Chapter 51

Madhavi couldn't believe she was really doing this. She glanced around the restaurant a few times, just to reassure herself that she wasn't dreaming. Shatranj Napoli was almost filled to capacity with its usual afternoon crowd of young upwardly mobile couples and groups. The aromas of fresh pasta and Italian sauces were in the air. The music playing was well-matched to the crowd: Savage Garden's "Animal Song". The one with the strange, delicious lyrics: "I want to live like a cannonball, careless and free..."

It was true. It was real. Madhavi was sitting in a cool, fashionable Bandra restaurant, lunching with a strange man. A not unattractive man.

The journalist from Mumbai Times wasn't a hunk, not by a long shot. But he was okay. Most of all, he didn't have a bulging paunch. Or a receding pate. And he was a famous columnist.

Madhavi had seen his picture which appeared in colour with his weekly column in the glossy broadsheet once a week. He wrote about high society in the city, about the movers and shakers, the rich and famous. All the names highlighted in bold, of course.

Madhavi had been told by a friend at the beauty parlour, while they both had their nails groomed by pedicurists, that the city's glitterati vied to be featured in the column. Some even threw parties just to make sure they got the coverage. Then again, wasn't that the reason why all Bombay parties were thrown, to get coverage? Behind his back, everyone hated Alan Mendes. At an earlier newspaper he worked for, he had written a column about religion, posturing as a self-proclaimed messiah of God, spouting endless reams of cliche tripe about prayer and forgiveness, and somehow managing to include at least a half-dozen celebrity names in every column. It was a stroke of genius, the socialite at the parlour had told Madhavi, using the guise of a column on spiritual upliftment to promote his celeb friends and their latest projects. He had been rewarded by a huge salary jump and a more prominent column on the the notorious Page 3 of Mumbai Times, mecca of self-marketing hype.

And now he was going to write about her, Madhavi. And about Birju. And his sadistic, criminal exploits. About the women he had assaulted, raped, and beaten over the years. And how he had gotten away with it because of the insidious way he had done it. Because all of his victims were too high-profile to want to be identified as rape victims.

Madhavi felt a little frisson of excitement ripple through her body as the journalist -- no, he couldn't be called a journalist, could he? -- as the columnist finished making his notes and took another sip of his fresh lime soda. He looked up at Madhavi.

"Mrs. Gurjani, you're absolutely sure you want to go public with all this?"

She nodded. "Please, call me Madhu."

She almost blushed as she said it. Asking a strange man to call her "Madhu". God, this was exciting! She went on. "Yes, Mr Mendes, I am sure. I want him stopped before he hurts any more innocent victims."

Alan nodded soberly at this, as if he understood perfectly.

But it was clear that he still didn't understand. Not entirely. He was probably thinking that this would ruin Madhavi's existence too, upset her marriage, throw her whole life out of gear, involve her in a public scandal and a police case. And he couldn't understand why she would want to do that.

Madhavi had expected him to badger her with twenty questions to the dozen, like the image she had of most journalists from the movies and TV serials. But he seemed more intent on his wine and on talking about his column and dropping big names than asking any questions. She decided it was up to her to make him understand.

"I want him to be punished. And I want to be free to live my own life, on my own terms, without him dominating me. That's the real reason why I'm doing all this."