“I should get going now,” Karan said putting his camera back in its case. Evening was giving way to night. Mosquitoes danced over the privet flanking the path leading back to the cottage. “Thanks for your time; it was a wonderful shoot. I’ll make copies of the pictures and send them to you.”
“Won’t you come inside for a Bellini?” Samar gestured toward his cottage.
“Yes,” Zaira said. “Please do.”
Karan glanced curiously at the house. Perhaps Samar’s house, in keeping with his persona, would be baroque, teeming with antiques and satin upholstery, decadent and lavish and extravagant. Then he looked at Zaira, and her presence made Samar’s offer all the more inviting.
“I don’t want to intrude –” Karan swung his camera case on to his shoulder.
“There’s no need to be so formal,” Samar said sternly. “And certainly not now, after you’ve seen me in my swimming trunks.”
Karan laughed. “Well, then, I’d love to have a drink.”
Entering through the French doors, Karan stepped on to a cool cement floor of brick-red geru. Tropical palms in cane barrels shaded a large wicker chair. On one side of the rectangular room was a white couch with a marvellously battered air. Glass votives with tea lights on tables and in niches in the wall illuminated the room with a cognac hue and cast scurrying shadows on the ceiling. There was a neat, elegant pile of books on art and music on the coffee table and a clutter of silver glasses on an antique tray.
Zaira swung open the door to the kitchen.
An uneven black kadapa counter ran the length of the kitchen. A circular table of Burma teak, with a deep polish and shaky legs, stood in the centre; here, Karan positioned himself on a sturdy chair with a high bamboo back and watched his hosts go about their tasks. He was grateful for the monastic calm of the cottage, its profound simplicity; he had not expected Samar to live in such understated quarters.
“Shouldn’t you report Malik?” Samar asked Zaira as he served olives and crackers on a long taupe ceramic platter.
Zaira, who was uncorking a bottle of Prosecco, glared at Samar. “I’m not sure, after last time…” she said.
“Aw, c’mon Zaira!” He poured Cipriani peach base into three champagne flutes.
Zaira slumped into the chair next to Karan’s. When Samar put the drink down before her she took a few sips and sat back, folding her hands across her chest. “You know what they’ve done in the past,” she reminded him. “Had me doing the rounds of the trial court, and then the bloody judge axed my case!”
“What makes you think it’ll be the same this time?” Samar failed to understand how she could allow such a vicious attack to go unpunished.
Zaira was uneasy discussing Malik in front of Karan. What if he were to repeat the conversation verbatim to a gossip columnist at the India Chronicle? Or worse, inflate its inane particulars for Mid-Day? Hoping Samar would drop the matter, she said vaguely, “Past experience is an indicator of future result.”
“Don’t be such a quitter,” Samar scolded. He turned to Karan and noticed him lick his lower lip after tasting the drink; probably his first Bellini, he thought.
“We’re talking about Minister Prasad’s son here, in case you’ve forgotten,” Zaira said. Why did Samar ignore the fact that Malik, using his father’s influence, had breezed his way out of numerous court cases already?
Presently, the door opened. A lean man with blue eyes and a tonsured skull peeked in gingerly.
Karan recognised Leo from the night at Gatsby, when he had offered his hand to Samar after the impromptu tap dancing session had come to an unceremonious end.
Leo looked uncertain about interrupting them but Samar extended his arms and murmured an affectionate welcome.
“Just caught a news flash on the idiot box,” Leo said, his eyes on Zaira. “Is it true about Malik and you?”
“Oh, I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘A bit of a run-in with ‘my beau’.”
“I hear it’s more than a bit.” Leo bent and kissed Samar on the cheek, before settling down on the arm of Samar’s chair, his hand on his lover’s shoulder.
Zaira noticed Karan ducking his head and suspected that Leo’s show of affection had made Karan squirm.
“Meet the genius who photographed me making an idiot of myself at Gatsby,” Samar said to Leo, his chin edged up in Karan’s direction.
Leo nodded. “So you’re the wunderkind with the magic fingers.”
A cold feeling ran down the length of Karan’s neck; Leo’s praise, well meaning but cursory, was in stark contrast to Samar’s genuine zest. It reminded him of a socialite kissing the air.
Zaira said, “The pictures were clever and outrageous and they made me wish I’d been around to watch Samar in his element.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen Samar in his element many, many times before,” Leo said, an edge in his voice.
Zaira appeared to wither for a moment at Leo’s remark. “Are they making a fuss about Malik and me on TV?” she asked quickly.
“Big fuss, girl! But then,” Leo said with a wink, “you’re hot shit. All the channels are beaming it endlessly.”
Zaira could clearly imagine the chaotic horde of photographers waiting for her outside her home in Juhu. “I just wish they’d go away and cover an issue of some real consequence.”
“Let’s go beat up that big bully!”
“He’s more than just a bully,” Samar corrected Leo. “Malik Prasad has the makings of a certified criminal, and you’re trying to pass him for a frat boy who’s had two beers too many.” Turning to Zaira, he said, “You should go to the press, at the very least. It’s clear Malik Prasad is chemically imbalanced.”
“I don’t want to flatter the creep by dissing him in print.”
Sitting quietly, watching the conversation whiz back and forth between the talented and the famous, Karan recognised that the real power of fame did not lie in its making someone instantly recognisable but in imposing obscurity upon others; he felt like a piece of furniture in their midst. During a brief pause in the conversation he decided to make his exit.
Excerpted with permission from The Lost Flamingoes of Bombay, Siddharth Dhanvant Shanghvi, HarperCollins India.
