“I’m not upset,” I say, turning away from him to face the panipuriwalla.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Fine. It’s not fair that Alex is my friend but you get to go to these parties with him.”

  “Uff! It was my one chance to be near that spicy Ruby M. I was hoping she’d be wearing her see-through sari, though,” he says, starting to hum the tune of “Drip Drip.”

  I tell him to be serious, so he stops his song and shrugs. “Fine. Last night was a career opportunity for me.”

  “How? You want to be a waiter at hi-fi parties? Or are you going to build flats for Jeetendra Arora? I saw you trying to talk to him on the terrace.”

  Babloo shakes his head while the panipuriwalla drops another puri into his bowl. “Don’t worry about it. You’re way too caught up in making sure Bombay stays crammed with slums.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “All that bakvaas last night. These lawyer people you work for, it’s like they don’t care about the city at all. They’re happy to let it sink under the weight of all these people and their rubbish.”

  “What nonsense are you talking?”

  “All that fundraising—for what? So next time a builder tries to put up a flat, some rag-picker can complain that they were there first? Tell me, how many more people can live on that land if it’s a tower? It’s stupid, what you’re all trying to do in Chembur.”

  “Arre, those Chembur people lived there. How would you like it if your home was bulldozed without warning?”

  “If you build a shack out of garbage on land you don’t own, then you should expect it to be torn down.” He crunches through his puri. “I just can’t believe you, of all people, are a part of this movement.”

  “What movement? This is my job. This is how I earn money.”

  Babloo scratches the side of his face and shrugs. “I guess I had higher hopes for you.”

  “What about Alex? He works for Justice For All, too, but I don’t see you blasting him.”

  “Arre, he’s just here for time-pass. So he can say he worked in India. And anyways, if he really cared about this human rights social-justice nonsense, he wouldn’t be so willing to enjoy all this money and wealth he was born into. Eventually you have to choose. You can’t have both.”

  “Choose between money and caring about other people? How do you come up with this rubbish?”

  The panipuriwalla interrupts us with two more puris, then asks us if we want more.

  “No,” we both say, in unison.

  * * *

  The first firanghi I ever really spoke to was Derekbhaiyya.

  After a year on the streets, I was used to the NGO didis turning up every so often to teach us things, but never with a gora. One day the NGO didis brought with them a very tall man with golden hair, crooked teeth, and a tattoo on his leg of a strange insect that peeked out from above his white sock. “Yeh ek octopus hai,” he said to me, grinning. (Years later I would ask Vivek what an octopus was, only to find out it wasn’t an insect at all.)

  “Derekbhaiyya is here to learn more about you so that people can help you better,” the didis said. “And he speaks Hindi. Say hello.”

  We did. After the NGO didis left, Derekbhaiyya pulled out a brand-new football from his rucksack and held it out. Babloo seized the football, and Devi, Kalu, Pappu, Raju, and I kicked it around until at least ten more kids showed up. Kalu kicked it far into another lane and the boy who went to retrieve it never came back.

  “You’ll need to bring a new ball,” Babloo informed Derekbhaiyya, as the group dispersed.

  And so, the next day, he turned up with another football, gleaming white and green. It had never been kicked around, so we kicked it good and hard.

  “I’m here for research purposes,” Derekbhaiyya said one afternoon after he had bought us all Amul elaichi milks. “I’m not with an NGO, or government, or anyone like that. I’m here for purely academic purposes,” Derek continued in decent Hindi. “I want to make very clear to you all that I won’t be paying you for participating.”

  “Arre?” Babloo slammed his milk carton down, incensed. “Not even a pair of shoes?”

  “I don’t want you to feel pressured to show me things, or make up stories about your lives because you think I want value for money.”

  Some of the other kids got up and left.

  “You’re free not to participate.”

  The worst kind of firanghi was a kanjoos firanghi, and that was Derekbhaiyya. I rose to my feet, but Babloo put his arm out.

  “My friends will stay,” he said in a stern voice that signalled to the rest of us not to argue with him.

  Over the next few weeks, Derekbhaiyya spent time with us, except Babloo created an alternative life for us. A life in which Babloo pretended he spent a rupee on a newspaper every day. “We may be poor, but we care more about this country than anyone.” Playing along, I peered over Babloo’s shoulder at the front page, running my finger slowly over the words.

  Derekbhaiyya appeared baffled at first, but Babloo was convincing, so Derekbhaiyya just nodded, writing in his notebook. He was so impressed he didn’t even think to check if we could read.

  As Derekbhaiyya followed us around, we spun false stories about how we lived. One day we were pious Hindus who only ate the food Derekbhaiyya brought us after we recited a prayer. Babloo chanted fake hymns in Marathi so he couldn’t understand.

  O holy garbage we eat,

  We pray to you

  And the wasteland

  Of this city.

  Thank you, ugly white man

  For being such a fattoo.

  Devi and I collapsed into giggles, and Babloo explained to a puzzled Derekbhaiyya that she and I were shy about praying in front of him, and asked him to turn his head. He did.

  When Derekbhaiyya left, I asked Babloo why he bothered making up all these stories when we weren’t even getting anything out of it.

  “These chutiyas come here, take pictures, videos, collect stories about us, then go off and get paid all kinds of money and we never hear from them again. I’m tired of it.”

  “But Derekbhaiyya was nice. He bought us food, at least.”

  “Nice? That bhenchodh didn’t want to pay us because he thought we’d lie and screw up his work. He’s definitely not working for free. Why should we?”

  I mulled this over in my head. “So we gave him what he paid for?”

  “Bullshit for bullshit,” Babloo said, grinning. “It was a fair trade.”

  21

  The Sai Krishna cook casts thirty pale uncooked samosas into the hot dark oil, where they bob up and down until he coaxes them onto their other sides with a slotted metal spoon. I watch him fry the samosas to a bubbly golden crisp, then set them on newspaper, double-bagging them. I hand him the hundred-rupee note Gauri Ma’am gave me, hugging the warm paper sack against my chest as I hurry back to the office. Ma’am hasn’t bought us all samosas in years. Even Alex has been strange today. He strolled into the office this morning beaming, and when he waved at Gauri Ma’am, she actually smiled and waved back.

  As I quietly prop open the front door with my foot so I’m not accused of kicking it, Gauri Ma’am calls out to me. “Come, Rakhi, hurry up and pass out the snacks. Even you must be here for this announcement, too.”

  I drag a small knife through the paper bag and dump the contents onto a large plate before setting it down on the table in the centre of the lawyers’ workspace. I pull a chair over and set it beside Gauri Ma’am.

  “I want to thank you for your hard work over the past month,” Ma’am says, clasping her hands on her lap. She scans the circle of lawyers biting into the still-warm samosas. “We should all be very proud of ourselves.” She holds out her hands and starts to clap. A reluctant wave of delayed applause rings out as people balance their food on their laps to free up both hands.

  “Many of you do not know this, but our new friend Rubina Mansoor and her husband, Jeetendra Arora, held a private fundraising event for us at their home on Friday night.”

  The lawyers turn to each other, confused, some of them mouthing the words fundraising? and what? Alex picks fallen bits of peas and potato off his lap and tosses them into his mouth.

  “I am so very happy to report,” Ma’am continues, grinning, “that we have raised a hefty sum of money, half of which came from the Arora Group.”

  “How much?” Vivek says, his mouth full.

  “Enough to fund us for the next two years. It buys us time while we seek more secure funding.”

  Vivek, mid-swallow, coughs a few times, and a piece of half-chewed samosa hurtles out of his mouth and onto the floor.

  Two years? All those glittery guests of Rubina’s have that much spare cash floating around? Did she have to bribe them with free use of her flat for their next functions or what? Everyone else erupts in excited murmurs and small claps.

  “This is a good thing,” Ma’am says, eyeing the soggy morsel in the middle of the circle. “All this money doesn’t mean we get a break, though. The Chembur rally is this Friday, only four days away. Thanks to all your efforts, it will be one of the biggest protests this city has seen in the past five years. We’ve confirmed that seven other NGOs and many members of the human rights law bar are joining us, and, through Rubina, we expect to have celebrity support too.”

  “Which celebrities?” Utkarsh asks. “Anyone good? Or all aunty types?”

  Ma’am tells us the list isn’t confirmed yet, then rattles off twelve names that have never been on the A-list. Still, all the lawyers, Utkarsh included, break into smiles, exclaiming how exciting this is. It’s quite something for Justice For All to pull off.

  Later that afternoon, a large cardboard box arrives at the office addressed to Gauri Ma’am. She signs for it and motions at me to get a knife. While she opens the small envelope attached to the box, I slice open the brown packing tape in the waiting room. The noise of the stiff cardboard tearing draws the attention of a few lawyers, and soon they’re all crowded around me as I crack open the box to reveal an enormous white photocopy machine.

  “Arre,” Gauri Ma’am says, turning over the note from the envelope. “It says, Best wishes from the Arora Group.”

  While Gauri Ma’am and the lawyers gloat about how much time and money we’ll save in printing flyers for the rally, and managing file work in general, I spot Vivek at the back, staring at the copier sitting in a mess of cardboard, polystyrene, and paper. He purses his lips and says nothing.

  * * *

  —

  While distributing morning tea, I see Kamini frowning at her computer screen, Utkarsh gleefully hovering beside her.

  “I swear I have never seen this video in my life,” Kamini cries.

  “Arre, come on,” Utkarsh says as he hits play. “There’s nobody in the country who hasn’t seen ‘Drip Drip.’ What kind of sanskaari rock have you been living under?”

  She shields her eyes with one hand and punches Utkarsh on the arm with the other.

  “Drip Drip” was a hit song from a film that nobody remembers. I do, though, because Babloo made us watch it five times. It was about two men competing to win the heart of a woman who was set to marry a third guy. There was some detour to Thailand, a wise but dying grandfather, and an overprotective brother in the army. Of course, the only reason Babloo made us watch the film over and over was because of Rubina Mansoor, who only appeared as an item girl in “Drip Drip.”

  As I draw closer, I hear the familiar chorus I haven’t heard in years:

  My heart is like a glass of water

  On your parched lips

  Giving you life, waking you up

  Drip drip, baby, drip drip

  My heart crashes into you like a wave

  Begging you to feel it

  Drip drip, baby, drip drip

  Drip drip, baby, drip drip

  Drenched in monsoon rain, Rubina, in her see-through white sari, draws her hand sensuously down her face and over her chest. She swings her hips and turns, revealing the outline of her black thong. Behind her, a group of male dancers in white banyans and shorts are also soaking wet, but you can’t see their underpants. In the background, palm trees sway and a small waterfall burbles.

  “Such a vulgar video,” Kamini moans. “Just see how they’re dehumanizing her.”

  “Dehumanizing?” Utkarsh tilts his head as the camera moves up to Rubina’s breasts.

  “They’ve reduced her to a collection of body parts in order to titillate men like you,” Kamini sneers.

  I don’t know what titillate means, but she spits each syllable out with such disgust it must be bad. The camera zooms out to show Rubina’s full body. She turns so we can see her tiny black chaddis peeking through the wet sari again. The men in the white shorts pulse to the music, eyeing her as she dances. She arches her back and a dancer pretends to bury his face in her chest.

  “This whole song and dance is completely non-essential to the narrative of the film,” Sudeepthi sputters from her desk. “Women’s bodies used merely for entertainment—it’s sexist. And completely wrong.”

  “It’s Rubina Mansoor, the new face of Justice For All,” Bhavana chimes in from her desk.

  “Arre, her ass is more recognizable than her face,” Sudeepthi groans. She and Bhavana exchange knowing glances before chuckling.

  She isn’t wrong, I think, as I set teacups down by Kamini and Utkarsh.

  “You think the common man cares about the exploitation of women’s bodies for entertainment? You’re all just overthinking it,” Utkarsh says, his eyes still glued to the screen.

  Before Bhavana can reply, Alex walks into the lawyers’ workspace. “What are you guys watching?”

  “Stop the video,” Kamini hisses at Utkarsh, snapping him out of his trance. He pauses the video on a shot of Rubina bent over, her breasts heaving at the camera.

  Alex blinks at the screen, while the lawyers trade looks and fidget nervously. “Really?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Do you all think this video is appropriate for the workplace?”

  He has a point. Nobody would be watching “Drip Drip” if Gauri Ma’am were here.

  Bhavana folds her arms and smirks. “If this video isn’t appropriate for us to watch in the workplace, as you say, how on earth is it appropriate for this woman to be the face of Justice For All?”

  “Wow,” Alex says, shaking his head as though he can’t quite believe what she said. “First of all, you’re watching an actor playing a role. The role is not the face of Justice For All, the actor is. And second, I thought you all were supposed to be these progressive human rights lawyers. Instead you’re all crowded around a computer, judging a woman for being brave enough to show her body.”

  “Brave, or desperate?” Sudeepthi mumbles to Bhavana.

  They snicker so loudly Vivek marches into the lawyers’ workspace. “I can hear all of you from my desk.”

  “Come on, sir,” Bhavana says, pointing at the screen, still frozen on Rubina’s breasts. “Even you must agree that this is all so…absurd.”

  “What, this video? That’s one way to describe it.”

  “Not just the video. I mean that, overnight, an irrelevant celebrity craving attention can just…take command of Justice For All.”

  “Bhavana, we have to be supportive—”

  “Of what, Vivek Sir? All these lawyers here, with so many years of education and experience, and our mouthpiece is the thong girl from the ‘Drip Drip’ video?”

  Vivek waves his hands in the air, clearly frustrated with Bhavana, whose fists are balled up. “Say what you will, but I am grateful for Rubina. You all have jobs for the next two years because of her. So turn that video off, and all of you, get back to work. You too, Rakhi. Don’t make me call Gauri Ma’am.” He glares at us, sweat forming on his temples. I’ve never heard Vivek speak so forcefully to anyone in the office.

  “Sorry, Sir,” Kamini offers, sheepishly.

  Vivek sighs. “It’s okay. The important thing is that everyone is going to be fine. So let’s focus on what matters—our work.”

  * * *

  ♦

  The day before the rally goes surprisingly smoothly until Alex and I go to Om Digital Prints around the corner to pick up our signs and giant banner.

  While we wait for the clerk to check our order, Alex turns to me. “What do you think of ‘Drip Drip’?”

  I shrug, half-heartedly. “It’s dirty…so people like it, na?”

  “I didn’t ask what other people think. What do you, Rakhi Kumar, think?”

  What do I think? I can’t hear that song, or see that video, without thinking of Babloo as a kid, mimicking Rubina’s moves for the rest of us. We would roar with laughter as he pulled his shorts up his bum, swaying his hips hard and fast. The way his hand would graze his collarbone, coy and delicate, during the hook, and then at the chorus, thump his chest to the beat, the rest of us would cheer and laugh. And he would perform it over and over, no matter how many times I asked. When I watch “Drip Drip” I don’t see what the others see, because all I can see is Babloo.

  Before I can reply, the store clerk interrupts. “It’s all here. Finished.”

  “We must be checking parcel at the store before we leave,” I tell Alex, as he hauls the boxes onto our flimsy metal dolly.

  Alex groans. “Come on, there’s still so much to do at the office. It’s a waste of time unpacking and packing and then unpacking it all again.”

  The store clerk narrows his eyes. “Sir is right, everything is fine. We double-checked it. No, triple-checked.”

  I start to protest, knowing he’s full of shit, but Alex pleads with me to just trust the clerk. Fine, I tell Alex, and pay for the printing.