek past him to make sure Ma’am’s door is closed. “Yes?”

  “The other day, when Bhavana said that by giving Tulsi the cash for her rent deposit, Rubina was sending a message that money is more important than justice—do you think she was right?”

  Alex presses on, asking me what I would have done if I were in Tulsi’s position. Nobody here ever asks my opinion on anything that goes on at Justice For All.

  If I were dragging a washed-up film actor, some lawyers, and a camera crew to gawk at my demolished home, I’d have inflated the price of the rent deposit to set Rubina up to offer me more. Say twenty-five thousand. A woman who wears spiky stilettos to walk through rubble wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the truth and a lie, especially when she has the chance to look like a saviour on television. But why would Gauri Ma’am let Rubina make an offer like that? It’s clear they both want different things out of this arrangement. Perhaps they should acknowledge they are both using each other.

  “Question is wrong,” I finally say. “Forget Tulsi. It is Rubina and Gauri Ma’am. If together they are working, they must…” What’s the word?

  Alex scratches his chin. “Be on the same page?”

  I’m about to respond when Gauri Ma’am’s door bursts open and Jayshree runs out, whimpering, to the empty interns’ workstation. Then the door slams shut, as if Gauri Ma’am slammed it herself.

  I glance at Alex and put my finger to my lips. We get up to peek through the library bookshelves.

  “Arre, what happened?” Vivek says, pulling up a chair beside Jayshree, who is rubbing her eyes with her palms.

  “She promised, Vivek Sir. She promised I could go.” Jayshree’s small voice breaks and she bends forward in her chair, burying her face in her hands.

  Vivek tugs his crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and offers it to her. “Go where?”

  She sits up and takes the handkerchief from his hand, dabbing her face. “My cousin-sister’s wedding. In Hyderabad. I asked for permission months ago. And now it’s on the same day as this stupid rally.”

  “Gauri Ma’am said you can’t take the time off?”

  Jayshree’s chin trembles. “She said people get married every day and the office needs me more than my cousin-sister does.” She peers up at Vivek. “I can’t abandon my family. Not for this kind of pay. My mother would never forgive me. So I told her I quit. And then Ma’am told me to pack my things up and leave today.”

  Vivek blows his cheeks out and releases the air in his mouth in one long breath. “Your family comes first. We’ll make sure you find work when you’re back.”

  “Not here, Sir.” She presses her lips together. “I can’t work for her anymore.”

  They sit there for a moment until Vivek clears his throat. “For now, you go to Hyderabad, enjoy, and you call me when you’re back in town. I’ll make some calls, find a place for you to land, teek hain?”

  Jayshree nods through her tears. “Thank you, sir.”

  Vivek chews his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on Ma’am’s door.

  By late afternoon, Jayshree’s desk is empty.

  16

  AT THE END OF THE WEEK, Alex shocks the office by telling them he doesn’t know what Ganesh Chaturthi is.

  “But it’s Bombay’s biggest festival,” Sudeepthi says. “Surely you would have heard of it.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be Indian?” Kamini asks. “Didn’t your family teach you anything?”

  Alex flinches. “What does that even—”

  “And on top of that,” Bhavana interrupts, “it’s already the third day of Ganesh Chaturthi. There are lights everywhere. People playing with coloured powder in the streets. Music blasting. Roads closed. Have you not…noticed?”

  “There’s always something going on in this city—how am I expected to keep track of it all?”

  The three women walk away from his desk, rolling their eyes. “I thought he was supposed to be smart,” Kamini says, loud enough for Alex to hear.

  A grimace lingers on his face as he watches them take their seats in the lawyers’ workspace.

  “Many people, they are going to beach with Ganesh murti and putting into water,” I offer, feeling sorry for him.

  He lifts his chin. “They push their idols into the sea? What for?”

  “We don’t call them idols,” Vivek says, stopping at Alex’s desk on his way to the kitchen. “We call them murtis. You will surely have seen a Ganesh murti. He has an elephant head and a big potbelly. He’s considered a protector, or a remover of obstacles. Hindus pray to him at the start of any new venture—buying a car, moving into a new home.”

  “That’s right. My family’s driver has a tiny one on his dashboard,” Alex exclaims.

  Vivek goes on to tell Alex that people believe dissolving a plaster likeness of Ganesh in a body of water will take away their hardships.

  Gauri Ma’am walks by and adds that the real reason for these massive public celebrations is to distract people from the fact that the government could end hunger and poverty but deliberately chooses not to.

  “Ma’am,” Vivek says. “That’s quite a cynical take, don’t you think?”

  “It’s the truth, and you know it. Why else is the charity sector so big in India? To reinforce the flow of accountability down to ordinary people like us, instead of back up to people with the money and the power to fix everything.”

  Deflated, Vivek gazes down at his shirt buttons.

  * * *

  ♦

  On Saturday afternoon, Alex and I bounce up and down in unison after a pothole wallops our autorickshaw. We’re on our way to Juhu Beach for the fourth day of Ganesh Chaturthi because Alex said he wanted nothing more than to watch a million plaster elephants sail off to sea. Already, the drumming from the crowds is like thunder, growing louder and louder as we close in on the beach.

  When the rickshaw stops at a light, Alex releases his grip on the back of the driver’s seat. “So, I’m wondering if I have to go shopping for Friday. I didn’t bring super-formal clothes with me on this trip.”

  A man selling big maps of India walks up to Alex, and I wave him away before he can start his sales pitch. He sucks his teeth, mutters something under his breath, and moves on to the rickshaw behind us.

  “What is on Friday?” I ask.

  “The office fundraising party, what else?” Alex smirks. “Why do you seem so confused?”

  “There is no party for office.”

  “Yes, there is. Rubina is hosting it to raise money for Justice For All.”

  “Gauri Ma’am isn’t telling me this.”

  “Sorry,” he offers. “Rubina told me about it. I figured everyone knew, but I guess not.”

  I look away so Alex can’t see my face fall. Gauri Ma’am can’t even hold a meeting with a client without ensuring I pencil the minutes she spent with them in her calendar. How could she throw a fundraising party without telling me? And if she hasn’t told anyone yet, was she ever planning to in the first place?

  The rickshaw putters to a stop at Juhu Road, and Alex nudges me out of my thoughts. “Wake up. The driver is trying to tell you something.”

  “You have to get out here and walk,” the autowala says, peering at me in his rear-view mirror. “Street is closed.”

  Outside the rickshaw, Juhu Road extends before us, jammed with hordes of families, children, and young men dancing through clouds of pink powder on their way to the shore. Every few metres are plaster Ganesh murtis of assorted sizes and styles. Ahead of us, a big truck with loudspeakers holds an enormous Ganesh clad in a shiny yellow dhoti. Golden fireworks spray out from its sides.

  Alex enters the crowd, tall and white-looking, creating an instant spectacle as he dances with his hands in the air. People flock to him, pulling him toward their friends. “Ganpati Bappa Morya,” they shout, coaxing him to say it, too, while I trail behind him, mumbling the chant quietly. It’s only when a group of rowdy men try to hoist him onto their shoulders that I step in and yank him down.

  It takes us half an hour to cover the small, choked-up stretch of road to Juhu Beach, where I grab Alex’s wrist to pull him away from the people running toward the water. We walk farther down the beach, trying to get away from the crowds, and still people swarm around us, holding giant paint-splattered balloons, crunching through watery mouthfuls of pani puri, and hauling their Ganesh murtis into the surf. Elephant figures bob out to the horizon, until the sea breaks their trunks, severs their arms, and swallows them up. Tomorrow, pieces of dismembered Ganesh murtis will wash up onshore and the NGO types will scream about litter on the beach and deliver sermons on more eco-friendly ways to celebrate.

  Alex and I sink down onto an empty patch of sand, firm and compacted from being trampled on by thousands of feet. Late afternoon shadows lengthen, as if the breeze coming off the sea is pushing them farther and farther up the sand. Behind us, a panting man uses all of his body weight to crank a four-person Ferris wheel holding six children.

  Alex reaches into his backpack and rustles out a small stack of crisp papers. “College application forms. For hospitality management programs in Bombay. I printed them out for you at home.” He hands them to me. There are five in total.